FirePhrase

2012-02-15T10:23:00.001-06:00

talk turkey – idiomatic phrase (Am. English): to seriously discuss a difficult problem with the intention of solving it.

You can always tell when a cowboy is ready to talk turkey. The first thing he does is set his hat on the back of his head. So that he can see his eyes. And there’s a look that says, “I’m willing not to win, if you’re willing not to win.” It’s the moment in a fight where you realize that if, even if you do win, you’ll have lost just as much. And realizing your opponent is in the same spot.

Americans may have invented that phrase. But we sure have lost the ability to do it. I don’t know. Is it that we’ve come to enjoy the fight more than the peace? Have we lost the mental strength to cope with a vision of the world that isn’t just the way we think it ought to be?

And it’s politically and personally both. We have politicians that enjoy saber rattling more than deal brokering. We have relationships that end in because people can’t see their way clear to a truce. Friends, family, marriages. Broken.

So, there’s only two options. One is to live with people who are exactly like you, so that you never have anything to argue about. That doesn’t sound like much of a relationship to me. And it doesn’t sound like the America that I believe in either. Or we learn to talk turkey again.

Whitney

2012-02-13T12:16:00.001-06:00

The death of Whitney Houston pretty much defines the idea of “shocking, but not surprising.” How could you be surprised? The rawness of her damage was visible. From the years of rumors, to the Enquirer pictures of “Whitney’s Crack Den,” to the recovered-yet-not-whole spectacle of Being Bobby Brown, to the voice that was in ruins. She’d give one more loopy interview that denied any current state of addiction, and make you hope against what was only too evident. Whitney just never could get right. And you’d sigh over the loss of such a gift, and add a sad “poor Bobbi Kristina.”

And really, it’s one of those addiction stories you never can quite comprehend. Her wealth gave her the two things that most addicts don’t have: access to the very best medical help and time. If you have a substance abuse problem, you’re really lucky to get 90 days in a decent program. Whitney could have schedule day after day of any and all kinds of help (8:00 am: yoga, 9:00 am: group, 10:00 am: dialectical therapy, 11:00 am: biofeedback, noon: lunch, 1:00 pm Freudian analysis, 2:00 pm: horse therapy . . .). She could have whiled away hours (days, years) in every treatment known to science, religion and Dr. Drew. For as long as she needed it. Hell, the Scientologists would have LOVED to help her. Whatever it takes. She had world enough and time.

And she had every reason. A family that loved her. Fans who loved her. A daughter who needed her. A faith in a higher power. And a talent that was a true gift. Not many people get that kind of a talent. And yes, I’m kind of mad at her for pissing it away. On top of that, she was beautiful. A decent actress, whose magnetism made up for any technical shortcomings. Really, she had everything. When you have everything, have been given everything, is it easy to just not value it?

When Whitney sang, she sounded like a warrior. Shocking that in the end, it doesn’t matter how much armor you have, but how willing you are to fight.

Butter.

2012-02-09T12:39:00.001-06:00

I’ve waited a bit to say anything about the Paula Deen thing. The fact that she has Type 2 diabetes. I just found the whole situation pretty disturbing.

Full disclosure: I come from a family with weight problems. Like most Americans, really. Not the super-sized weight problems. But the every-day, your doctor wants you to lose some weight kind of problems. The kind that can lead to diabetes. And in some cases, already have. I’ve known this for a lot of years.

I also come from a family that eats not far from the kinds of food that Paula Deen cooks. As a kid, I was completely unaware that it was possible to serve vegetables without butter. Chicken-fried steak is a sacrament. Biscuits and gravy aren’t just for breakfast. In some ways, eating healthy disconnects me from family tradition.

And watching the health problems that my family has gone through also has given me a very clear window into what the consequences can be of “everything is better with butter” lifestyle. For myself, I decided that eating healthier was the better option. Because I’ve also seen what the drug intervention route can do. Too many medications, for too many problems that have one major contributing factor - bad eating habits. I’ve seen older members of my family swallowing handfuls of pills for “my heart, my cholesterol, my sugar.” Doing pretty much everything but cleaning up their diet. And also seeing the number of times that drug interactions have created even worse issues. I can’t do it.

But I also can’t condemn Paula or anyone else for going the other route. Food is a powerful thing. It is nourishment, it is cultural, it is pleasure. And I can’t completely walk away from those foods that are so closely related to my history. A little butter makes life worth living. I just have to balance it with making my life livable.

Smashing

2012-02-06T13:47:00.001-06:00

Okay, so the tv show Smash. I didn’t watch it. I’m trying to decide if I should. I mean really. Given that we’re talking about me, it’s a little on-the-nose, don’t you think? It’s show tunes. It’s not Glee (which I’m so over). It has Angelica Houston (we-re-not-worthy). Contrarily, I’m being chary with my favor.

Really, it’s got 2 things going against it. First, it’s episodic. And I’m just not sure if I’m up for another show to keep up with. Plus, I’ve got what-happens-next burnout. Cliffhanging just has lost some of its appeal.

Second, behind the scenes in musical theater. I really just am not sure I want to know how the sausage gets made. If it’s at all realistic, I don’t want to know how the magic happens. Nothing can quite sweep me away like a musical. I’d just prefer that the Wizard stay behind his curtain.

But.

On the undeniably enticing side is Jack Davenport. Who evidently plays the narcissistic bad boy director. Yumma. At least his voice. To me, his voice is like I’m a Twix cookie and he’s the caramel enrobing machine. Just lay back and be layered in rich, chewy goodness. Don’t know where he’s from, but the accent is killah on top of a really nice voice. Okay, he looks kind of like a junior high science teacher. But if he’d read sonnets to me, I could so get over that.

Is that enough? I mean, he’s not going to be talking the entire show. And if you just fast forward to the moments where your sex bomb of the moment is, shows just really don’t make any sense. Don’t ask me how I know that.

Meh. Probably will just end up flipping a coin.

WWZDD?

2012-02-01T15:56:00.000-06:00

Well, so far the “Yes” resolution has been my easiest one to keep – ever. Score. So far, the only things I’ve had to give my okey-doke on have been going to see the ballet Dracula in Fort Worth (outside my usual Zone of Entertainment, but not exactly painful) and buying a dress.

Okay, saying yes to the dress is slightly more difficult than it sounds. Not that it was a dress, per se, more the style of it. I picked it up at a flea market and said, “I like it, but I don’t think I’m “that girl.”” Because this dress is definitely a certain kind of person. The cute girl. The quirky girl. The girly girl. And, most particularly, a younger girl. This dress is Zooey Deschanel’s dress. I’m not that girl.

Okay, to be specific about the dress, it’s got a slightly retro look. Light gray muslin top, with puffy cap sleeves and a lace-edged mandarin collar. The skirt is an ever-so-slightly orangey red corduroy, pleated front, offset pockets, knee length. There’s nothing specific about it that makes it age inappropriate*, other than it just reads young. Like 23-ish. A hipster 23-ish.

I really liked the dress. And it was my size. But I doubt that even when I was 23 that I would have attempted this one. I’m not cute, quirky or girly. Add on the mutton-dressed-as-lamb fashion issue that I fear like hardly any other, and I’d probably back on the rack with the slightest touch of wist.

But, I said it out loud. “I like it, but I don’t think I’m “that girl.”” The woman next to me, who was rocking some age appropriate quirk said, “You could be that girl.” And the woman who was selling the dress said, “I’ll let you have it for $10.”

Ooo, boy. So, I was caught. In my self-defined parameters of “Yes.” Within my morals and within the realm of possibility. Dear Reader, I bought it.

And I plan to wear it on February 24th. To the ballet. Two birds. Now I just have to figure out shoes. What would Zooey Deschanel do?

* And just a brief side-note on specific things that make clothing age inappropriate. More specifically still, mini-skirts. Yes, adding a pair of tights can make a slightly short skirt acceptable on a woman over 30. But they aren’t a time machine. At a certain point – no, ma’am. I’m still working on a formula. Like [skirt length – age in years + dark tights = number of inches past your cooch that your hem must be]. I was an English major, though, so I haven’t quite got the numbers right. So for now, if you have any questions, just send me a picture and I’ll tell you whether you’re allowed to go outside.

It's Jesus. And he brought snacks!

2012-01-26T16:25:00.001-06:00

I’m sitting here eating a few saltine crackers as an afternoon snack. Like many people who grew up Protestant, I have a . . . weird relationship with saltines. Don’t get me wrong, I love saltines. I’m enjoying the hell of out my snack. But they will also always be associated in my mind with Communion.

I know some churches have special wafers. And some use honest to God wine. But at the Church of Christ we had crackers and grape juice passed as the “unleavened bread and wine,” this is my body, this is my blood. (Is it any wonder that I love the vampire and zombie stuff? Holy Communion is pretty lurid.) I now know that my church actually used kosher matzo crackers. But to me, it looked like they were passing around saltines. I was a southern WASP. What did I know from Manischewitz?

Of course, my church is one that believes in the “age of reason” and you can’t get baptized, and therefore can’t participate in Communion, until you’re at least an adolescent. So, Communion was one of those things that were definitely “not for kids.” And what do kids love? Crackers and grape juice. Not only do they pass them around, they put them on special fancy Communion plates. And you could hear the snap of the cracker as the person who dragged you to church broke off their bite, and then the redolent tang of grape juice (wine never tastes as good as grape juice smells). Insult. Grievous injury. None for you. Awwwwww. Of course, we’d imitate the ritual on our own. Raiding the pantry for saltines to put on paper, and Hi C to put in Dixie cups snatched from the bathroom. Profane little monkeys. But at church, the plates would be held high, away from any little hands that might be looking for a sacrilegious treat.

Fine. Didn’t want any anyways. I’ll just grow up and buy my own. And so a lifetime of heresy begins.

Mini Me

2012-01-23T14:53:00.001-06:00

I got to spend the morning baby-sitting my nephew, D. Of all the kids, D is the one most like me. Funnily enough, because he looks just like my brother did at that age, and my brother is my sibling least like me.

There are moments when I’ll just look down at his little two-year old self and see me so clearly reflected. He has Aunt Julie’s sugar jones (sorry, kid). He has my tendency to pick at something until he has it figured out. We both have storm cloud temperaments – the negative emotions are fast and hard, but the sun comes out pretty quickly again. Bossy, of course ("Clap, Dulie, clap! No, like this!"). And if something isn’t working the way he thinks it should, he’ll just whack on it until it does. Don’t know where on earth the kid got that.

It’s funny to look down and see all the little impulses I’ve been operating with for 40-odd years being acted out by a tiny human being. And, of course those 40 years have given me a perspective on those impulses (if I didn’t at least have some insight by now, I’d be in sorry shape). The temptation is to try to give him a life crib sheet. Do this, look at it this way, go that direction. Give the little guy a leg up on all the stuff I’ve figured out. But you can’t do that. First, half of life’s fun is figuring it out. Can’t rob him of that. Second, I think D is just a little bit smarter than I am. He may get to those answers faster than I did. And come up with some better ones too, if I don’t get in his way.

What I can do for him is empathize. I told my Mom, “Poor, D. Nobody is ever going to understand him the way his Aunt Julie does.” But, really, that’s not such a bad thing. At least one person should be able to see things the way you do. I think I would have liked that when I was growing up.

A Lizard by Any Other Name

2012-01-20T12:00:00.002-06:00

You know, I know that everybody is getting their panties in a bunch about Newt Gingrich and the “open marriage” stuff that’s coming out from his second ex-wife. Personally, the misuse of SuperPAC funds that got him fired from public office 15 years ago would be plenty to take him off the menu for me.

And frankly, I don’t think marital shenanigans are any of the voters’ business. Politics and a wandering eye go together like peas and carrots. Being able to keep one's pants on really doesn’t make me any never mind as to whether a candidate can do the job. I don’t really see any correlation historically between good Presidents and good husbands. So, what goes on between a candidate and any other consenting adult on a planet isn’t really my business.

Except in one very specific arena: if you run on a family values/good Christian/holier than thou platform, live it. If you have an extensive history of running around, shut up about other people’s morals. The ability compartmentalize one’s morals and still preach decency to others smacks of a level of hypocrisy that I would find absolutely disqualifying for any elected office. In fact, I’d say Jesus would be with me on this. Remember that thing about pointing out the speck of dust in other people’s eyes when you’ve got a log in your own?

So, if Newt is able to dismiss his own moral turpitude by saying he and God talked it out, I think he should assume that other people are having their own conversations with God about their failings. And by the way, if you asked God for forgiveness for lying to him in a marriage ceremony, I think he may have said, “Dude, talk to your ex-wife. I’m out of this one.”

You know what, I’ll say one thing for George W. Bush. He talked the conservative Christian line, but he also lived it. The man stuck by his wife. It may not have made him a great President. But at least he wasn’t a hypocrite.

Yes

2012-01-11T15:33:00.002-06:00

Well, so. I’ve been fumbling. I’m trying to come up with New Year Resolution 2012. Nothing’s really coming. I mean, nothing. I had trouble last year. But I eventually came up with the 5 fruits/vegetables a day thing (pretty successful, by the way, happy with the way it turned out, thumbs up). But this year, the new smell is pretty much off of 2012, and I got nothing.

Usually, that means I’m avoiding something. Like it’s something I know I should do, but don’t really want to. Like the time I gave up TV for Lent (ugh, I still get the willies off of that one). Didn’t want to, hated every minute of it, but it needed to be done. This year, I don’t even think there’s anything I really don’t want to do (e.g, should do).

Obviously, there’s stuff that I should be doing. I’m a mess. There’s always something I should be doing. But I’m not feeling, you know, compelled this year.

So, just to get this off the list, I’m going to steal a page from the book of someone wiser than myself – William Shatner. A friend read his book, and was pretty much surprised about how much she ended up just liking the guy. And one of the big things she was impressed with was his philosophy of saying “yes” to things. Pretty much “yes” to everything. If someone asks him if he wants to do something, he says “yes.” The most compelling reason he has for doing something is that somebody asks him. It’s kind of a Zen way to live your life, no? Accepting what comes to you. Trusting that there is a universal gestalt and that you are offered opportunities for reasons you may not immediately understand. Not rejecting on the basis of the intellectual process of what you do know. Geez, that’s a terrifying.

Not that I could say “yes” to everything. Okay, that’s hedging and I admit it. I don’t have that much trust in the Universe. How about say “yes” to more things? Okay, now I sound like total pussy. That’s it. “Yes” to every opportunity that’s offered. If somebody asks me if I want to do something, I’ll say “okey-dokey, artichokey”. Now I’m worried. How much stuff do I get offered to do? Not that much, right? Surely.

I really don’t know what I’m getting myself into here. And, yes, if you’re wondering if I sometimes just make this stuff up as I go – indeed I do. And here’s where I’m going. To a place of “yes.” One year. What can it hurt? Yeah, I know. Famous last words.

It's a good look

2012-01-06T11:40:00.002-06:00

http://www.cnn.com/2012/01/06/living/fashion-tips-look-younger-rs/index.html?hpt=hp_bn8

You know, I pretty much disagree with everything on this list. Frankly it’s what I think is an “old fashioned” view of fashion. One that is based on the idea that if you’re fashionable then you’re “correct,” no one can make fun of you. Fear-based fashion. Which is certainly one way to go. Not everyone can or wants to be unique. But if you do – break every one of these rules. With glee.

But you know what I think ages women more than anything? Worrying whether someone else thinks you look alright. Worrying about being “alright.” Uhgh. If you like matchy, matchy jewelry, wear it! Because it’s what you like, you’ll be better at pulling together a matchy, matchy look than anyone else. It’s called “style,” and it belongs to you. But nothing is more retrograde and aging than putting on something that you don’t like or apologizing for something that you do like because it’s not what the world likes.

If what you like is something that would pass without comment, great! Go for it. But if it’s not what you like, if it’s not what you feel good in, if that still small voice inside tells you that you should be wearing harem pants with stilettos, lucky you! Never apologize, never explain. If you like overalls with poet shirts, that’s good too. Be true to yourself. Listen to your own voice. Confidence is your best accessory. Believe it.

Tough Cookies

2012-01-03T14:51:00.000-06:00

Man. It takes some time to get over the holidays. I’m sitting here wanting a cookie sooooo bad.

You know, anywhere between Thanksgiving and New Years, a cookie is totally appropriate. If not obligatory. I mean, it’s the holidays. Have a cookie. Have two. If there’s an assortment, you should probably try to have one of each. Just so you have a basis for comparison. Ginger snap, chocolate cherry chunk or straight up sugar cookie? You need to be able to offer an informed opinion.

But, then January 2. The cookie train comes to an end. Not only are they not as available (blast!), it’s just not appropriate to punctuate every meal with a cookie (oatmeal cookies are breakfast food, right?). So, there’s a grieving process. You just look at your empty hand and think, “Damn, I wish there was a cookie there.”

Well. You just have to be strong. And wait for Valentine’s day.

On behalf of God and myself, thank you

2011-12-28T11:10:00.000-06:00

Okay, I realize I’m speaking as an agnostic here. But I did do my time in Sunday school. I have explored a variety of belief systems. I find much to admire in many of them. And I have a fairly well-developed notion of who I think God would be if such an entity does indeed exist.

Seeing that Awards season and the playoffs are just around the bend - here’s what I’d like to say:

God does not care if you won a football game. God does not have a stake in any professional contest (Super Bowl, Grammy, Oscar, Webby, MTV Moon Man, Plumber of the Year; okay, possibly the Tony. But only if Harry Connick, Jr. and Hugh Jackman both get nominated this year).

God cares that you play fair. God cares that you use the gifts that you have been given in a positive way (that is to say, to the benefit of your fellow children of God, not to buy a Bentley). God will help you show courage of your convictions. God may even send you inspiration when your creative well runs dry (but not if you are writing a song in which you praise smoking weed and abusing “bitches”). God is proud if you use your belief to help you be the best person that you can be, on the field, on the stage, in the recording studio, or under someone’s sink removing the Lego that fell down the drain.

So, quit thanking God. God does not give a rat’s ass.

The Phantom Ain't the Only One with a Nice Chandelier

2011-12-21T10:27:00.004-06:00

Well, long threatening has come at last. I finally have seen Les Miserables. Yes, I know. What can I tell you. I’ve still never seen Cats or the Phantom either. But Les Mis can now get a little check in the Yes column.

Here’s what I decided somewhere in the second act (and a 3-hour show? Really, people? Butt numbing.), I’ll call it the Whitney/Dolly Transversal. I Will Always Love You is a terrific song – classic even. Dolly Parton is a helluva songwriter. Whitney Houston’s performance of this song is EPIC. Her vocal range and power is irrefutable. She could blow the paint off of a Buick when she hits that last chorus. I still prefer Dolly’s rendition. And it’s not about a country/R&B thing (I dig both). It’s a scale thing. Dolly’s version is fragile, and comes from a broken heart that still loves. Whitney’s is bombastic. It’s the same level that she put into the National Anthem. Too big. At least for me. I never really connect. (Come to think of it, now that Miss Whitney’s voice is showing a little wear and tear, I’d love to see her revisit this.) And I’d say 90% of Les Mis is at the Whitney end of the spectrum. I was just fatigued by the time the show ended. And not in a good way.

But, I know I’m in the minority on this one. And it was definitely not the production; they do what they do and they do it well. People just loved the show last night. Happy faces all around. And that’s really what’s important. They don’t program the Performing Arts Center just for me (if they did, they’d be running a production of White Christmas starring Hugh Jackman and Harry Connick Jr. – from my blog to God’s ears).

The best moment of the night for me was when the actors were doing their run-through of the fight scene. No costumes, just t-shirts and sweats. Then the Winspear techs brought down the chandelier like they do before nearly every show so that it’s lit when the guests come in. And they all just turned to watch the lights come down – “Hey, there it goes!” All their faces turned up to the blue light. Pulling out their cell phones to take pictures. This is a touring cast that has been in theaters all over the country. And they stopped to watch our chandelier. Even applauded. I love that. Happens nearly every time. When you work at the center, you get kind of used to what is actually a pretty glamorous venue. It’s nice when visitors remind you.

Broccoli and Cupcakes

2011-12-16T09:40:00.001-06:00

I have a friend who is completely unreliable on the quality of desserts. If she says the cupcake is just okay – I pay her no attention. She knows not of what she speaks. She is actually a person who when offered the choice between a bowl of broccoli and a red velvet whoopee pie, she’d pick the broccoli. No lie. Frankly, I start to suspect that she damaged her taste buds in a freak Fudgesicle accident as a child.

The funny thing is that she still wants to make things like cookies and cakes, because she knows other people like them. But she’ll be watching you to see what your reaction is, because she just can’t tell if what she made is any good or not. Now on the other side of the coin, if I want to make a dessert that she enjoys, it’s pretty easy. Lowball the sugar, and it’s virtually impossible to over-spice. If the cookie recipe calls for ¼ teaspoon of clove, double it and throw in some ginger too. Cayenne doesn’t hurt either.

And I get it. I’m no judge of vegetables, really. You’ll never hear me say, “man, those are some really good green beans.” One, because I wouldn’t know. Two, because somebody might offer me more. Shudder.

On the other hand, she could live quite healthily not ever having another cupcake in her entire life. There is no Recommended Daily Allowance for dessert (no matter how many letters I write to the FDA). Vegetables, however, are pretty much a must. I’m doing pretty well on my mission to up my vegetable consumption. I’m averaging 4.5 a day. Not my 5-a-day goal. But better than most Americans. And I can acknowledge that I do actually feel healthier. I think if I stick with it another year that it will actually be a habit. Not a pleasure, but a good habit.

Scaring the Dickens out of me

2011-12-14T11:43:00.002-06:00

So, I’ve done a few shows of A Christmas Carol over at the Performing Arts Center this holiday season. It’s a tradition. And like many other activities that people enjoy but I don’t really “get” (watching Survivor, marshmallows on sweet potatoes (why?), church), I take it with a dose of “I’m happy that you’re happy.” And really, it’s the audiences that make ACC. It puts the jolly in their holly and the jingle in their kringle. Some shows you have some people who are really grouchy about being dragged to the theater. With the Carol, you almost never see a grinchy face.

The more I see that show though, the more I’m convinced I would make a lousy Scrooge. Not that I have all that much to repent for. But if I did - ghosts? Really? That’s what’s supposed to make me regret my wicked ways? What are you going to do? Howl at me? Bring it, spooky. Doesn’t work when my 5-year old nephew tries it either. Then you make me review my past mistakes? In detail? I call that a Tuesday night. What’s your big guns? Death. Yeah, I’m shaking. We all gotta go sometime, bubba. Turning all nicey-nicey ain't gonna stop that train.

Luckily for us all, my wicked ways in no way hinder my Christmas spirit. In point of fact, some of my wicked ways are Christmas spirits (mulled wine, anyone?). I feel for ol’ Scrooge. I’ve been in a holiday funk a time or two. But there’s not a darned thing anyone else can do about it when it happens. You get yourself out of the slough and into the spirit. Though mulled wine can help.

Bridging the GAP

2011-12-07T09:48:00.001-06:00

I miss the dominance of the GAP. You know about 6 or 7 years ago when they kind of had the keys to the kingdom? Everybody shopped there. People actually paid attention to the new GAP ads. What I really miss about them though was that they were Garanimals for grown folks. They’d have the entire set: t-shirt, sweater, jacket, scarf, skirt, pants, hat, gloves. In two, maybe three, color palettes. And you could pick what you needed and jam out a good looking outfit in 10 minutes. Jacket tailored to go with the pants. Sweater cut to go with the t-shirt. No worries about proportions or color matching. People looked so nice.

Not everybody needs grownup Garanimals. But some people do. A lot of people do. I’ve had far too many moments lately of walking past someone in public and thinking “Sweet Jesus, what are you wearing on your feet?” Yes, there are exceptions. Rules are made to be broken. Tilda Swinton, Nicki Minaj, Lady Gaga, HBC. They are breaking all sorts of rules. I ain’t mad at them. But, most people don’t have that kind of eye. And, frankly, I don’t have the time to be schooling everyone I see. Lessons like – if you have a full posterior*, pleated and tapered crop pants with, lord-help-me, ankle booties? No. And I mean this most emphatically. No. Don’t make me come over there.

Anyone can learn. It’s about those things like proportion, knowing your body, working with color, adding the unexpected, harmony and dissonance. But not everyone has the time or inclination to explore the mysteries. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with just looking presentable. Classic is classic for a reason. The GAP was able to make people look just slightly more interesting that flat out boring. It was a gift. I miss it.

* True story. My eyes are still quivering in the back of my head and afraid to come out.

The other jingle all the way

2011-12-05T18:02:00.001-06:00

You know, I feel for the OWS and the Tea Party both in a certain way. The truth is that we’re all kind of feeling like we’re getting screwed. It’s just that nobody really knows who’s holding the screwdriver. I mean, everybody has a guess. But nobody really knows. And so everybody makes a guess and demonizes the person that they feel is responsible.

I may be old school, but my guess is one person or persons responsible is whoever is profiting from the out-of-control consumer culture. That’s one con that everybody seems to have bought in to. And none of us is better for it. And I have a pretty simple, non-legislative, easy to operate plan. Start really thinking about shit before you buy it. How does this benefit me? What exactly am I paying for?

Like a purse. You know what the difference between a $50 purse is and a $950 purse is? The $950 purse will hold your crap. The $50 purse will also hold your crap. And the $900 you saved. Yeah, I know. $900 is heavy. But you can do it. Yes, I absolutely agree that the $900 purse will still be holding up 20 years from now. But you don’t know if you’ll be alive 20 years from now, much less whether you’ll still like that damn purse. Trust me, that $50 purse will work just fine. And if you’re still around in a year, buy another purse. Go nuts. Spend another 50 bucks. Or don’t. Maybe by then you’ll have decided that you’ll see how a $30 purse will do. Or you’ll make your own purse or buy one at a resale shop. There’s a world of possibilities out there that don’t cost NINE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS. But by then you’ll have experienced the joys of compound interest on that $900. And the even greater joy of having told the person who tried to sell you that over-priced bag to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. Sticking it to the man? Priceless.

Okay, this kind of decision making process won’t always opt for the cheaper thing. Fresh baked bread is more expensive than a Twinkie. No doubt. Healthier too. So you may have to pony up sometimes. But you know what? I’ve been drinking jug wine from Gallo lately. Pretty damn tasty, my friends. Tastes even better when I’m jingling the coins I saved in my pocket and I’m doing my evil leprechaun dance.

I hear that twang a comin'

2011-12-05T16:50:00.001-06:00

I should be embarrassed. I mean really. It’s the purest form of chicanery. But, dammit, it works.

If I need people to like me (yes, I’m that manipulative, judge away), lately I’ve been busting out the Texas drawl. You know, those moments when you just need that extra drop of goodwill out of somebody, so you just slide ‘em a little sugar. Or darlin’. Darlin’ works too. Hon will do it in a pinch. You just hit your short vowels little longer. Slide some of your long vowels around the side door. And drop those endin’ gees at will.

Generally speaking it doesn’t matter where the person is from. Alpine, Texas or Secaucus, New Jersey. If it’s somebody from around here, they’ll think you’re one of “us”, and of course you’re just a good ol’ gal at heart. And if they’re a Yankee, it doesn’t matter if they also think you’re dumb as a box of rocks to go with it. They’ll only mean it in the nicest way possible. Hell, it worked for W for at least 5 years. Course they may have caught on since it doesn’t seem to be doing Rick Perry any favors (good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. Stay smart, America).

Most of the time it takes something less than a Sherlock Holmes level of sleuthing to catch my roots showing (“I deduce from the way that you pronounce “cement” that you’ve spent at least part of your childhood in coastal Texas. South of Houston if I’m not very much mistaken.”). And usually I have the good grace not to slop sugar on people just to get on their good side. But lately, I don’t know. I’ve been just hauling it out just to see if I can maybe get around somebody with it. Just for the heck of it really. I should be ashamed. And I am. I am. And if I was an honest sort, I’d keep my ersatz Western charms to myself and my intimates (who are very much on to me and ignore my bull crap). But it’s kind of like having a high IQ or blonde hair and big boobs. Just seems like a shame to let it go to waste.

A Lady in the Street

2011-11-29T10:14:00.004-06:00

http://advancedstyle.blogspot.com/2011/11/glamorous-advanced-style-ladieswomen.html

Saw this on the Advanced Style blog. AS is one of my favorite pick-me-ups. I love that the women in the pictures are vibrant and expressing themselves with fashion and, most important, getting out there and mixing it up in their 70s, 80, 90s, and on into the century mark. It gives me a kick in the pants to at least try, ya know?

I went to the part of the review that Ari mentions about calling him out on using the word “ladies” to describe the women he photographs. Geez Louise. Some women really look for things to get their knickers in a twist about. Who uses the word ladies anymore? Me. I also say women, chicks, girls, gals, broads, babes, bitches, hoochies, squirrels (last one I picked up from someone else – and she’s right. Call your girls your squirrel friends and you’ll laugh every time). It’s all about context. There’s a big difference between somebody jabbing a finger in my face and saying “Listen, lady!” and a smiling person walking up and saying, “Hey, lady!” The same way there’s a difference between someone muttering “bitch” under their breath and someone laughing as they say “Wassup, bitch?”

What’s the difference between lady and woman? Woman is biological. It’s a particular configuration of body parts and chemical reactions. Not insignificant, of course, but not particular either. Lady is conduct. It is behavior. Specifically, good behavior. A lady is polite, a lady dresses appropriately, a lady considers the comfort of others. It doesn’t convey moral character. There are good ladies and bad ladies. But we all know what is expected of a lady. On Friday night I was ushering at A Christmas Carol, and 2 little girls ran past me. A little excitement on a night at the big people’s theater is expected, no? But not terribly safe when it leads to running. All I had to say, in my firm, adult voice, was “Ladies.” Heads go up. Shoulders go back. Running stops. At 6, they knew exactly what was expected. That’s the thing. You know.

And I get the idea of it being retrograde and a relic of an era when a woman could be put in her place by the threat of not being a true lady. Oh, my. The tyranny of being a “good little girl” and a “lady”. But the only way to deal with the past is to pick up the things you want and leave the rest behind. There are wonderful things about being a lady. Madeleine Albright is a lady. And one tough broad too.* All in context. I have contexts too. Sometimes I’m a bitch. Sometimes I’m one of the girls. And yes, even I can be a lady. I drink my beer with a pinky firmly out.

* If you've never heard her talk about sending messages to heads of state using her broaches, go look it up. Well, played, Madame Albright. Well played.

Sparky and Me

2011-11-18T14:14:00.000-06:00

So, I bought the Kindle Fire. I’ve named him. I may have petted him. I haven’t whispered “I love you yet.” But really, that’s where this relationship is going.

I resisted the tablet thing for awhile. I mean, I have a laptop and a phone. The iPad and its competitors looked fun, sure. But frankly, maybe too much fun. Ya know what I’m saying? You see those people just staring at their digital device. Poking at those angry birds, or scrolling through their 3 or 4 hundred closes friends on Facebook. Looking a little . . . disconnected, in a weird way. I mean, it connects you in the cyber way. But it really puts you inside a bubble in the real world. I’m not making judgments. Connected is connected. But I live inside my head too much already. I don’t need something that turns me even more socially challenged.

But I’d see the people on the train or at the airport – reading books. Oh, books. Oh, books. Especially the big giant books that I love, but don’t have the upper body strength or spare wheelbarrow to carry. I mean, The Passage is almost 800 pages in hardback. I don’t mind committing the time. It’s the risk of back injury that I’m concerned about.

So, the Kindle Fire comes out in color. I can load my knitting patterns on it from Ravelry (High Tech Gadget, meet my Low Tech Hobby). I could check my email if I was so inclined. Music and movies can be had. And books, oh, books. I downloaded Pride and Prejudice, The Secret Garden and The Wasteland all for free. I have them with me right now. It’s kind of a giddy feeling.

I’m still saying no to those Angry Birds, though.

Oh, quit clutching your pearls, America

2011-11-16T09:41:00.001-06:00

Okay, I haven’t blogged in awhile. But bless the Kardashians, I just can’t resist. And it’s not the 72 Day Marriage. It’s everyone’s reaction to the 72 Day Marriage.

It appears that there are people who feel so snookered by this one that they are now set on destroying Kim Kardashian’s career. Wait. Is that “career”? I’m not sure. Anyway.

Evidently there are Facebook pages and petitions to get Kim K. off the E! network, and to get her out of Tyler Perry’s movie. Because she might destroy the high artistic integrity of those two endeavors. I’m going to leave Tyler Perry alone (other than to give you a topic – Tyler Perry’s Madea is to southern black people as Vickie Lawrence’s Mama Harper is to southern white people. Talk amongst yourselves.) But let’s face it, E! is the network that finds it appropriate to do the True Hollywood story of Justin Bieber’s rise to fame (and made an hour out of it) and has a successful spin-off based on a long running show about Hugh Hefner’s “girlfriends”. The Kardashians are by no means the bottom of that barrel.

But really, it’s more about people getting offended by the 72DM. Come on guys. Let’s review the record.

1: Kim Kardashian is not the first person to parlay notoriety into Hollywood success. Or at least a Playboy spread.
2: She’s not the first person in Hollywood to have a blink and you’ll miss it marriage. In fact, Americans, in general, suck at marriage. She’s just more efficient at it.
3: And I think this is most important. Kimmie did not waltz into your house and turn the TV on for you, pop your popcorn and sit you down to watch the 4 hour wedding extravaganza. If you lost that 4 hours of your life, that’s on you. She didn’t suddenly become a vapid, shallow, self-centered, conniving hustler when the ring came off. And in fact, isn’t that really what you loved about her in the first place?

Oh, I’m not saying that she should still be on TV. Ignore her and she WILL go away. That’s network TV. They’re ratings whores, plain and simple. And maybe if they get rid of her Ross Matthews will finally get his own show (I’m hoping for you, Rossie!). But there are just so many other reasons to stop her from sucking all the air out of the zeitgeist. The lack of talent, the slightly crossed eyes, the fact that you have to take her whole bat-sh** crazy family with her, the mean streak. Take your pick.

But getting all huffy and “Well, I never!” because her reality TV wedding/3-ring circus was, shall we say, disingenuous? Come on now.

Billy Goat's Gruff

2011-08-31T13:32:00.002-05:00

http://glutenfreegirl.com/warm-brown-rice-and-grilled-vegetable-salad/

I’ve read Gluten-Free Girl’s blog at different times. Sometimes. Because, though I do cook gluten-free fairly regularly for a friend, I find that most recipes that are jeririgged to be sans-gluten, often leave me just wishing that it really was what it’s pretending to be. And if you have gluten problems you pretty much have no choice but to love the one your with, as an only occasional consumer of gluten-free products, I’ve never really developed the taste for them. So I tend to go toward recipes that are not now, nor were they ever intended to be, made with gluten. Stick rice pudding or grilled veggies skirt the gluten issue quite effectively.

But I saw a couple of blogs referencing Gluten-Free Girl’s post about internet trolls, and I had to go take a look. I’ve been kind of curious about trolls for awhile now. I mean, who are they? If you ever look at comments sections on public sites out there, you really need to brace yourself. There appears to be a large contingent of people out there who read internet posts, then uncap a bottle of Haterade and just start chugging. And I only say large contingent because going by the number of places they turn up and the sheer volume of comments, it’s gotta be more than just one guy sitting in a bunker in Idaho with nothing but a can of pork and beans and an internet connection.

And they will strike at anything. You’re stupid, a bad writer, entitled, over-priveleged, elitist, fat, ugly, too young, too old, a bad parent, a bad American, the long-lost grandchild of Adolf Hitler, a redneck, a hippie, a monster, and basically what’s-wrong-with-the-world-today. Wow. And that’s not including the ad hominem comments that are simply racist or sexist. And the general tone is fantastically dismissive, and generally questioning of the original writer’s right to put something up for the rest of the world to see. Or breathe.

And it can range from misspelled, barely literate, rage-filled, profanity-laced blurts, to mini essays full of erudition and distain (also rage-filled). I can’t really get a picture in my head about what your typical troll would be like. Other than the fact that they all seem to have a need to get it out. So who are they in the real world? I don’t think I know anyone who I’d think is out there hurling word grenades at random bloggers. Are they getting out their hate in a fairly safe environment? Sort of like free therapy. Are they just the people who never seem to say much, and they just save it for the comments section? What did they do before they had an anonymous outlet for their inner troll? Maybe editors of newspapers from the old days have a better perspective on this. Maybe they had a bag of poison pen epistles that they had to plow through every week.

I’m not sure what I’d do if I ever picked up a troll here on this blog. I’m not sure I’d be willing to be someone’s punching bag. Luckily, I’ve been very fortunate to be pretty much a tiny voice in a very big choir. There’s a Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers song about how we’re all floating out in the middle of the ocean in leaky little boats, calling out to the other leaky little boats out there on the horizon. It would be nice if what we called wasn’t “You’re fat, you’re stupid, you’re ugly!”, but “Hi! How are you? I hope you’re doing well.”

Oh, and that warm rice salad looks hella good. I'm making me some of that.

Beauty and The Beast

2011-08-25T09:58:00.000-05:00

http://www.salon.com/life/feature/2011/08/25/pickup/index.html

It seems so obvious. A forest for the trees sort of thing. But really, this is one of those scientific studies where I say “Yes! Thank you! That explains it.” Basically, the idea is that hardsell pickup lines work because they’re sexist. And they work to pickup women who are sexist too. Bam! The old matching theory at work. Like peanut butter and jelly. Like masochists and sadists. Actually, a lot like masochists and sadists.

But there’s also a corollary I think they missed. These books like The Game are written specifically to pickup beautiful women. That’s the limiter that make the whole thing work. One side of that would be, of course men want to pickup beautiful women. Why pickup ugly chicks? Granted.

But the other side of the coin is that, to a great extent, picking up beautiful women is like shooting fish in a barrel. They are easy marks. Especially for the notorious tactic of “negging”. That’s where a guy either gives a deliberately backhanded compliment or out-and-out criticizes a woman. Basically, it softens up her self-esteem so that she’s more open to being approached. The thing is, beautiful women have no resilience in this department. Me, you tell me that “Hey, I really like that you have the confidence to wear an ugly outfit” or “You know the natural look works for you. You can get away with not looking perfect,” and my little defenses go straight up. Zap! Zap! Jerk comments just bounce off like Wonder Woman’s bracelets. Beautiful women? They’re defenseless. They’ve never been attacked about their looks in their entire lives. They’ve never had to have a great personality.

Beautiful girls are also a lot easier to separate from their packs. When they get together, basically their selling point is all the same. So once their out, the further they get from the comparison set, the better off they are. When average girls go out, they usually go out with women they actually like. If I end up talking to a guy who turns out to be a jerkwad, I just go back to my crowd where I know I’m going to have a good time. AND I’ll have a new 5 minutes of material to regale my friends about the jerkwad who just tried to pick me up.

And lastly, beauty is malleable. Most men will accept what they are presented as beauty. They aren’t looking to see if someone is genetically beautiful. Flat ironed hair, tons of makeup, short skirt, breast implants, 6-inch heels. They’re done. A beautiful facade is plenty. Especially for a one-night hookup. And any woman who is willing to subject themselves to the kind of torture it takes to be club worthy is probably just masochistic enough to take whatever what of these bozos dish out.

So, I’m going to submit that “beautiful” is another self-selecting quality here. It is probably way easier to pick those girls up than one that’s just average. And if they were actually able to pickup pretty girls (naturally good looking, yet not acculturated to submit to the patriarchal ideal – see, researcher guys? I can use big words too), then I’d actually be impressed.

An Appointment in Delhi

2011-08-24T15:43:00.002-05:00

http://lightbox.time.com/2011/08/24/same-same-but-different-tourism-in-southeast-asia/#3

Oh, my god. It’s one of the “me”s.* I’ve always said I have one of those faces. People are always telling me I look like someone they know. Their cousin. Their college roommate. The girl who works in Building 1. Even my own family has seen these people, and almost walked up to one of them to start talking before they realized it wasn’t me. My own mother saw “me” in Amsterdam and was about 2 seconds from walking up and asking what the hell I was doing there.

And now I’ve seen one. It’s a “me.” Picture 3 of this photo essay (hopefully the link will take you straight there). Same coloring. Similar build. About the right haircut. And I’ll even be damned if I don’t own that outfit. Me. And if I was in Delhi, I’d probably be carrying that same travel book.

It’s kind of fucking with my sense of identity. I really prefer to think of myself as unique (aren’t we all?). I’m just contrary enough that I’ll head straight for red if everyone else is picking green. I LIVE for the words “only you would do that”. And that was just a bald and unattractive admission, so please don’t tell anyone else. It’s true enough though. An overweening, singular and slightly silly need to be different. Sad but true.

And there she is. Wearing my . . . me! I feel slightly peeved. Missy. I’ll admit that I fall in the general area of average female of mixed European descent. But really. Get your own face. Thank heavens for the skootch of Native American that gave me a bold nose, otherwise I’d be as interesting as a pile of potatoes. But still. There she is. But for the schnoz, my doppelganger. I’m perturbed. I admit it. Quite perturbed. I wonder if she knows about the rest of us.

* And I have to say, I have no idea how to appropriately punctuate that. Plural, with quotes, and an awkward 2 letter word that ends in a vowel. Punctuation nightmare. Just go with it.

Dazed and Confused

2011-08-23T10:59:00.001-05:00

I’m really annoyed about the argument that people don’t want gay marriage or families addressed publicly because “it might confuse the kids”. Oh, come on. You’ll have to do better than that. Shoelaces confuse kids. In fact, growing up could be described as the process by which one goes from confused by, well, pretty much everything to a state of being unconfused. Well, not completely unconfused. But you know. Pretty much having a handle on the basics.

I think my entire childhood was pretty much one long confusion. One more thing to be befuddled about would have been no big deal. Which pretty much describes the way the only child I’ve ever seen actually go through the explanation of “Annie has two daddies”. He went through about 30 seconds of “What? Really? You’re kidding me? That’s funny. Okay. Whatever.” At 5, he had way more trouble figuring out the ketchup bottle (he’d never encountered one that wasn’t squeezable - hilarious). And a whole lot more interest in the outcome.

So, unless you’re going to eliminate all of the “confusing” things in the world like shoelaces and glass ketchup bottles, parents are just going to have to add two adults who love each other very much to the list of things they’ll need to explain. For the most part, kids brains are still mushy enough that they can take in all sorts of new things, no problem. It’s only adults who seem to have a hard time with it. And, if you really run into a kid who just doesn’t get it, you can always fall back on my Mom’s all-purpose phrase for making awkward parent/child conversations go way: “It’s none of your business.”

Heavy cloud, no rain

2011-08-22T11:42:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine has a theory about the 10-day forecast on the weather. If the weather is really awful, the 10th or 9th day will be whatever gives you a glimmer of hope. If it’s bleak, cold, windy, Dostoevsky kind of weather, there’s the hope that a week and a half from now there will be a warmer day with a little sun. If it’s hotter than hell and twice as dry, then somewhere off on the horizon is a day under a hundred with a 30% chance of rain. Not that either of those will happen. We know it’s not really going to happen, but they’re just giving you the thought that there is some other possibility of something not completely awful . . . off in the distance . . . over there. And it’s the thought that counts.

And between the weather and the economy and politics and just some cycle of the moon that makes people seem to want to act like douchebag von assholes, I’m just kind of done. If life was a bully, I’d be handing over my lunch money. Enough already. Uncle. Every day you get up, and every day it’s like this. Son of a bucket. Even Anderson Cooper’s pretty mug won’t get me to turn on the news. Not that you can avoid it. Somehow, somewhere, the crap-a-thon will find you.

Now I like to think of myself as a plucky gal, piss and vinegar, spunky, the little engine that could. A Mary Tyler Moore in a room full of Rhodas. But even I’m getting tired. And I’m not falling for the 10th day promise. I’m just willing to concede misery for the foreseeable future. Peace. The summer will never end. You win.

Or maybe it’s just August. That’s possible too.

Somebody bring me some water

2011-08-19T10:13:00.001-05:00

Here’s where I’m at with global warming. And it’s probably just because it’s crazy-hot here that I’m thinking about it more lately. Kind of like when you find there’s only a teaspoon of milk in the carton and think “I should by milk.” And the overwhelming sense of impending doom that I feel any time I’ve read or watched too much news is a contributing factor. Anyway. Here’s where I’m at: I don’t actually know if humans are contributing to global warming. I don’t know if this is a mini-trend or a sign of the coming apocalypse. Maybe the creep up in the temperatures is going to creep right on back down again. I don’t know. I do know that it could be the beginning of something really bad, regardless of the cause. And by now, we should probably have a frigging plan.

I don’t even go on vacation with out a plan. I don’t go to the grocery store without a plan. But evidently, there’s no plan about what we’re going to do if the entire northern hemisphere turns into an EZ Bake Oven.

And again, it may be because I live in Texas and it’s hotter than a $2 pistol out there that I’m thinking about this. And, evidently, we don’t have a plan. Cattle dropping dead in the fields. Cantaloupes the size of apricots. Towns turning off city water. Small children drying up and blowing away. Okay, not children. But definitely Chihuahuas. They dry up and their little ears catch a breeze – and whoosh! They’re gone like a paper airplane. And can I point out that Texas is not, in fact, land locked? There’s a gulf, like, right there. But do we have a plan on how to make that water usable and get it to the cows and the cantaloupes and the Chihuahuas? Nope. And can I point out that we can move oil around this place like a motherfucker, but water has to kind of stay where it’s at? The Hohokam Indians built canals in Phoenix 1,500 years ago (look it up) using stone shovels and sticks to irrigate a DESERT. No backhoes. No desalination plants. No government permits. But I guess maybe they had a PLAN.

A Death of Possiblity

2011-08-17T13:26:00.000-05:00

I was recently watching something where a mother and father were talking about their daughter who had been murdered. She had been only 15, and from her parents description a sweet, caring, young woman with lots of plans for the future. Which is sad enough. But what I really thought about was what they had all lost when she had died just on the brink of adulthood.

I guess I was in my early 20s when my relationship with my parents changed from adult/child to adult/adult. I’ll always be their child, of course. My mom is always going to worry that I do the right thing. And I’ll always worry that she thinks I’m doing the right thing. My dad is always probably always going to blink a little when he suddenly looks at me and remembers that I’m not 3 feet tall. And to me he’s always going to be my big, strong Dad.

But there’s also the way that our relationship deepened when I could understand them as human beings. When I had faced some of the same challenges of adulthood on my own, and could understand more about how they had made decisions. And when they could relax more. Not worry about what they said, or having to take all the burden of situations themselves. There’s a way that you can laugh together, or discuss a problem, or even just talk about what was on the news, that’s just different; more comfortable. Not peers. But equals in a way. When I was a kid, my parents were always my parents. But now, as weird as it feels to say, they actually can be my friends too. It’s something they earned with years of parenting. Raising me to be an actual adult, and not an overgrown child. We can be easy around each other.

And that’s something that family that I saw on TV will never have. Another reason why murder is a crime that never ends.

POTUS and Doofus Don't Mix

2011-08-15T13:52:00.000-05:00

Well, they’ve declared the frontrunners for the Republican pack: Romney, Bachmann and Perry. All of them good-looking. Two of them complete doofuses (or possibly doofi – I’m not sure of the plural there). I’m not sure what Mitt Romney is, but he’s definitely not a doofus. Bachmann and Perry though, I feel like I can call them like I see them.

I come from a similar conservative Christian background as Michelle Bachmann, and though I’m now a happily agnostic secular humanist, I still have enough contact with that world to know that there’s no way in hell we should be electing anyone from that realm to the highest job in the nation. Not that they can’t be perfectly lovely, honorable, upstanding citizens. But conservative Christianity comes with its own blind spots. Blind spots the size of a Buick. And you’re on a baseball team, you don’t make the blind guy your pitcher. Do we really want someone who is capable of rationalizing away evolution, the separation of church and state, slavery and civil rights running the country? What else is she capable of throwing under the evangelical bus?

Rick Perry has some similar traits with Bachmann (his big idea in the last year has been to pray for rain – we still have a record breaking drought by the way), but he’s also flogging his “success” record in Texas. And as a Texan, I believe I can say with some authority – horse shit. Yes, aside from the weather that is tearing us apart (which I’d love to be able to blame him for, but even I can’t manage that one), Texas has weathered the financial crisis better than some states. But it has no relation to any pretense of leadership from Governor Goodhair. Texas was actually harder hit in 2000 to 2002 than most other states. Two of our 4 biggest cities (Dallas and Austin) were devastated by the tech bubble bursting. And one city (Houston) was leveled by the Enron scandal (remember Enron? Ouch.). As a result, all three had to restructure their economies, and were able to do it before the worst of the mortgage and financial crisis hit. And Rick Perry had ZERO to do with it. No matter how much he’d like to take the credit.

For just a moment, I’d like all Americans to think what happened the last time we elected a good looking doofus to the Presidency . . . Yeah. That. Yes, it matters that we have someone capable of rational thought in that office. Someone who’d make a great piece of arm candy just won’t cut it. Though, if Mitt Romney wants to pick either one as a running mate, I’m all for it. Make them Vice President – where they’ll never be heard from again. And it might even work the miracle of turning me religious. I’d be on my knees praying for President Mitt’s health every day of his presidency.

My version of an island vacation

2011-08-11T10:46:00.001-05:00

So, I’m re-reading The Tempest in preparation for the run that will be going on at the Performing Arts Center. I’m that dedicated as an usher. Or that big of a GEEK. Tomato, tomahto. Either way, it’s not that onerous. I’m that peculiar variety of geek that actually has fun looking at footnotes. “What the hell is “glistering”? Ah. Interesting.”

The Tempest is really a great example of why Shakespeare has lasted so long. There are so many ways that the story can be looked at that it can seem eerily appropriate to your time (no matter what that time might be). Where 50 years ago, The Tempest was seen as a story about the evils of colonialism and enslavement by The Man, today it could really ring true as a story of a dysfunctional family. Single dad (Prospero) loses his job (the dukedom) and has to move his daughter (Miranda) into a shelter (the island), where there’s a weird goth kid (Ariel) and a wild kid (Caliban). Another victim of downsizing.

There’s also the political element. Anyone who thinks that Hollywood invented getting all up in a politician's business has never seen King Lear (or Oedipus Rex for the matter). James Cameron’s got nothing on old Bill Shakes. Shakespeare is almost always making a point that when government is in chaos everyone suffers. Gee, why does that sound familiar? Kings who let their egos guide them rather than their conscience get into big trouble in Shakespeareland. You have to wonder if we might not be in the mess we are now if Congress had a summer reading list that included Macbeth, Les Miserables, Lysistrata and The Inferno.

Blue skies smiling at me

2011-08-09T09:25:00.000-05:00

Here’s why I refuse to worry about the debt thing or the downgrade thing or any of the economy things – I refuse to worry about things that I have no control over.

Oh, but you say, “You have a voice in out democracy and you can vote your power and our government will rein things in and get this runaway pony back under control.” No, you don’t say that. You don’t believe that. Nobody believes that.

Because it used to be that if you were a fraidy cat you’d put your money in the bank and it would be there for your old age, quietly enjoying the magic of compound interest. Or if you could afford it you’d buy blue chip stocks and be able to outpace inflation by a bit and have a little cushier retirement. Then people decided that everyone needed to be in higher risk stocks – no guts, no glory. You’re smarter than the market and there are no losers on Wall Street. Then we decided that you can’t go fast if you use the brakes, in fact why do we need brakes in the first place? No brakes. Go, baby, go! And it was a stock market free-for-all – money flying everywhere and we’re all gonna get rich or die trying.

At the same time, companies became convinced that private ownership could not work. IPO is the way to go. Try and find a company that is responsible only to a small group of owners out there. Not many of them. They’re all publicly-owned. Faceless, nameless stockholders and investment groups who can’t walk up to the president of the company and say, “What they hell are you doing?” And stockholders who don’t care if the company is going to be there in 10 years, because they’ll have sold their stock by then. Dividends? What’s that? It’s all about what-did-you-buy-for and what-did-you-sell-for.

So, it all is dependent on Wall Street traders. And we all know what a bunch of level-headed, altruistic, far-thinking bunch they are. No worries letting them play a game of poker in which the pot is your 401k.

Basically we’ve created an economy in which our fiscal fates are at the mercy of the most venal, cowardly highway robbers in our society. Good plan.

I’m putting my money in a sock and hiding it in an old bust of Shakespeare that I bought at the flea market. I still have no idea what those dollars are actually worth. But I have some! And that I have control over. The rest of it? Not my worry. My problem. But not my worry.

Wolf

2011-08-05T09:26:00.000-05:00

http://www.cnn.com/2011/CRIME/08/04/florida.bundy.blood/index.html

To me, Ted Bundy still exists as the ultimate cautionary tale of our age. Nearly a fable in his story’s simplicity and clarity. The wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Not that whatever made him a monster was simple. I’m sure that was a perfect storm of genetics and environment, coincidence and design.

But the thing that he was. Handsome, charming, clever, and lethal. If you met him in a bar you’d give him a shot. And possibly you'd end up dead. Or if he was co-worker, you wouldn’t be averse to a little office appropriate flirtation. And years later you might read a story and think, “Oh, that was Ted from the 2nd floor.” And never get over the chill of knowing you’d smiled upon evil.

So, I think for many women, when a story gets added to the little mental file that you keep: things to remember. And when you’re out with your girls some night, and someone says, “Oh, he’s cute,” you find yourself thinking, “Yeah, so was Ted Bundy.”

Mary Poppins: Genius

2011-08-04T12:22:00.000-05:00

http://www.slate.com/id/2300390/

Okay, this is something I’ve really found to be true in my diet overhaul. A spoon full of sugar really does help the medicine go down. The easiest way to integrate veggies (ptooie!) into my meals is an easy formula [something I like (i.e., marinara) + something I don’t like (i.e., zucchini) = healthy compromise].

You know those moments when you look down into the jar and think, “I’d eat just about anything with Nutella on it.” Ding ding ding ding! And actually, whole wheat toast, which when eaten dry is pretty unpleasant, becomes a thing of toothsome glory with a schmear of choco-hazelnutty goodness. The roughness of the toast prolongs and enlivens the smooth, rich spread.

So, thank you, Mary Poppins and your delicious bottle of medicine. You may be sipping rum-raisin, but make mine Nutella.

At the Movies - Hollywood misses the boat once again

2011-08-02T14:43:00.002-05:00

Okay, I’ve read a bunch of post mortems on the movie Cowboys and Aliens, and I’m just going to have to disagree with all of them. For a lot of reasons. But my biggest pet peeve is that nobody seems to realize what they had in this movie. This is the flick that bridges the gap between chick flick and dick flick. This is the ultimate date movie.

I can attest to the appeal for women just on the face of things. Mostly the face (and leather framed behind) of Daniel Craig. There are good lookin’ manly men (Harrison Ford, Keith Carradine, Clancy Brown, Adam Beach, David O’Hara, and okay, Sam Rockwell isn’t all that manly, but he’s still good lookin’) in this movie. And the girls were out at the showing of the movie that I went to. I’d say almost half the audience was women. I bet you don’t see that kind of demographics at the latest Transformers brain shrinker. Now, admittedly, I do fall into a sweet spot here, as a girl who loves both westerns and sci-fi. But, guess what? I’m not alone.

Also, there were women in this movie. Not one of them ended up half naked. Or screaming uselessly and running in 5-inch heels. The only whore in the movie was reformed, and married, and her husband shot somebody for calling her a whore. Plus, Olivia Wilde, who is undoubtedly one hot babe, is a main protagonist who neither needs to be saved nor allows others to do the saving. And she does it fully clothed! Take that Megan Fox!

So, here was a movie that had plenty of explosions and disgusting monsters and guns and men saying pithy things and repressing their emotions – and yet there was plenty for women to look at (Daniel Craig’s pretty, pretty blue eyes leap to mind) and no creeping undertone of misogyny for them to have to tune out. Date movie! For god’s sake Hollywood. Catch up.

Me and my ax

2011-08-01T14:49:00.001-05:00

So I went and took a lesson in playing the ukulele on Saturday. I know. One more step towards being the most eccentric person you know. Who plays the ukulele? Other than Eddie Vedder.

There is sort of a method to the madness. One, portability. This is not the tuba. Two, though there are actual ukulele virtuosos like Izrael Kamakawiwo’ole, let’s face it, the bar was set by Tiny Tim. And have you ever said, “He’s good, but he’s no Tiny Tim”? Three, picture it: me, campfire, a ukulele. Niiiiiiccceee. Okay, ignore the part of the picture where my friends are holding their ears and begging me to stop.

So, I’m going to start with Michael Row the Boat Ashore. Or something equally beginner. But really, the goal is something from the Holy Jim Trinity (Jimmy Buffett, Jim Croce, James Taylor). Or George Michael’s Faith. Or Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. Oh, yeah.

Amy Winehouse

2011-07-26T13:47:00.000-05:00

Poor, sad Amy Winehouse. Amazingly talented, gone too soon. And as tempting as it is to chalk up her death as another victim of the 27 Club – artists who burnt out rather than fading away – the truth is much less romantic.

Yes, there is an appalling list of performers who died young while battling their demons. But for every Lenny Bruce there is a George Burns. For every Heath Ledger there is a Tom Hanks. For every Toulouse Lautrec there is a Henri Matisse. For every Amy Winehouse there is a Dolly Parton. For that matter, for every Amy Winehouse there is a Jerry Garcia. Let’s face it, Jerry could probably have rolled up Amy and smoked her with an LSD chaser. And he lived to a semi-ripe old age. Johnny Cash fought years of addiction and lived to have a brilliantly productive end to his career. And for every Amy Winehouse there is an Adele. Who mines pain from her life and sings with aching soul. And yet appears to be, if not always happy, then at least healthy, and hopefully will be producing great music for many years to come.

So, please, can we see this death without the romantic haze of the tortured artist? The muse does not kill. Drug addiction does. You can have one without the other. And to survive both, you have to be very, very lucky. Poor Amy was not a lucky girl. Because of the undeniable power of her voice, we knew who she was. It is a measure of the strength of the monster she fought that even that voice could not save her.

Tragedy and rememberance

2011-07-25T10:16:00.001-05:00

Before we knew what monster was at work in Norway, I was looking at the first pictures to come out of the blast zone. And I saw the same thing as I saw in the first pictures that came from the blast zone at the Murrah Building. 15 years apart. Half a world away. Dust, blood, debris, panic, pain, fear, anguish. And that same look of trying to assemble the terror of a moment into something that can be comprehended in aftermath. How can you understand?

And again, it seems to have all been instigated by a man who is so sure of his, I don’t know, do we call it a world view? So sure that he knows what is right and what is true, so sure of his will that he is able to detonate a bomb with no apparent concern of who he may harm, just that he will do harm. So sure that he will aim a gun at children, fire, and keep firing. How do you do that once? How do you do that for an hour and a half?

You and I will probably never understand. Not really. We may find out all the reasons, all the whys. But we’ll never understand the how. Are we looking at the face of evil in Norway? Quite possibly. Insanity? Is there any clearer way to define it than an action like this? For the family and countrymen of the victims, I’m sure there is not even cold comfort in that idea.

Maybe, in the end, it really is just pure selfishness. The idea that one man is the measure of all things and his rights take precedence over all others. Even another’s life. My truth and there is no room for any other. Maybe that is the true root of evil.

To quote Joan Rivers - bitch stole my look!

2011-07-21T10:56:00.001-05:00

http://omg.yahoo.com/news/kim-kardashian-sues-old-navy-over-lookalike-in-ads/67685

Okay, so Kim Kardashian is suing Old Navy because a look-alike in their commercials violates her “brand”. On the one hand, what exactly does this say about her “brand” that a person’s appearance is enough to violate it? Is that all you’ve got? It’s not like she can copy what you do, because you don’t actually do anything. Your main talent is getting dressed in the morning, then standing still. You ain’t Martha Stewart, cookie.

On the other hand, America appears to have bought exactly what it is that she’s selling. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a magazine or TV that isn’t displaying the Kardashian brand. It’s everywhere. I’m still not sure why. But there she is. Everywhere you look. Even to the extent that somebody gets famous for just looking like somebody who’s famous for doing nothing. And if America is willing to buy nothing, I suppose she’d be silly not to sell it. P.T. Barnum said there’s one born every minute. And Andy Warhol said everyone will get 15 minutes of fame. I think we probably need a recount.

So sue, away, Kim Kardashian. That woman is infringing upon your brand. And that’s your sisters’ job.

Boy, Howdy

2011-07-21T10:33:00.001-05:00

So, this week my nephews from Arizona came for a visit. 5, 2 and 7 months. All as different as they can be. Though the two older boys are both showing the family stubborn streak. And allergies.

Given that my first three were nieces, little boys are quite an experience. For instance, I had no idea how hard it was to keep pants on a little boy. The first morning, the middle kid came inching down the stairs rubbing his eyes, and full on rocking the Pooh Bear look. Sponge Bob shirt. No pants. Then stood in the kitchen with no apparent sense of anything missing from the picture, with a “So, what’s up guys?” look on his face. Then we went out in the afternoon to splash in the blow up pool – whappah! Naked time. The oldest has his underpants off before I know what’s going on. Then Number 2 is right in the mix. Skinny dipping it is.

I also learned that for boys, physical caution is not really a factor. Girls will usually eyeball something to figure out if they’re going to get hurt. Boys? Not so much. Popping your brother in the kisser because he stole your toy, and not really putting any work into estimating if he’s strong enough to wrestle you to the ground and keep you there pretty much as long as he wants to. Hearing the words “ice cream” and charging down the stairs, full-tilt boogie, and missing the bottom stair to form a really impressive goose-egg on your forehead just in time for picture day (it took him a little while to forgive the ice cream for that incident). Standing on top of a barstool to see if you can . . . just . . . reach . . . the . . . cheese crack . . . ers, falling off, crying for 5 minutes, then getting right back up there because you still want the cheese crackers and it doesn’t occur to you that you could perhaps ask the adult who is standing right there. Did we not just do this? Remember, reach, fall, crash, ow? Apparently not.

Luckily, the baby is pretty much content with his favorite game – reach up, grab your necklace and pull your cheek down to plant a drooly kiss. I love that game too.

Dem Bones

2011-07-14T14:51:00.003-05:00

Yahoo today had these pictures of Jaclyn Smith and Linda Carter, citing how amazing they still look. Agreed. But they’re from a time when it was in fashion to have good bone structure. The It gals of the 70s and early 80s all had killer cheek bones and jaw lines that could cut glass. First, that always ages well. Second, if they do have work done, they’ve got something solid to stretch the old canvas over.

Lots of the popular girls today are either the soft and girlish look (what a friend of mine calls a bowl of oatmeal with 2 raisins for eyes) like Miley Cyrus or Emma Watson (or Lindsay Lohan to watch the process in fast forward) or they have a some bone structure and stay skinny enough for it too look prominent (Kristen Stewart or Katy Perry). Either way, once the collagen goes, they’re going to look like a balloon with all the air let out. Then the only thing you can do is plump things back up, which can be pretty dicey in results (hello, Meg Ryan Queen of the Trout Pout and the wax statue that once was Nicole Kidman).

Not that there’s much else they can do about it, other than enjoy the collagen while it lasts and then sand bag the River Styx as long as they can. Either the bone structure gods smiled on your cradle or they didn’t. It's also why some women who were really to harsh as young women to be truly pretty (like Glenn Close and Meryl Streep are aging better than their more conventional peers). Me, I was not blessed with much in the way of cheek bones and no jaw line to speak of. But I was blessed with a solid schnoz. So I’m relying on it to act like a tent pole to hold things up while what’s left of the sand trickles to the lower end of the hour glass.

You gotta fight for your right to Tea Party

2011-07-11T15:35:00.001-05:00

It seems like a lot of the next election’s debate is rolling up to one question: do people have a legal right to do stupid stuff? It started out as a debate about government infringement on personal liberties. But then I think the Tea Partiers found that they had to back things that they don’t personally like, like freedom of speech and freedom of religion. Well, they do like freedom of religion as long as you’re free to choose their religion. Other religions? Not so much. Tea Partiers loooooovvvvveee their liberties. As long as they don’t include gay marriage or porn or drugs or abortion or civil rights.

And part of that has to be that if they actually love those liberties too, they’d find themselves agreeing with liberals – which, whoa, that would be freaky for them. Can’t have that. So, the debate is turning to freedoms that they can still get in an argument about. Like their right to smoke, eat junk food, drive gas guzzlers and use incandescent light bulbs. Yes, there’s a fight in Congress about the governments efforts to force tax-payers to phase out the use of incandescent lightbulbs. Halogens may last longer and cost less in electricity to use, but dang-it they’re weird. And possibly gay. And no hardcore conservative wants a cheap, queer light bulb in their house. And the damn liberals want to argue with them about it.

And it seems like the elements of government control they hate most are the ones that some people would say are just trying to stop them from doing stupid stuff. To themselves. And frankly, I’m having a hard time arguing with them. If they want to be fat, emphysemic, poor and sitting in the dark, that’s their choice. Frankly, some of the things that the government thought were a bad idea in the past (interracial marriage, abolition, women’s suffrage, suffering a witch to live among us), actually turned out to be pretty good things in the light of a more reasonable age. And somebody had to have the courage to speak up for them (“Hey, maybe we shouldn’t burn Goody Barlow for hexing the Wilson’s cow”) in order to change the world. So maybe the Tea Partiers are right to fight boldly for their right to eat and uplight as they choose. Maybe Twinkies and incandescent bulbs will be discovered to cure cancer. And you’ll have Michelle Bachman to thank for saving them from destruction.

Applause, applause

2011-07-07T12:56:00.001-05:00

My youngest niece. Bless her heart. I have 3. Each as different as it’s possible for females to be. But the youngest, well she’s something else.

So Monday we had the big family cookout. Everybody is milling around, munching, talking, cooking, kibitzing about other peoples’ cooking, you know, a cookout. This left the kids with pretty much nothing to do but be kids. And one of the things that was laying around from the party box (yes, there’s a party box), was giant load of plastic leis, glow necklaces and mardi gras beads (What? That’s not what you have in your party box?). So, most of the kids have one or two decorations, and go about their business. The 12-year old proceeds to make elaborate outfits out of plastic flotsam, including off-the-shoulder tops, head pieces and roman sandals. And then starts a mini America’s Got Talent competition in the living room, where she was host, judge and contestant.

Now, I’ve always said, if the kid ever gets a taste of a real audience, that’s it. She’ll never willingly step off of a stage again. The only reason that she’s not experienced it yet is that she’s under the mistaken impression that she’s SHY. Huh-huh. I have politely refrained from disabusing her of this mad notion by not saying, “Sure, kid, pull the other one.” Eventually, it will happen. School play. Glee club. Amateur night at the Improv. Something. She’ll get one taste of the good stuff – applause. And it will be like heroin to her poor attention starved system. Because really, we’re just her family and there’s no way we can compete with an actual auditorium. Meryl Streep, watch your back. I hope she'll remember to thank Aunt Julie when she gets her first Oscar.

Cyranose

2011-07-05T11:24:00.002-05:00

So last Friday, I went to see Cyrano de Bergerac at the outdoor Shakespeare fest. Yes, I know. Not Shakespeare. Go with it.

And somewhere in the middle of the death scene, I realized how much differently I viewed this story as an adult compared to as a teenager. I remember loving the movie when I was a weepy teenager. Cyrano is quite the swashbuckler. I loved me a swashbuckler as a teen. (Still do.) And the Dallas Shakes Cyrano is a devilishly handsome son-of-a-gun with a way with a sword and a word. I was content. In spite of the fact that that the play is done outdoors. In the summer. On the surface of the sun.

The big thing that’s changed is that I loved the tragedy of the whole thing back then. The ever-so worthy Cyrano, brilliant, honorable, tres gentil, denied happiness with his beloved because of his horrible disfigurement (and can I just sidebar that quite obviously the French don’t share our proportional assumption based on a man and his nose? Otherwise C de B would be quite the popular boy). Yet he stays devoted to her, quietly in the background, selflessly assuring her happiness. I would have been reduced to a blubbering effluent mess when I was around 16. And then, as he dies at the hands of his enemies, the truth is finally revealed – boo hoo hoo hoo hoo! So romantic. The end.

What really? You deny yourself happiness because God didn’t give you the perfect little button nose of your dreams? That’s it? Dumbass. If she can’t see beyond the tip of your nose (ha!), then she’s not your girl. And she ain’t all that in the first place. Get off your damn knee, and go find yourself some happy. And Roxanne? I’d have been pretty effin’ pissed if I found out that he’d been basically lying to me all that time. And let me stay in a goddamn nunnery 10 freaking years! When he could have been writing me kickass sonnets and making like French bunnies? IDIOT! I don’t care if you’re dying. Slappity-slap-slap! Over a nose? Please.

In fact, my teenage self could probably have used a slappity-slap-slap too. Seriously. There are some things that are better left to the pubescent.

Jill & Chase

2011-06-30T16:07:00.002-05:00

This came up because of a specific male friend who I looked at and though, “You know, you really need to go make friends with a lesbian.”

Though we’re treading into generalization land, there is a documented phenomenon of the straight woman/gay man friendship. The Will & Grace thing. Been there, and been the beneficiary of a very nice little symbiosis. I’m not sure what my gay boyfriends may have received for being friends with me (other than my kickass personality and superior disco bunny skills). But I do know what I get out of it; I get the benefit of the male perspective. From a totally disinterested party. There’s no hidden agenda designed to present the male of the species in the best light. Or the worst light either. They’ll call a dog a dog. But also explain why some behavior might not be quite as woofish as it appears in a man’s way of thinking. Sure, you can get the male perspective from a straight guy friend. But I don’t know. I always think there’s some varnish on it. Either there’s a “I don’t currently want to sleep with you, but you might get breast plants or we could both end up drunk together, so I don’t want to burn any bridges” element, or a guy doesn’t want to throw a bro under the bus by revealing the He-Man Secrets of the Universe. But with the gay guy, he knows and he’s willing to tell.

Straight guys just don’t have that kind of synergy with lesbians, for the most part. I don’t know why. They seem to like a lot of the same things. And if there’s anyone in this world who could use a window on the opposite sex, it’s straight guys. Take this friend of mine. He’s got woman problems. And I could tell him that she’s bananas and stringing him along. But somehow he never seems to hear that kind of thing for me. Maybe he’s busy wondering what I’d look like with breast implants and a bottle of Jack in my hand. But if he had a good lesbian in his life, she’d be able to tell him these things and he’d know that she’s just looking out for him. In the words of Henry Higgins, "Why can't a woman be more like a man?" A lesbian could have explained it for him.

What I have learned from RuPaul's Drag Race

2011-06-24T11:06:00.000-05:00

http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/beauty/the-most-dangerous-high-heels-3-types-of-footwear-that-can-send-you-to-the-hospital-2500099/#photoViewer=7

The big thing that makes me laugh about the current obsession with the super-platform shoes is that they always make me think one thing – drag queen. Cause really, the whole heel thing has gotten out of hand (foot?). Go back and look at pictures from the 80s at what you thought were slutty hooker heels on Tawny Kitaen or Lita Ford. 2-inches. Maybe 2 ½. Now a 5-inch heel is being sold at Payless. You don’t even have to go down the stripper store any more.

And here’s the thing, on drag queens, there’s a reason for the big heels. They have big feet. You put an inch high kitten heel on a size 12, and it’s just not going to look right. Not that they usually need the leg lengthening that you get from a heel (darn them and their low body fat), but a six-foot tall “dame” needs a shoe that’s in proportion.

Also, drag queens are performers. They wear those shoes when they are in drag and working. And sometimes that’s for a 4-minute lip synch to “Single Ladies”. Then they’re backstage sitting down like a sensible person. Yes, a good queen can strut and be fierce in a pair of killer heels. But they usually have the sense not to try wearing them to the Piggly Wiggly. When the wig comes off, so do the heels. It seems to be only women who don’t have the sense not to wear those ankle-breakers all day. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen some girl working it in to work on 4-inch stilettos and hobbling out the door at the end of the day.

The ladies could take a tip from the lady-boys on this one. All that fierceness? It’s drag, honey. Save the triple-platform, peep toe, stiletto, sky-high shoe for the moment you are in the spotlight. And save your feet with a pair of flats for real life.

5 Reasons Why a 35 Year Age Difference Can Work in a Marriage:

2011-06-21T13:44:00.005-05:00

First off: EEEEEWWWWWW!

http://marquee.blogs.cnn.com/2011/06/21/lost-actor-marries-16-year-old-girlfriend/?hpt=hp_bn5

You're a Medieval lord and she's good breeding stock
One of you was born on February 29
One of you has recently undergone a long space journey and experienced gravitational time dilation (Shout out to OG, Albert Einstein! Special relativity, yo!)
You're first cousins and the age difference is really not the grossest thing about it
You're Jerry Lee Lewis - oh, wait. That' didn't work either. Strike that. You're Woody Allen! Cross-reference to number 4.

Hate is a strong word

2011-06-21T11:46:00.001-05:00

I was talking with friends this weekend, and somehow the topic of hating people had come up. And there was one friend, there’s always one, who said that they don’t “hate” people. Hate’s a negative emotion, doesn’t do you any good, gets in the way of understanding, only hurting yourself in the end. Okay, sure. I buy that. I’m at the opposite end of the spectrum. There is one person who has been in my life who I hate, to this day. Hate. To the point where it would make me happy to hear that he’s dead. And died painfully. Doesn’t make me proud. But it’s nonetheless and absolute truth.

This is a person who is intelligent. Sensitive in the sense that he is well able to understand others’ emotions. Healthy and able to support himself in an adequate to better-than-adequate manner. Empirically speaking, good looking. Charming to the unwary. And he is an absolute waste of skin. He breeds hate and discontent wherever he goes. Manipulates with glee. Is hurtful to others. And for no real reason other than it seems to make him chuckle.

He’s not Grand Wizard of the KKK evil. He’s just plain evil. Not destructive on a regional scale. Just destructive to anyone who might come in contact with him. I have been driving in a parking lot and seen him walking. The idea that a tap of the gas pedal, while not the right thing to do and not something that would happen, could rid the world of this scourge – well, it did bring me a small amount of hope. I actually believe it’s a moral imperative to hate someone this evil.

Yes, I know that I should release this hate. Surrender it to the universe with the knowledge that he had a horrible childhood, or a damaged brain, or was cursed by an evil fairy at birth. Could even be demon possession for all I know. To be honest, I don’t get up every morning and wish him ill. This weekend was probably the first time I’ve thought of him in years. But if you ask me if I hate anyone, this is the name that leaps to mind. The only name that leaps to mind, for that matter. I wouldn’t kill him. I would do whatever in my power to stop someone else from killing him.

But I would still be happy to hear that he was dead.

Losing our sense of proportion

2011-06-16T16:51:00.000-05:00

Here’s something I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been hearing Republicans bang the drum for less regulation of big business. Personally, I’m for less regulation, but I think those bastards in big business can suck it. I’d like to see less regulation for small and medium-sized businesses. Here’s my thought process, the amount of regulation you should be under should be in direct proportion to the amount of hellation you can cause if you screw up.

For instance, here in Texas, if you were a mom who wanted to start a small business from you home baking fresh muffins and selling them to your family and friends on the side to make some extra cash – forget it. The requirements you’d have to meet in order to do it are beyond crazy. And that applies to church bake sales, 2nd graders’ lemonade stands, farmers’ market stalls and your friendly neighborhood tamale lady. Say the worst happened and the muffin mom made a bad batch, how many people could she really hurt? A dozen? Two dozen? On the other hand, a Texas company like Enron faced so little regulation that they were able to nearly bankrupt California by creating an energy crisis, and then bankrupt the retirement savings of thousands of Americans who were invested in Enron stock.

I can’t help but think the balance of the scales is somewhat off. In an age where Wal-Mart thrives, mom and pop stores crumble. But somehow, I’m supposed to feel sorry for Wal-Mart. We should all just leave Wal-Mart alone. Sorry. No. I think those bastards can take care of themselves. I like small businesses. I think America was a better place when there were more of them. We cut big business big slack, but make it nearly impossible for the little guy to get a break. It’s like walking past a homeless guy to hand Donald Trump a dollar.

Not LOL

2011-06-14T12:22:00.001-05:00

So. Tracy Morgan and the homophobic rant. Wow. I’ve read some of the verbatims from the routine, and it seems pretty hate-filled. Granted, tone can make things sound different than they read on the page. But still. It sounds like an episode of “When Comedy Goes Wrong.” See Michael Richards.

The thing is comedy has an ability to illuminate peoples’ anxieties, hypocrisies and pre-conceptions. Many comedians work that line really closely, between discomfort and laughter. But comedy is also many bullies’ weapon of choice. Couching a putdown as “a joke” and if you can’t take being attacked, it’s your own fault. Many of the edgier comedians work a line of anger into their routines. When you combine that high volatility of anger and race or sexuality or gender, things can go wrong. It’s a risk you take when you’d rather be Richard Pryor than Jerry Seinfeld. I think that the fact that the audience was really uncomfortable is a measure that probably Tracy Morgan’s routine crossed the line. Sometimes it’s only a vibe, as hard as that is to define, that makes the difference between “I can’t believe I’m laughing at this” and “I want my money back.”

Hopefully, this will end up having a positive result. It looks like the LGBT community is standing up to this instance of bullying in an assertive manner. And for the most part, comedians are intelligent, reflective and sensitive (the ones who aren’t don’t usually make it very far). And if they are able to work with Tracy Morgan in a way that discusses the issues he was talking about in an open manner, it might have a positive influence on relations between the black community and the gay community. Something that years of people calling out black basketball players for using the word “faggot” has never been able to achieve.

And for Tracy’s sake I hope he’s able to get this figured out. My gay friends are some of the most rabid consumers of standup comedy I know. I mean they consistently go to comedy clubs and theaters to actually see standup comedians. I’ll just say it. The gays love the standup. And they are a pretty sophisticated audience who can tell the difference. If they can take the kind of s### that Lisa Lampanelli dishes, they do know how to take a joke. And when it’s just not funny.

Because her lips are moving

2011-06-10T12:07:00.001-05:00

So, deep in the heart of media navel gazing, I’ve seen several headlines that boil down to, “Why are we so fascinated with the Casey Anthony story?” I can’t tell you how much I’d like to say “Who’s ‘we’, pale face?” And that the media is asking themselves why they can’t stop tracking every sordid moment of this case. But the truth is, I’m fascinated too. And I’ve done some thinking about why we (me, the median and millions of people around the country) are so hooked on this story.

The one thing I’ve come down to is – just about everybody has a Casey Anthony in their lives. She’s that person who will lie and lie, sometimes apparently just for the sake of lying, until she is absolutely cornered with bare, dead facts staring her in the face. They just seem to have little to know association with the truth or even reality, just sowing seeds of half-truths and bald-ass lies until they just can’t get away with it any more. Whether it’s to make themselves looks better, feel better, save someone else’s feelings, manipulate a situation, or it’s just how they’d like things to be and if I say it it’s true, the result is the same. They make the people around them nuts.

And I’m sure there are all sorts of psychological reasons: borderline personality disorder, magical ideation, psychotic break. Or maybe they’re just kind of fanciful. Or an asshole. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a way to fix them. No matter what they are nearly impossible to deal with on a routine basis. And the only sure cure for the effect on your life is to stay as far away from them as humanly possible. And that’s hoping they aren’t tied to you by blood.

But if you’ve ever felt the bizarre world that your life turns into when you have one of these people stringing a non-stop line of bull around every lamp post, then watching Casey Anthony’s load of crap get pulled apart, lie by lie, by a trial lawyer is incredibly . . . cathartic? Satisfying? Like cosmic justice. How many times have you wished you could line up a jury of peers and just present the case in a court of law of why you don’t believe a word that some fabricator says? To be able to tear down the house of cards like Perry Mason and have someone (other than you) say “Guilty!”

Most of us never get that satisfaction with a pathological liar that has firebombed our lives. And, actually, I think even if Casey Anthony is presented with irrefutable truth, she’s never going to admit what she did. But even so, there’s a feeling (shared by the cops, the prosecutors office, some of Casey’s family and former friends) of “get her!” Just for once. Just to have the truth revealed to the rest of the world.

Tin Cup

2011-06-09T13:55:00.000-05:00

I hate paying bills. And it’s not the handing over the money. I’m cheap, but I’m okay with paying my way. It’s just the whole act of writing the check and sticking it in the envelope. Or first remembering that I have to pay a bill, then finding my check book, then finding a pen. Then writing it out. Then finding a stamp. Paying bills on-line is marginally better. And god bless whoever invented automatic payment. Why everyone can’t just do that, I don’t know. I have one bill that charges an extra (get this) $25 a bill to do it one line. Pirates! Stupid pirates too, since having on-line bill pay like quadruples your chances of getting your money on-time and with a hint of a smile.

I remember when I was a kid, and this shows what happy, innocent times the 60s were in suburban Texas, my Mom just had this little cup in the mailbox with change in it. Any time an envelope came with postage due or COD, the mailman would just take it out of the cup. Easy. He never took more than he needed. He never had to walk up to the door to get money from her. And nobody stole the cup out of the mailbox.

You know, life was a lot easier before they went and started to make things easier.

The Man in the Mirror

2011-06-08T14:26:00.003-05:00

Okay, now that I’ve seen Rep. Weiner’s wife (and let’s face it, he can kiss his first name goodbye along with his reputation) the mystery deepens. She’s stunning. And evidently really smart. And kinda rich. He married up. Waaaayyyy up. A year ago. Evidently he got the 7 month itch. What a schmuck.

A friend was talking about the Wal-Mart mirror yesterday. She says Wal-Mart must sell a special mirror that every time you look in it you think you look fantastic. It explains the “People of Wal-Mart” website. I also think it explains Britney Spears, uhm, fashion sense. Evidently Rep. Weiner has been looking in a Wal-Mart mirror and thinking that he’s too much man to waste on just one gorgeous, glamorous, smart and well-connected woman. He needs to spread a little of that jelly around. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

Too late for him

2011-06-08T12:07:00.000-05:00

http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/06/08/rekers.sissy.boy.experiment/index.html?hpt=hp_c2

I’ve been watching this story develop on CNN. Basically, they’ve located a young man who underwent gender realignment therapy in the ‘60s at UCLA. Or, more to the point, his siblings. Because he committed suicide at age 38. Gender realignment therapy in those days was beating the sissy (or tomboy) out of you, and withholding affection until you conform to some artificial concept of gender identity.

I keep looking at the pictures of this small child, knowing what he’ll endure, wishing I could reach in there, grab him up and protect him.

I also know that though many things have changed, somewhere right now some little boy is getting smacked for acting like a girl. Or some little girl is getting taunted for acting like a boy.

And gay and gender non-conformant people can protest and stand up for their rights, but really this isn’t going to truly stop until straight people clean our own house. Until we call each other on bashing. Until we’re willing to stand up and say just because we’re both straight, you don’t speak for me. You can’t say it’s not right in society for someone to be sissy or butch. Because I am part of society to. And you don’t have any right to beat or intimidate someone so that they conform to some idea of masculinity or femininity you have in your head. Not on my account. Not ever.

It’s too late for this little boy who grew up with too much pain to bear. But there are other children who can be saved from a life of pain and fear. It’s not “none of our business” because we’re in the majority and not vulnerable. We’re human. And we have an obligation to one another to stop cruelty when we see it. If you see it, say something. Staying silent implies your approval. Say something.

You kids disappoint me.

2011-06-06T15:47:00.000-05:00

The pictures from Edward & Bella’s Twilight wedding just really guh-rossed me out. Vampires. Getting married. Ugh. Double ugh.

Seriously, I may be old school, but to me there are only two kinds of vampires: evil, undead monsters who want to suck your blood and leave you a withered husk and who need to be staked straight through the heart in the firmest manner possible OR evil undead monsters who want to have sex with anything that moves and leave you a withered husk in severe need of Gatorade. It’s either “Find ‘em, feed on ‘em, forget ‘em” or “Find ‘em, f*** ‘em, forget ‘em.” That’s it. There are no other options. Fanged freak or freak in bed.

Have we come to this? Even vampires are non-threatening Justin Biebers? The sparkly, vegetarian vampires were bad enough (pardon me while my stomach heaves), but a vampire with a china pattern???? This I cannot forgive. Blech.

What's new, pussycat?

2011-06-06T12:38:00.000-05:00

Okay, the Anthony Weiner thing. Here’s the part I don’t understand: why do men take pictures of their junk in the first place? Why, why, why? Let alone e-mail it to ANYONE. Even if you’re sending it to your dermy with a tagline of “suspicious mole”. But no, at this very moment, somebody’s aiming their iPhone at their privates and getting ready to hit send.

But really, you’d think that the only reason that the internet was invented would be so that guys could get pictures of their bait and tackle shops out there. It’s really second only to pictures of kittens in over all popularity.

Wait. There’s an idea. Combine pictures of cute kitties with the plethora of d*** pics on the interwebs. Now there’s a “hang in there” picture that you’d never forget. Brings a whole new meaning to stuff on my cat. There’s also the other joke here that I’m just going to let hang there . . . you know what I’m not saying. Even I have my limits. Yes, I do. Don't look at me like that.

Putting the Cranked Up in Cranky

2011-06-02T11:34:00.001-05:00

Okay, here is the top 5 list of things I’m over (thank you, Shirley McLain), in reverse order of how much they are annoying me today:

5. The “Best”: I’m so over the obsession with finding the “Best”. Best barbecue, best car, best handbag. Of all the subjective things in the world, “best” is probably the least informative and/or relevant. I want good. But my good may be different you’re your good, and while I’d like to hear your opinion on what’s good, I don’t want to argue about which is better. Anything over and above good is a popularity contest, and I’m just not playing that any more.

4. Sexy: We’ve got sexy octogenarians and pre-teens wearing push up bras. Enough already. Sexy is fine. Sexy can even be great. But it’s the parsley, not the meat and potatoes. There are 600 other things in the world that are more interesting, productive, more life affirming than sexy. Let’s start paying attention to one of them.

3. Conspiracy theories: I don’t care who you think is “responsible”: communists, oil companies, drug companies, radical Islam, radical anybodies, Skull and Bones, men in black, Dan Brown, little green men – if all you have is a theory, keep it to yourself. Unless you can come up with the Grand Unification Conspiracy Theory in which you blame EVERYONE. That I’d like to hear.

2. Rich People: I know this isn’t new. But I’m still over them. They still bug me. And until they stop, as a group, being douche bags, they stay on the list. Me. Eyes. You. Yeah, I see it.

1. Crazy Pants: I just need the world to take off it’s crazy pants for a few days. Hey, I love living in interesting times as much as anyone. But seriously. The entire world seems to be in need of 1) therapy, 2) mild sedatives, 3) a few hours of intense meditation/prayer/staring into the great vastness of space and contemplating how small we all really are. In other words: It’s called a grip, World. You should get one.

Now, I feel better. You may feel worse, but I definitely feel better.

One of you is out of a job

2011-06-01T12:37:00.008-05:00

Okay, so here’s my new game: Hollywood Downsizing. Obviously, the movie industry is having trouble. Costs are high. Quality is low. Hard to make a buck in those situations. It’s time for layoffs. Force reductions. Somebody needs the old heave ho.

And as with any business, with strategic layoffs, the first thing you look for is redundancies. There are tons of actors who will come up at around the same time, get a lot of work, and then because you can’t tell them apart, eventually only one of them survives.

First Example:
Elijah Wood, Tobey Magquire, Topher Grace.
Sorry, kids. We’re going to have to let 2 of you go. Young, square head, puppy eyes, big smile, angst prone. My vote is for Grace, but I know there’s a strong Maguire contingent. Whatevs. We’re cutting the celebrity budget by 66%.

Second Example:
Olivia Wilde, Megan Fox.
We don’t need 2 Angelina Jolie knock offs. Angie can’t carry all the load, but 2 backups is just obvious redundancy. I vote for Wilde. She’s seems like the nicer version. Megan Fox works the bitch face too often, and I’m concerned that she’s not sharpest tool in the shed.

Third Example:
This is one where the similarity has obviously hurt both of their careers. Not enough work to go around.
Mark-Paul Gosselar, Ryan Reynolds.
Tall, rectangular face, blond, hot bod, comedy background, but skewing towards dramatic work. I know Reynolds is kind of the popular choice right now, and has the pity vote (getting dumped for Sean Penn? That's gotta smart). But I’m going to have to boost for the Saved by the Bell alum. Zach Attack!

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman

2011-05-31T15:04:00.000-05:00

Okay. I’m just having one of those days. Or a few one-of-those-days. And one of the blessings of getting older as a woman and my little biological clock winding down is that they are fewer and further between.

It’s one of those hormonal things. Where the normal, rational, reasonable, lovely person that you normally are is turned into a pile of dry straw and the world is aflame. One little spark and you’re going to turn into flash of light and a puff of smoke faster than a joint at a Snoop Dogg show. (And by you I do indeed mean me.) There are a million little things that might get under your skin in any given day, and usually you can just bat them aside. Rubber neckers, bap. 2 empty coffee pots, puuf. Having to say the same thing 6 times and still getting a stunned look the 7th time those words come out of your mouth, wha-pah! You just protect the plate and launch those little annoyances safely outside the base lines.

But when the hormone express is pulling through town, not only do you not have the capacity to suffer slings and arrows, you just don’t damn want to. You lookin’ at me? Cause it looks like you’re looking at me. Yeah, I dinn’t think so. Walk. A. Way.

And really, I don’t enjoy these little low points in the cycle. Never have. And I’m really not sad to see them tail off. I miss the happy bounce of a taught booty and my collagen every day. But once these little moments of spark and fury are gone, I won’t miss them a bit. Not at all.

All aboard!

2011-05-26T13:43:00.000-05:00

Okay, here’s the thing about holiday weekends. You start the planning:

I’ve got three whole days! I could do this! And I could do this! And THEN I could do something else. But wait, I’ve been waiting to do this. But if I do that then I have to do this. And then I could clean my entire house! And build a bird sanctuary in my backyard. And then we’ll have a cookout!

Yeah. Crazy train.

This is why everyone drags their pathetic behinds in to work on Tuesday looking like the last 3 minutes of a George Romero movie. Brains! More brains!

And that’s it really. It’s my brain that really needs to be taken care of this weekend. I need to sit my happy ass down for about 3 hours and do nothing but drink glass after glass of cool water. Until my brain starts to rehydrate, and not resemble a delicious golden raisin. So, I’m already on zombie shuffle, even before I go into holiday hyper-drive.

Sit. Peace. Be still.

But there’s just this one thing I’ve gotta do.

Girl's gotta dance

2011-05-24T12:43:00.001-05:00

And while some people were scratching their heads and wondering if God’s watch was running slow (see previous post), I was off at the Richardson Wildflower show singing along to “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” with Better Than Ezra.

I was trying to figure out, and I think it’s about the 5th or 6th time I’ve seen them live. I’m not their biggest fan (that would probably be some ex-frat boy with his hat turned backwards and a pair of baggy cargo shorts way past their expiration date; fer reals, what is it with me and dude bands? I’ve gotta start listening to Adele or something). But if you’re on a road trip with me, BTE is guaranteed to get a spin in the CD player at some point. And I will burn your ears singing along at the top of my lungs to Cry In the Sun or A Lifetime.

But the live shows are something in addition. Probably because they’ve been together so long, the band is obviously just trying to amuse themselves by going off on tangents and side trips through the annals of pop music. It doesn’t hurt that they’re certified pop monsters that can riff credibly on R&B, hard rock, folk and 80s dance, etc., at the drop of a pick. Really, they’re probably, in addition to being themselves, one of the better tribute bands you’ll ever see. Don’t be surprised if you’re in the middle of Extra Ordinary and suddenly find yourself asking “Did somebody just get the Led out?”

And just on my own little tangent (because I totally get trying to keep oneself amused – I’m always doing it for the chuckles), if you’re at an outdoor venue that does allow smoking, if you can’t have some respect for your fellow concert goers and step out of the crowd for your nic fix, could you at least have some pity on the performers? Seriously, blowing a cloud in a singer’s face is just hella tacky. I’d say Kevin Griffin was pretty restrained for not going all Patti Lupone on somebody’s ass. Respect, people.

Yes, Armageddon It

2011-05-24T12:12:00.001-05:00

Okay, well, in case you were wondering, the Rapture didn’t happen. You weren’t Left Behind. Slight miscalculation, and we’re on hold until October. Hey. I get slight miscalculations. There was a reason I was an English major and not a physicist. You misspell a word, no big deal. But if you’re just a little bit off in the calculation of a comet’s trajectory, then you just got Bruce Willis killed for nothing. Embarrassing.

But anyway. I kind of get it with the Rapture people. I mean, if you really believe that the world is coming to an end, and all people have to do is say “yes” to Jesus and they’ll be sitting pretty on May 24th, instead of burning in a fiery conflagration of hell on Earth – then it kind of would be a dick move to not tell the world about it. So, you put yourself out there. Say, “Hey, what up, party people? Get yourself right with God cause the fan gets hit on Saturday.” They risked looking a little dumb today (they would look less dumb if they hadn’t maxed out the charge plates, but whatever), but it was the nice thing to do to give us a heads up. They could have just kept quiet.

I’m not going to be the one to say “told ya so”. I’m just going to let them have their little re-calc to October 25. But I’m still going to be making plans for Halloween.

Non means non, Pepe; or ou est Madame DuFarge?

2011-05-18T18:19:00.002-05:00

Ugh. I’m already sick of the French calling us prudes and Puritans for arresting Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Okay, I probably have a shorter fuse than many with the frogs. Something inherent in my Brit roots makes me itchy to take a broad sword to them. Metaphorically, of course.

But the way they are getting all huffé with us about him being some great “seducer” (please), and we don’t understand “flirtation”. If there is some sort of sketchy line in France between “Voulez vous couchez avec moi” and sex charges in which DNA has been collected (allegedly), cancel my trip to Paris.

And that’s the thing. They are entitled to their icky lack of sexual boundaries. Vive la difference. But he wasn’t there. He was here. And we’re pretty clear here about what’s a little light slap and tickle, and what’s stranger danger. And the hotel maid? That’s just wrong. Like it’s not bad enough that they have to clean your Frenchy body hair out of the drain. And I'm pretty sure that a hotel maid in NYC has seen it all, and can probably defend herself pretty well. If he got so handsy with her that she said something, he was WAY out of line.

So, with respect to what he ALLEGEDLY did (innocent until proven a cheese-eating lecher monkey), yes, he should have been arrested for those allegations if they had adequate evidence for an indictment. And made to do the perp walk in front of a squadron of photographers. It’s a quaint, old, American custom. You know. Customs. Those things that we’re supposed to respect when you do them in your country. Like spitting when one talks and avoiding personal hygiene products.

Lazy post day

2011-05-13T13:08:00.002-05:00

Alright, it's the laziest sort of post possible, but I thought I'd pass along one of my favorite new blogs. It's Time's photography blog called LightBox. I almost always see something both beautiful and relevant when I check in. I'm learning a lot about photography too. I'm not a real photographer (amateur or otherwise), but I feel like I'm learning things that make even my "these are my friends, family reunion, vacation pics" shots better just by seeing how the professionals work.

http://lightbox.time.com/

Lookin' good

2011-05-12T14:48:00.001-05:00

I haven’t seen this movie (Bridesmaids). Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Looks funny. Depends on what mood I’m in.

But can I just give it kudos on one point?

See the picture above. I’m not seeing anything any of these women are wearing that is unrealistic. It bugs the s-n-o-t, SNOT out of me when most movies about women put the lead actresses in fantasy clothes. Stuff like the girl who is supposed to be a dog walker for a living is wearing $200 jeans and a silk t-shirt. Uh, no. It’s like some sort of rule that Jennifer Anniston, Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway can’t be in a romantic comedy unless they are wearing designer clothes. And not just like Ralph Lauren or Michael Kors or somebody I’ve heard of. Freakish over-priced stuff from boutique labels that only Jennifer Anniston can afford to by. The real Jennifer Anniston, not the dog walker Jennifer Anniston.

These women are all dressed like women I know. Okay, the hair is probably 10 percent better than most normal women. But I give it a pass.

I think the reason it bugs me so much (the main reason) is that it’s just bad storytelling. Like Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn is wearing clothes that she can’t afford, but it’s because she’s been getting paid to go the powder room. If Kate Hudson is supposed to be playing a single mom with a baby, how are you supposed to believe it when she’s wearing an Italian wool sweater that not only doesn’t have baby barf on the shoulder, you can’t even imagine a baby who would have the nerve to barf on it in the first place.

Come to think of it, maybe I should go see this movie. Just to support truth in costuming.

Not all that surprising

2011-05-09T17:25:00.002-05:00

http://healthland.time.com/2011/05/09/korean-study-suggests-rate-of-autism-may-be-underestimated/

I just find this study so completely un-alarming. In fact I think it’s probably a good thing. There’s no boom in autism folks. It’s not an epidemic. These people have always been with us. It’s just when you and I were young, we (not to put too fin a point on it) used to call them the weird kids. You know it’s true. The kid who couldn’t quite figure out how to get into the social stream. The one who ended up picked on because he didn’t fit in. The one who didn’t make eye contact. He laughed too loud, or at the wrong times. If he made an overture at friendship (big if) he most likely creeped the person he approached out. Possibly smelled. You remember the kid. And you probably have stopped to wonder as an adult whatever happens to a kid like that when they grow up.

Okay, 1 in 38 seems like a lot. But if you figure that the average school has 3 to 4 classes of 24 to 25 kids per each grade, that’s 2 to 3 weird kids per grade. Which is just about exactly what I remember from elementary school. I may have had a little closer contact with the weird kids in school, because I was frequently in that borderline-weird area of kids who are different (fat, skinny, too smart, a little slow, gay, artsy, whatever) but still have enough social skills to cope and gather at least a small group of friends. And because we generally suffered from the usual run of mild to moderately aggressive teasing that the outsiders get, if we weren’t able to protect the weird kids, we at least tried not to add any more to the ration of hell that the pack leaders were usually only to happy to deal out.

And I know people are really hesitant to label. But really, some autistic kids turn out just fine. It’s not a death sentence. I’ve never heard anyone say it out loud, but I’m pretty much of the opinion that George Lucas is probably the Asperger’s poster child of all time. I have a family member who’s only been diagnosed in his 20s. Yes, we noticed. We just didn’t have a name for it. I think the more we are able to recognize what’s going on, the more some adults are going to find out that an autism diagnosis would have explained a shitload about their lives. And a lot of them would really find it sad that someone hadn’t been able to offer them help 20, 30 or 40 years earlier.

Autism is a spectrum disorder. Some kids are going to be profound. And some kids are going to be Temple Grandin. If someone gets those autistic kids who are at the mild end of the spectrum, who aren’t learning disabled but are pretty hopeless at the social interaction, and gets them the counseling that might get them a shot at being, well, at least not total social outcasts, I think most of those kids would be pretty damn grateful.

If only this was the end

2011-05-03T15:38:00.000-05:00

The death of Osama bin Laden. As always with these things, it’s not easy to process when you’re a peace loving pragmatist. I wish we could have handled this as a country with quiet dignity. I understand why some could not. I can say I don’t feel safer. Do you?

I do feel like, given the Pakistanis remarkable ability to play both sides against the middle, that we should seriously re-think any aid money that is in that new budget we just wrote. If they can’t back us in a bar fight, it’s time to stop picking up their tab. Mean spirited, yes. Did I mention that I’m a little conflicted about this?

Was it about vengeance? Justice? The future safety of the billions of people worldwide who are threatened by the effects of radical terrorism? Finally being able to end a war effort that has floundered too long and killed too many? Maybe a little of each of the first three. I’m failing to even hope for the last.

I’m not glad he’s dead. I’m not sorry either. Really, I’m just sorry that we don’t live in a better world than this.

Wild Kingdom: Cougars and Drunk Lions

2011-05-02T12:35:00.002-05:00

So, Saturday at the Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers show at Gruene Hall (and yes, I do realize I’m one lucky girl that I get to throw off phrases like that as casual as can be), I kind of realized why the whole cougar thing works.

I was at the show with Mo and T, enjoying the music, feeling good, grooving the scene. And from our vantage point on the edge of the crowd, we see this young guy working the crowd. There were at least 4 bachelorette parties, and he was working really hard to hook up with somebody, or apparently anybody. He’d float from group to group, making his play. And getting denied pretty much at every turn. Being inebriated, while probably loosening him up in making his move, was not helping him when it came to sealing the deal. You’d just see the girls in each group getting a little spooked every time he came near them. Like a herd of okapi scenting a lion on the wind. A really, really drunk lion.

And it was during “Green and Dumb”, when I locked arms with Mo to sway and sing along (it’s that kind of song; strangers become friends, friends become soul sisters and brothers from another mother under the light of a neon beer sign), I suddenly recognized Drunk Simba. Two years ago at an RCPM show (http://firephrase.blogspot.com/2009/05/good.html) at the House of Blues, he had been the one swaying with me, and finished the song off with a full-body hug. A bit fresh on 3 and a half minutes acquaintance, but not out of line. Firm yet gentle, I’d recommend him to a friend.

Anyway, Mo and I had apparently had the same thought when we saw the bachelorette girls getting all spooked about Simba. “Unclench, girls. He’s going to be carried to the car by his friends tonight. Being nice to him won’t kill you.” And that’s the advantage of being over 40. You don’t think that you’re going to marry, or even end up in a semi-committed one night stand with, every guy you smile at in a bar. Sometimes you can just play for the love of the game. And you also have enough confidence to know that if you start something and it turns into more than you were looking for, you can tell the guy to back off. Gently, or in no uncertain terms. It’s not a big deal. And believe me, I understand chicks before d***s (it’s my girl power version of bros before hos), and sometimes you just want to hang out with your girls. But honestly, it wouldn’t kill you to just be nice to the poor drunk guy. Karma has a way of coming around. Yeah, he wanted to hook up. But he'd probably have settled for a smile and a sing-along.

So, to all those young girls who sit in bars wondering aloud, as I’ve occasionally heard them do, why all the young guys are over talking to older women and not you – it’s pretty simple. We talk back.

Excuse the hell out of me

2011-05-01T08:54:00.000-05:00

I just had the most amazing revelation about "kids these days". It kind of explains so much for me. They only apologize for social errors if they think you're going to get mad.

I was sitting in the hotel lobby finishing my coffee in an armchair. A teenage girl was moving a dining chair over to another table to sit with her friends. She banged her chair into the arm of mine, accidentally. Not me, the arm of my chair, hard enough to startle me. She stopped and looked at my face, and when she figured out that the blank look on my face was being stunned, rather than an overture to getting angry, she just went about her business. Somebody behind me asked if she was going to say anything; her reply was "Oh, no she's not mad." And that was that. No apology. No pardon. No excuse me.

And I was NOT going to get angry. It was a simple mistake that anyone could have made. No real harm. But it did, I don't know, disturb me. Interrupted my train of thought. Gave me a moment. So, in my day, you'd have said something. Just to acknowledge that your world bumped into mine. Regardless of whether someone was going to get mad or not. The "sorry" wasn't there to avoid a fight (most of the time), it was just polite.

I think she looked at the situation as there being nothing that she was going to get out of that second of saying "sorry" and just decided to save herself the effort. And I think that happens all the time. Those moments when I think young people are rude and don't know why. They don't use social skills unless they're going to get something out of it, avoid a fight or curry favor. But if they bump into you in the hall and you don't immediately start to yell at them, they're just going to truck on down the hall.

I'm trying to avoid the automatic judgement of "they're so lazy/rude/anti-social". It could be just the new way that people interact, and I'm behind the times. But geez. My knee jerk reaction is that it scares the crap out of me. This is the world we're going to be living in?

Nice day for a white wedding

2011-04-29T12:43:00.001-05:00

I’m coming out with an opinion (what, no! you?) yes, me! And I swear this will be the only time I’ll comment on the royal wedding (goddamn, the thing is more contagious than Ebola). And it’s about the dress. And really, that’s all anyone really cared about. It won’t seem like it at first, but it is about the bridal dress. Trust me.

Pippa Middleton’s dress was white. Which is usually a no-no. I loved it. Here’s why:

First, she managed Kate’s cathedral train, and looked it just looked uber-striking in the pictures. The train flowing into her sister’s dress. In fact, I liked it so much, I think there should be a new rule that all maids of honor should wear white when there’s a cathedral train on the bride’s dress. Let’s get right on lobbying Miss Manners for a ruling.

Second, in Mexican weddings the maid of honor frequently wears white to signify the bride’s purity. Okay, I’m not going so far as to call purity on a 29-year old woman who has lived with her new husband. It’s a fairy tale wedding, but it’s not that big of a fairy tale. I’m just saying, there’s precedent for the while maid of honor dress.

And, third and final, who is looking at the color when she was showing way too much cleave for a church wedding. Westminster Abbey, no less. Come on, girl. Stick a piece of lace in there or something. This is no time to show off the girls.

And that’s officially all I will be saying about the wedding. Good luck, kids. You’re going to need it.

Surely there's some other way we can become besties?

2011-04-28T14:31:00.003-05:00

Okay, so this acquaintance-verging-on-new-friendship (we’re almost there, but need one good bonding experience to put it over the top) just has to tell me about this play she’s going to see (because, you know, I’m “arty”). Evidently, as she gleefully informed me, there’s nudity and simulated sex. AND it’s in this little tiny theater*. Do I want to come with?

Um. No. We all know my feelings on high drama in small spaces. Or even low comedy in small spaces. I just don’t do it. And then you add in sex acting? Absolutely not. I believe that simulated sex should only happen between one woman and one gay man in the privacy of their consecrated marriage bed as ordained by God and Focus on the Family. Okay, that’s probably a bit extreme. I’m more likely to go by the rules I learned in kindergarten, if you didn’t bring enough for everybody, don’t bring it out. No actually, that’s going too far too. I just had a vision of the sex scene becoming an audience participation moment (shudder). Let’s just leave it at why can’t you all just get this thing on the interwebs like normal people?

So, anyway, I regretfully declined. We’ll just have to find some other way to bond. Maybe some local movie theater is doing a midnight showing of Caligula.

* I know the venue because I spent a week their one night watching a musical that I'm pretty sure was written and directed by Satan. Good times.

The touch, the feel

2011-04-26T11:45:00.001-05:00

Okay, this was another thing I forgot to mention from the TITAS show on Saturday. Just a little thing, but it did tickle my brain a little.

You know when men say they “don’t understand women”? This is one of those things in which I’d say, no, men don’t understand this one little thing. It matters what you wear, in more ways that are not obvious.

At the end of the show, a gentleman came up to tell me about a problem with his tickets. Very nice looking, well dressed, the whole nine. And when there are problems, I bust out the fluff-and-fold service. Nodding with concern, making the “oh, dear” face, perhaps tutting a little. As much as those folks pay for their tickets, the deserve a little fluff if things go wrong. I’m quite good at it. Well, since he seemed like a nice person, I went to the extra (and I do admit it’s risky behavior) step of patting him gently on the arm in a “you poor thing” sort of way.

Let me just say, that was a damn good jacket he was wearing. In the low light, it looked well-cut and a nice dark color. But touching revealed luxurious fabric too. Some sort of velvet with a little extra nap. Possibly a little wool in the fiber content. Mmmmm. Very nice. I could have pet his arm for hours.

And that is something men don’t know about women. We are easily seduced by the tactile. We like lovely to look at, but pleasing to the touch will just sneak right past our defenses. Oh, sure your no-iron shirts and stain resistant pants will get you through the day, but it ain’t going to get you play. Not the way a buttery suede jacket will. Not that I’m calling for any Ed Wood/angora sweater action. That’s probably a step too far for most women. But a little well-worn chambray, a touch of distressed leather, a 4-wale corduroy, and oh, that cashmere, and a well-placed arm positioned just right for petting can work wonders.

A night at the ballet

2011-04-25T12:00:00.000-05:00

So, Saturday I ushered for TITAS’s Command Performance gala. It’s their annual fund raiser where they do a recital type show of ballet crowd pleasers, prior to a grande fete with dinner, dancing and formal attire. The show is open to general ticket purchase, but you have to have a magic ticket to get into the magic kingdom afterward. And there are really only two things to say about the entire experience.

First, the rich are truly different from you and me. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Second, the dancing was truly exquiz. A gala would have been anticlimactic, at least for this girl. My favorite part, and it’s really only because I adore paradox, was the duet from Le Corsaire. The male half of that duo was stunningly built, rather macho for a ballet dancer, and attired in sparkly blue harem pants, yards of bare chest and a single sparkly feather jutting suggestively from his headband. Naughty. He was very heroic, doing these leaps and mid-air turns with masculine gusto. Now the touch of dichotomy comes in when he does this move that I think was supposed to be commanding in the Yul Brynner mode, where he’d put his hands to his chest with his elbows thrust out. But to me it looked incredibly reminiscent of the classic cheesecake pose with the topless girl modestly cupping her naked boobies, wink, wink, a la Varga. So he’d go from Sexy Man leaping through the air – to chastely holding his breastesses. Okay, maybe I’m the only one who thought it was a giggle. But then, the rich are definitely not like me.

Cause Dukan-kan-kan

2011-04-20T16:35:00.000-05:00

So, the Dukan Diet. From what I’ve read it’s Atkins with a side of South Beach. Because eating good quality food, but less of it, and exercising regularly is obviously too simple to work.

But, as a survivor of Atkins, South Beach, Pritikin, The Zone, the cabbage soup diet, the grapefruit diet, SlimFast, Metabolife and about another dozen other crazy diets, I think I can claim some moral authority in saying – please, can we just not?

I don’t mean that I did any of those. I mean I survived working in an office where half my co-workers were on one of those regimes (and I mean regime in the same tone of voice that I would say totalitarian regime or Pol Pot). Most of them caused nearly psychotic breaks where someone in ketosis was yelling at their office mate for writing too loudly, or two women got into a fist fight because there was a missing can of double-chocolate SlimFast in the break room and nobody likes the strawberry flavor, or somebody cracked out on Metabolife passes out in the bathroom and has to be wheeled out on a stretcher with a pressure bandage on a bleeding head wound. That kind of stuff. Of course, the cabbage soup diet had it’s own little difficulties (like if it’s one week on and one week off the soup, why can’t the whole office coordinate which week is on and which week is off, and why does it have to stink of boiled cabbage every day for months on end?!?!?!?!?! Yeah, I’m bitter.)

So, please, if you want to lose weight, could we please, please, please just try eating fewer calories, exercising a little more, drinking enough water and sleeping 8 hours a night? I know. I know. It’s insane. But really. It could work. And as far as I know, it has never caused a fist fight.

Not saving the date, as a matter of fact

2011-04-19T13:21:00.002-05:00

I’m kind of having trouble comprehending why I should care about Prince William and Kate Whats-her-butt’s wedding. Much less why some people seem to be borderline obsessed. Somebody actually asked me if I was going to get up to watch it on the live broadcast. Uhm, no. I’d decline an invitation from a close relative if they had the sauce to try to get me up early to attend their wedding (any relative of mine should know better). And while Wills and Kate seem like a lovely young couple, and I wish them all the happiness in the world, please, stop, enough already.

And buying royal wedding memorabilia? What? Really? It’s a damn good wedding favor that I keep from somebody I know’s wedding. (Bookmark with your names on it? No. Straight in the garbage. Two words, folks, Jordan and almonds. Everybody loves Jordan almonds. And after sitting through a boring-ass ceremony, I need the pick-me-up.) But to actually go out and purchase basically a wedding favor with the picture of two people (thought admittedly attractive people) whom I don’t know and won’t be making it to Westminster Abbey for their nuptials? Nah.

Sure, I get as much fun out of the doings of the rich and blue-blooded as the next person (or maybe somewhat less considering the penetration into the meme-stream this wedding currently has), but this event is a 5-page People spread, at best. Pretty much, flip, ooo, she went with McQueen, flip, oh, look, Elton John, flip, hello, Harry, you naughty ginger, flip, flip, flip, what’s Sandra Bullock up to?

I know it.

2011-04-18T10:50:00.002-05:00

http://www.salon.com/life/since_you_asked/2011/04/17/know_it_all_sister/index.html

Okay, this column from Since You Asked really hit a note with me. Not because I have to deal with know-it-alls. It’s because I am a recovering know-it-all. Yeah, I know. You’re shocked.

It’s something I’ve struggled with for years. I think I was in college when I realized the extent of the problem. How much it just really turns people off. I had this sort of out of body experience where I just kind of saw myself. And was truly appalled. I think I was a little tipsy at the time, and I tend to get that sort of two personality thing. One is the drunk girl, and one is the sober sister who can kind of see the nonsense but not do anything to stop it. And I was kind of freaked out to see how pushy I was with my mouth. And you know, once you notice something, you see it all the time. I was a k-i-a all the time. Yikes.

It happens. I’m naturally hyper-verbal. Damn close to being a verbal ninja. And I have this in-born need to absorb information, synthesize, then disseminate. It’s kind of who I am. College didn’t help either. As an English major, you’re taught to present your ideas confidently. Eliminate the “I thinks” and present your thesis assertively. If you don’t believe you, who else will? The example I always give is “I think you’re an asshole” doesn’t work nearly as well as “You’re an asshole.” Positive assertion. Which is fine when you’re presenting a thesis about the role of the fool in Shakespearean drama. Not so much when you’re just shooting the shit with friends.

So, I had to learn to shut up. I had to learn that I could learn from other people. That I could hear other opinions and just let them stand, whether I agree or not. If somebody uses the word forte incorrectly, I don’t actually have to correct them, and then give the linguistic reason why I’M RIGHT AND YOU’RE WRONG. Just shut up. And of course, then you start to take joy in listening to other people. There's a world of things you can learn with your mouth shut and your ears open. Of course, then I’m also going to want to take that information, synthesize and disseminate. But gently. Gently.

I’m always going to be recovering. Being a know-it-all is in my DNA. I might even be able to point, ahem, at some family members who have the same issue (in fact, play spin the bottle at a family reunion and you’re more likely than not going to hit one). But I try. Every day. Some days are better than others. But all you can do is try.

Catherine Zeta-Jones has a bigger set than Charlie Sheen

2011-04-14T17:28:00.003-05:00

I’m going to take advantage of the Catherine Zeta-Jones thing to take another whack at Charlie Sheen. Why not?

The first thing I thought when they reported that she’d checked herself into a treatment center for a check-up on her bipolar II was “good for you, honey.” There is no shame in having bipolar. And in fact, being honest and proactive about your treatment is to be admired. CZ-J is obviously someone who can handle her shit. I don’t particularly care for her acting, but for this alone she may be my second favorite hyphenated Brit.

Compare this with Charlie Sheen, the Old Man River of De-Nile. He seems to have an allergy to handling his shit. And doesn’t he seem pretty bipolar? He stops self-medicating and goes straight up manic. I’d be willing to bet that there’s a big ass depression lurking in his very near future, if he stays off the coke. And doesn’t own his drama. Topamax. It's not as fun at a party as coke, but it's legal. And, unlike coke, it will actually keep you from acting a fool.

Frankly, I have two words for him – Randy and Quaid. If Sheen doesn’t watch himself, he could end up in Canada freaking because he thinks the men in black are using his toothbrush to control his thoughts. And that, my friends, is a violent torpedo of truth.

Release the Crackin'!

2011-04-13T16:11:00.001-05:00

I’m kind of two minds on the story about the school in Chicago banning sack lunches. On the one hand, it really does get to the heart of the nanny mentality out there. A parent has the right to feed a child however they deem appropriate for their economic and health needs. Sure. Absolutely. Personal freedom. I’m for it.

On the other hand . . .

Some parents pack caffeine and sugar loaded lunches that are in colors not found in nature and jacked to the rafters with preservatives and additives. And then expect teachers to handle a kid spinning like the Tasmanian Devil in the middle of class by 1:30. Given the information that’s coming out about kids with ADHD and food allergies, and the latest about the FDA re-opening the case on food coloring and behavioral problems, it’s not surprising that educators want to be on the leading edge of the diet and behavior issue. I mean, it’s one thing to feed your kid something that could send them over the edge when they’re at home. It’s a whole other thing to feed them the food equivalent of crack and send them on their merry way when you aren’t going to be there to deal with the fallout. Teachers have enough to handle. Pumping them up on Fruity Tooties and Jitter Bits and then saying “here you deal with them” is just dirty pool.

But this is just one of those instances of neither side being willing to bend. The school should have tried a little bit more of leadership and education (hmmm, education . . .), and the parents should have not reacted with “You’re not the boss of me!!” The school could have said, “This is what we’re dealing with. We think these things would help. Pack a nutritious lunch. If you can’t pack a nutritious lunch, we will guarantee you that you child can have one at school. And we hope that this will lead to a better environment for learning.” And then, if things didn’t improve, then maybe drop the hammer. But, really. It’s called compromise. It usually works really, really well.

With Nails and I

2011-04-12T15:38:00.001-05:00

Okay, the J. Crew toenail polish thing.

If you haven’t seen it, evidently some people are wigging about a J. Crew ad that’s got a little pictorial that involves a mom painting her small son’s toenails hot pink. Evidently, they think that’s how you get the gay. Or the transgender. Or something.

Here’s what I’d like to ask the people who are freaking out - So, what you’re telling me is that if your mother had slapped some OPI “I’m India Mood” on your tootsies, you would have turned out a drag queen? A little high-gloss acrylic would have irrevocably flipped your switch and you’d be a screaming queen? Really? Really? Really? Is there something you’re trying to tell us?

Cause my Moms basically let me dress like a boy for my entire 4th grade year, and I still likes the mens. Okay, I’ll admit I still get a little bit of ya-yas from rocking the Annie Hall look (cause I look fierce as hell in it), but that’s about as non-gender normative as I get these days. And, oh, by the way, I’m secure in my sexuality. I don’t have to worry that gay is communicable. I know who I am. How about you? Really, what kind of horrible, scary place do you think the world is that something as simple as a little nail polish could radically change your identity? Get a grip.

Of course this coming from a gal who has a documented taste for boys in guy-liner. And an slight obsession with one Mr. James Franco. Hubba hubba. But really, a little pink nail polish on a boy’s toes? If he’s gay or trans, it’s because he was long before the pink touched his toes. And if he’s straight, someday he’s going to be a secure, confident man who will make some lucky girl very happy someday. Not the least of which is because he understands what it takes to do a good pedicure.

And, geez! Get a grip.

Duckie FTW

2011-04-07T12:43:00.002-05:00

Okay, as the Charlie Sheen cataclysm roils and spews (latest: he basically killed his dog and bombed like atomic napalm in Detroit), I’d like to redirect attention for the moment to – the normal guy.

John Cryer. Gawd bless him. Calmly went about his business as basically the third banana behind Sheen and the half man on Two and a Half Men. But nobody appreciates the straight man, right? Then after the ‘splosion, he stayed firmly on the high road. And when the Sheen slime got splashed on him, he defended himself with grace and humor (his troll bit on Conan was funny without being on the offensive, good for him), and then calmly went about his business.

So, what has he been doing with his time off? Challenging himself by taking a roll in the crazy talented cast of the concert version of Company with the New York Philharmonic, that's what. He’s singing with Patti Lupone. That’s one ballsy boy. Kind of makes the Violent Torpedo of Truth look a little tame. And lame.

So, Jon Cryer, I salute you. You were once again upstage by an alcoholic, and stayed a normal guy. I hope you rock the hell out of the stage at the NY Phil. And finally that Hollywood will find something appropriate that will appreciate your talent. Your Try Some Tenderness still gets me. And I still think Andi was a fool. You deserve to finish last, my friend.

La Dolve Vita

2011-04-07T11:45:00.001-05:00

I wonder so much if we’re going to change as a society when we realize that all the things that make us think we’ve got a “good life” are really screwing us up. Like “I’d be living the good life if I could afford a Birkin bag and a Mercedes.” Okay, you spent so much time working to afford that bag that you didn’t have any time to spend with your friends and family. And driving around in that Mercedes is costing you a fortune in gas and insurance (more work) and putting pollutants in the air and heat in the environment and . . . is this really what good is?

And even something like “Eat Pray Love” which takes really simple concepts and turns them into a consumerist commodity. You do not have to spend thousands of dollars to go on a dream vacation to discover good food, spirituality and human connection. You could do all that by going to your community garden – eat the tomato you grew yourself, pray that there’s enough rain and learn to do something really, really nuts like learning to love your neighbor. Okay, your neighbor is probably not Javier Bardem. So maybe you just like your neighbor. What a concept.

I guess what I’m saying is that any time somebody is trying to sell you something that will make you happy, stop. Think. They are trying to sell you something. It’s coming from outside of you. It’s a trick! You and I both know that happiness doesn’t come from outside. How do we keep forgetting? I’m not going Luddite, anti-consumerist, long-haired, hippie freak. Some of that shit you can buy is cool as hell. Cool is fun. Fun is not happy. We shouldn’t tie ourselves in knots for fun. We shouldn’t work ourselves to death trying to buy happy. You can’t buy the good life. You can only live the good life.

We love you, Miss Hannigan!

2011-04-06T15:56:00.001-05:00

So, I’m sort of into Kickstarter.

Background is that the Texas legislature pretty much gutted the funding for the Texas Council for the Arts. Way bummer. Kind of. I know it would seem like I’d be the kind of person who would be really pissed off that we can bankroll things like the Super Bowl, but not scrape up some change for arts in this damn state. The elitist, espresso-sipping, ur-snob side of my personality should be totally bent. Maybe the proletarian, tequila-swilling barbarian side too.

But, to be honest, I’ve always been a little ambivalent about government money in the arts. He who pays the piper calls the tune, and all that. And given the watered down, stand-for-nothing, politically correct wankers that populate the government from city hall to Capitol Hill, the tune they will pay for is probably from Kenny G.’s greatest hits. Not that there’s not a place for the mainstream, but in the interests of artisitic integrity and freedom of expression, I believe that, by and large, art should be independent, grass-roots and responsible to no one but its creator’s vision.

Aaaaaand, I step off my soapbox.

Anyhoodle, I found Kickstarter. It’s this website where you can find creative projects that need funding. Anything from somebody who needs start up funds to get an invention off the ground to someone who is trying to fund an independent film. Kinda cool. You’re not going to get a cut if they succeed. But it’s a way to directly give your charitable donations (if they’re earmarked for the arts the way mine are) to somebody’s dream project that you’d like to help happen. It’s not like I could bankroll a mural or a play on my own. But my $5 plus somebody else’s $5 plus somebody else’s . . . Things can happen.

So today was my favorite Kickstarter moment, probably forever. A bunch of elementary school kids from Dallas need $500 to put on a production of Annie. Awesome. I looked at what they needed to make their goal and thought “I can do that.” So I dropped them some dough (not a lot, I’m not a Rockefeller), and put the munchkins over the top. Hell, yeah. That felt good! I’m imagining a class full of kids boogeying down because they gonna put on a show. Who knows? Maybe there’s some little budding Carol Burnett who will look back on this moment when she got to play Miss Hannigan as the moment it all started.

And if there are about 2 dozen kids who will be driving every adult in their life compeletely bananas for the next 2 months by singing The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow nonstop . . . oh, geez. Even better!

Wake up before you go-go 80s

2011-04-05T09:57:00.004-05:00

Okay, here's a fashion tip - The 80s are back, but they're not THAT back. If you're rocking your Me Decade fashion and you were suddenly transported back in time to - say a Duran Duran concert and no one could tell that you came from the future, then you are doing it wrong.

If you are sitting on top of a mountain of neon over-sized t-shirts, shorty running shorts, Dynasty-era bejewelled sweater dresses, jelly shoes and hot pink lipstick, just waiting for the day that it all comes back - stop. Keep key pieces. Anything well-made, in good condition, with interesting design elements that hark back to a specific era. But not the excesses of that era. For instance, for an 80s look, say yes to a bold shoulder. Say no to 2-inch shoulder pads with a puff sleeve. If you have to turn sideways to get through a door, it's time to throttle back, Maverick. And, given all that, you can wear it one pieced at a time. One.

And yes, this is coming up because I saw it this morning. The epic, head-to-toe 80s look. The hair, moussed. The eyeshadow, purple (with purple mascara - I didn't even know they still made purple mascara). The shoulders, wiiiiiiidddddeee. With leggings and pointy-toed flats. If it was a costume party, she'd a won. But no. Just headed to work. I get the feeling that this gal has just been sitting on a pile of this stuff, waving a fist in the air, "You'll see! You'll all see! It will come back! And I'll be ready!!"

Yes, honey. You're right. It did come back. But there was a catch. It's been "updated". That's how they get you. And the other thing I always say is, if you wore it as a teenager the first time it came around, you're probably too old to wear it by the time it comes back. Fashion never stops, and neither does the clock.

Elephant Feathers

2011-03-31T12:12:00.001-05:00

I’m just going to acknowledge how many things in my life are elephant feathers. You know like the magic feather that Timothy Mouse gives Dumbo so that he believes he can fly? The feather does nothing, really. But it does let Dumbo get along with the business of flying. I’ve got feathers that logically I know aren’t really going to get me up in the air. But they let me ignore the anxiety of everyday living enough that I can get through this thing we call life.

Like my CoQ10 pill. I was kind of hit or miss on taking it. The science isn’t really all that convincing on antioxidants as a whole, or CoQ10 in particular. But it kind of sounded like a good idea, so I’d pop one every now and then. Then I read an article on a scientist who is developing an antioxidant protocol for people getting radiation from CT scans. The logic behind it is that people who are getting radiation treatments for things like breast cancer are told not to take antioxidants because they interfere with the effectiveness of the radiation. Bad when you’re tyring to kill a tumor. But, hey wait! Could be good if you’re trying to dampen radiation you don’t want. So my little anxiety ridden brain jumps a step further to “Where else might I be getting radiation from that I don’t want? Japan.”

Okay, I know that sitting in the middle of Texas, radiation contamination from Japan isn’t an immediate concern. All sorts of science dudes have assured me of this. I’m fine. Well, no, I’m not fine because it has freaked my contamination anxieties right off the charts. I know I’m not supposed to be spinning about Japan radiation. But I am. Probably the result of too many Godzilla movies in my childhood.

But then I read about the antioxidants. And now taking my little CoQ10 pill at lunch everyday makes me feel safe and happy. Like my own little feather. Is it the right kind of antioxidant? Probably not. Is it a magic pill that will prevent me from growing scales and attacking Tokyo? Also probably not. It’s a bit of magical thinking that won’t kill me. I’m fine with that.

Kiss-Kiss-No-No-Bang-Bang

2011-03-24T11:38:00.000-05:00

There’s an article in Time this week (http://healthland.time.com/2011/03/22/the-cranky-dieter-explained-self-control-makes-you-angry/) about how dieting makes people cranky. Turns out it’s not just a sugar crash that makes people pissy when they are on a diet (and if you’ve never worked in an office where half your co-workers are on the Atkins, thank your lucky stars), it’s that you’ve told yourself no more often. Seems that exercising self-control bugs people. A lot. Kind of one of those, if it was a snake it would have bit me observations.

And I can’t stop thinking about it. Do you suppose people getting angry easily because they’re practicing self-denial explains Islamic extremism? I know it’s a jump. But go with me on this. Islam is a deeply, deeply no-no religion. They have food restrictions. They have sexual restrictions (big time). They have social restrictions. Every time they turn around there’s some rule they’re butting up against. And the more fundamentalist you get, the more hemmed in you get. Women are burkahed to death. But men get it too. If you go by the statistics on how many times the average man thinks of sex a day, and some Islamic sects say a man isn’t really even supposed to have impure thoughts, that’s telling yourself no about every minute and half. Gah. I’d be pretty pissy too. That’s not including the rest of the day – gee, I’m tired, I don’t feel like praying for the 4th time today – NO – gee, I’d like to have political self-determination instead of deferring to the ruling of a mulla – NO. Damn, that ham sandwich looks good – NO.

And not just Islam. Back during the Troubles, the Irish, as a bunch, were some hardcore Catholics. Not just regular Catholicism. Like voodoo Catholics. Lots of no-nos. Then they started throttling back with the rest of the Catholic world, and suddenly, no more car bombs. Huh. Go figure. David Koresh and Waco. And I can tell you, back in the day, there were any number of extreme fundamentalist sects in the deserts of Arizona who loved them some guns and Jesus. Timothy McVeigh came out of those wilds.

As usual, I’m no social scientist. Just a blogside philosopher. But it makes a peculiar kind of sense. Kind of puts going to hell in a completely different handbasket.

Suit up!

2011-03-23T11:06:00.004-05:00

Would somebody mind explaining to me $390 for a bathing suit?

I’ve been a subscriber for years to Daily Candy’s newsletters. I’m not a trendy person, but I do like to stay informed on what’s going on in fashion, food, entertainment, etc. Just for giggles. Truly giggles. The prices on some of the things they consider “essentials” (as in the essential for spring, not as is air) can be a teensy bit appalling. But they sometimes venture out of the Land of Conspicuous Consumption to give a heads up on something nifty, new and not the cost of sending a kid to Yale, and I appreciate them throwing the proles a bone.

But today I’m looking at their sneak peek at bathing suit season. There’s this cute little pink number. Not too high cut in the legs. Not too low cut at the top. Righteous color. I’m thinking . . . holy catz. $390? Say what? For a bathing suit?

I mean, what is the excuse for paying $390 for a bathing suit? You’re going to the local pool where you will spend 90% of your time in water up to your chin, 9% under a cover up and 1% in transition between the water and the cover up? You’re going on a stellar vacation and want to look great in front of people you don’t know and will never see again? You want to attract a man? Sister, there’s one key to attracting a man – show up naked – and the beach is one place where it is socially acceptable to get really close to that in public without violating city ordinances. Anything you spend that is more fabric than 2 eye patches and a bandage held together with dental floss is a waste of your hard earned dough.

Admittedly, I’m a skinflint of the old order. I would be hard-pressed to pay $390 for a new kidney without haggling a little bit (can’t fault a girl for trying). And even I might pay $100 for a really spectacular bathing suit for a once in a lifetime vacation. But we’re talking really frigging spectacular. Like a bathing suit that gives me an instant boob job, tummy tuck and butt lift and makes me not look fish belly white spec-tac-u-lar.

And I do realize that anything in the $400 ballpark is probably very much a mid-range in this department. Slap a Versace logo on this suit and the price probably goes to $1,200. But come on. It’s a pretty piece of Spandex. Not the Shroud of Turin. Though, actually. That might make a really interesting one-piece. I probably would pay $390 for that.

Twit my Dad says

2011-03-22T10:41:00.002-05:00

It was one of those conversations. My Dad asked me to explain Twitter. We were all over at T’s house having dinner. And he asked me, “So, what exactly is Twitter?” Now my Dad is a hardcore OG when it comes to tech. He worked with computers when they were the size of rooms. He bought us a TI-99 computer that we thought was really cool because we could program a picture that looked like this:

* *
-
\____/

Stone Age emoticons. And it took a s***load of programming to do it. Dad is no slouch when it comes to tech. But he just barely does Facebook. And that’s really only when I e-mail him to log-in to see new pictures of his grandkids.

So, this Twitter thing? And the more I talked the more insane I realized the whole thing sounded. I’m not a Tweeter, but I kind of get the concept. So, I tried to explain the followers, and the tweets, and the hash tags and all that it was great if you wanted to quickly share information with people about a topic or an event (#cheapgrub free tacos at Torchy’s!). And the more I talk the more he’s just shaking his head. He didn’t say it. But I could tell he was thinking, “Who cares?”

Maybe I should have explained it in a way that he, a senior citizen guy, would understand. You could have a hash tags for stuff retired men dig: #stuffOGslike coffee @Jackinthebox is da bomb. #kickinitoldschool rockin the plaid fishing hat today. #bassproshop sale on lures! #rvliving if the trailers a rockin LOL.

Inside Austin City Limits

2011-03-14T17:20:00.000-05:00

Thursday night I was down in Austin, making a side trip to visit our friend Momo in her new home city. I’ve always said, either you’re an Austin person, or your not. For me, it’s a good place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. For Mo, it’s just the right kind of crazy.

Think of New York on Xanax. It’s the same kind of intensity, just at a slower pace. Or maybe Los Angeles with a twang, given the amount entertainment focus they have (the SXSW film fest was starting up Thursday night, and Austin City Limits will be in the fall). And maybe even Seattle with sun, given the fervor for “alternative – buy local – go green” you’ll find. And I even found myself walking the 6th Street club scene thinking of Bourbon Street without the lingering scent of pee and vomit.

Drivers are their own kind of thing down there. About 90% are kamikaze drivers, barreling through intersections, changing lanes with abandon and giving only moderate consideration to the laws of physics let alone the traffic code. The other 10% are Midwest friendly, waving at you from the other side of the 4-way stop – “No, you go!” And you can never be sure which is coming towards you, but you should be ready to dodge either way.

You gotta love Austin food. Fussy doesn’t really cut it. Foods that can be wrapped in a tortilla or smoked over pecan wood take precedence. And a brisket taco is pretty much alpha and omega of Austin food. Especially if you can get it from one of the food trucks that have taken over downtown in the last couple of years. The only thing I was really missing as we wandered around 6th Street was a donut truck. Trust me, Austin. Hot, fresh doughnuts straight out of the fryer would be killer when you’ve had too much to drink. You’ll make a fortune. Nothing soaks up beer like fried bread.

But if you go to Austin, be sure you know somebody. Because the only way you’ll really know what’s going on is if you know a guy, who knows a guy, who dates this girl, who used to be in a band with some other girl. Because that girl is going to be the one who’s been to the newest place, with the hottest band and the coolest scene. Facebook’s got nothing on the Austin social network. By the time the newest place has made it into a newspaper, or god-forbid a guide book, everybody is on to someplace else.

And if you’re either an Austin person or not an Austin person, Mo is definitely an Austin person. She’s already the girl who knows where to go for a good time. Thanks for the hospitality, Austin Girl.

Point Taken

2011-03-09T13:01:00.001-06:00

Okay, I’ve devolved to the level of point grubbing. You know that thing where they track points for the shows I volunteer for at the Performing Arts Center? You get a few perqs for volunteering so many shows: priority scheduling, show tickets. I was never going to get to the highest level. 100 shows in a year? Maybe if I was retired. Maybe. But I am homing in on 40. And two of my shows didn’t show up on my point tally. And it was making me nuts. So nuts that I actually e-mailed the volunteer coordinator and pestered her for them. I’m so embarrassed.

Cause that’s really not how I want to see myself. At all. I really want to be this “Oh, whatever. It’s for a good cause. Que sera.” kind of person who just let’s the points fall where they may, and basks in the glow of a good deed done. It’s volunteerism. I'm above all that.

But the fact that there are levels, and I could get to another level, and they’re not giving my points – aaaarrrrrrggghhhh! It’s just turning me into a person I don’t want to be. Part of it is the goal oriented thing. And part is the priority scheduling. I can get in a day ahead of most other people? Sweet! I luv being first. And Rock of Ages is coming, and dammit, I want opening night! Gimmee my points! Gimmee gimmee gimmee!

See? It happened again. Seriously. I don’t want to be that girl. Because, really, it’s for a good cause. And the perqs aren’t the point. Really they aren’t. But here I am. Petting my point total like Golem at Tiffany’s. Honestly. I can’t even look myself in the eye.

How can we sleep while our beds are burning?

2011-03-07T14:48:00.000-06:00

The more people talk about radicalized Muslims (especially with what’s going on in the Middle East), the more I think “Yeah, you better hope they stay Muslims. Cause if they ever get a load of communism, you can kiss your sweet gas good-bye.” Either they’ll find away around that “religion is the opiate of the people” clause, or they’ll come up with some sort of Mohammadan/Marxist hybrid. And if conservatives think they hate Islam as much as they hate communism, they’re going to freak over those two great tastes in one.

Really, it’s kind of a recipe for a Marxist revolution more than an American one. While there was economic inequality between the Colonies and England, the worst of the excesses of the rich took place far from the Founding Fathers. It’s one thing to know that your labor is keeping the fat cats fat in a land far away. It’s another to have your face rubbed in it every day. Which is very much what the OPEC countries have had going on for decades. A very few have benefited greatly, and, in my humble opinion, used a false dedication to Islam as a red herring to keep the proles in line. If a lot of those same young men who are putting so much effort into reading the Koran started parsing the Communist Manifesto or a certain little red book, they might find just as much to inspire their fiery devotion.

Because when the huddled masses do rebel (France, Russia, China, Cuba), it becomes just as much about making sure the rich have less as it is about the poor having more. Bloody revolution.

Once upon a time, it would have been Russia being a communist state that would have turned those Islamic firebrands against the idea of going red. If there’s anyone they’d like to blow to smithereens as much as the US, it’s the Russia. But the Ruskies went capitalist, so that’s out. And, given how Sharia works, obviously a totalitarian state is not a turnoff. So, people better hope that the majority in the Middle East keeps believing that there is only one God and his name is Allah. If they go commie, we’ll never see another drop of oil out of the Gulf again.

Charlie Sheen's Heart of Darkness

2011-03-02T12:41:00.002-06:00

There are a few things I’d like to get straight about the whole Charlie “Deepwater Horizon” Sheen environmental disaster.

This is not the tragic loss of a great screen actor. He’s always been fair to middling. He topped out working with Oliver Stone, and has been skating by on personality ever since. He’s lazy. He might have been a good actor, but he doesn’t put in the effort. His most indelible character has been a womanizing, semi-drunk actor – named Charlie! It’s not a stretch.
The character Charlie is a fun uncle who has paraded a string of bimbos through his nephew’s life, and eventually started dating a smart, competent woman. The real Charlie is a father who has paraded a string of bimbos through his children's lives, and the smartest woman he’s dated in that span has been Denise Richards, and he now lives with a porn actresses and a fetish model.
The Middle East. It’s still happening.
Rehab only works if you’re willing to admit your brain is fucked up, and are willing to surrender to the process and let someone else advise you (either 12 stepping it, or a sober living coach, or a trained medical professional) until such time as your brain is healed enough that you are capable of making decisions on your own. Being an arrogant ass is an impediment to the process.
Of course you don’t think you’re manic depressive. You take coke when you’re down and booze when you’re up. It’s called self medicating. Now that you’re clean, you’re brain isn’t able to cope and you are spinning like pinwheel in a hurricane.
I didn’t miss the Chaim Levine thing. On the naughty chair with Galliano!

Inside the bubble, no on can hear you rave

2011-03-01T16:40:00.002-06:00

You know, the run of celebrities saying junk in public (Galliano, who loves Hitler; Sheen who is a high priest, Vatican assassin warlock; and Everybody Loves Muammar Gadafi), you just start to wonder how really, really, seriously thick the celebrity bubble is.

Cause, you and me, even if we did love Hitler, and we don’t, we’d have enough common sense to know that there aren’t too many rooms in the Western world where that particular statement plays. You should pick your crowd if you’re gonna blow anti-Semitic (and you shouldn't). Not while pawing a female cop in Malibu, and not while in a restaurant in Paris. It will get out.

Not that I’ve never been drunk and heard my mouth saying things that my brain did not authorize. But that’s more like telling somebody I work with that they have really pretty eyes (or something, you know, not that I would have said anything embarrassing like that, or started crying immediately after). And even if I loved Hitler (which I DON’T), I could down a bottle of Jack and still keep a lid on that bad boy in front of strangers. It’s a conditioned response. You keep the crazy on the inside unless you’re around people who love you and would go to their grave with their mouths zipped about your crazy.

But, if you’re lucky, you have 2 or maybe 3 of those people who guard your crazy secrets. Evidently, there were enough people keeping Galliano’s psychobabble on the down low inside his celebribubble that he thought everybody would just not mention the Hitler thing if he got soused and blurted it out. Same with Sheen. How many people have been standing between him and TMZ for so long that he no longer can tell which things should not be said in the outside voice?

I guess the lesson is not to get so hammered, or smoke so much Charlie Sheen, or well, I don’t know what Gadafi’s excuse is that you don’t know when you are inside your bubble or not. Especially when you’re at an office Christmas party, drinking tequila sunrises and talking to a co-worker with really pretty eyes. Seriously. Cause once the tequila starts talking, you can’t whistle that stuff back. Even if it doesn’t end up on TMZ.

That's my girl!

2011-02-27T21:42:00.003-06:00

Wooooo! That's the stuff!

Wo-oh, Domino

2011-02-23T12:19:00.002-06:00

http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_thelookout/20110223/us_yblog_thelookout/dominos-delivery-driver-comes-to-the-rescue-of-elderly-daily-customer

Okay, what really bothers me about this story is the comment section. Okay, I’m partially bothered that this poor lady only had the pizza delivery gal to look out for her (scary thought to add to my single woman’s closet of fears, along with slipping in the shower and nobody noticing until the $3,000 water bill comes due). But the part that honks me off is the really judgmental crap that gets thrown around down in the comments about this lady’s diet.

Number One: She’s 82. Leave her the eff alone.

Number Two: If I could eat pizza every day, I would. She’s hit octogenarian status and whatever deals she’s made with the nutrition gods have obviously worked for her. Frankly, she's my hero. Maybe at 82, she might be running marathons if she was eating sprouted wheat and beet juice. Or maybe she might have dropped dead at 62. Every body is different. And unless you’ve walked a mile in nana’s housecoat, you have no basis for judgment. Personally, I hope she’s spiking those Cokes with a bottle of Jack and having a Marlboro for dessert. And giving those nay saying buzzards the finger.

Number Three: She’s 82. Leave her the eff alone.

Wedding Bell Blues

2011-02-22T10:59:00.001-06:00

I was watching Cedar Rapids yesterday, and I kind of realized that this may be the kind of movie that saves the romantic comedy. Okay, before I lose you on this, let me say that even though it’s got a male lead character and is essentially a gross-out comedy, this movie is about a guy looking for love. That’s pretty much the basic formula. And rom-coms, in my opinion, have gotten too concerned with a generic pretty girl scrambling for the happily-ever-after wedding bells ending. Romance is matters of the heart. And sometimes in romance, your heart gets broken and you don’t end up with the ring and a church booked for June. And that’s not necessarily a tragedy. My life goes to show, it can sometimes be pretty damn funny.

In Cedar Rapids, the main character (**Spoiler Alert**), Tim Lippe does not actually end up with a ring on the all important finger, which he very much wanted, or even the love of his life, unless you count his bromance with the John C. Reilly character. And I guess you could. So if he doesn’t end up with that happily-every-after wedding, what does he get that you’d want out of a new kind of rom-com? He’s happier, stronger, wiser and there’s more love in his life, even if it comes from friends. I think that’s a great ending for any main character in a romantic comedy. Remember, Holly Hunter doesn’t end up with James Brooks or William Hurt in Broadcast News, and that was a high-water mark in the romantic-comedy genre.

So what do we get if writers give up the idea that it doesn’t necessarily have to end up in the Vera Want and the Chapel of Love? And we give up the old “comedies end in marriage, tragedies end in death” trope. Certainly more skin in the game. You won’t necessarily know that it’s going to end the same way every time. How’s that for a concept? Sure, we want our hero/ine to end up happier that before. But if there are many definitions about what could make a man or woman happy, there’s a world of possibilities of where a romantic comedy could go. And in a genre that has become all too stale, that would be a breath of fresh air.

Gravelled Paradise

2011-02-18T10:11:00.001-06:00

As I walked into work this morning, I passed the little plaza in front of our doors. It’s got these trees that grow out of little squares in the concrete. Most of the year the trees are surrounded by plantings of lily grass (I know this because they left one of those little sticks with the name on it in the bed, not because of any plant knowledge on my part). But in the spring, there are these amazing hyacinth’s that spring up overnight, and for about a week, there is this incredible, incredible, a million times incredible smell of sweetness as I leave the office in the evening. In an area that is usually significant in smell only for the smokers that are congregated there, for this little window of time, there is this, I’ll say it, magic. Tiny flowers with super powers to change the ordinary into something that is purely delight.

And I passed those beds this morning, thinking that it has been warm for a few days, and that usually means that you’ll see a few shoots peaking out, and soon, soon, the promise of soon.

And then I put it together that the gravel that they had filled those beds around the trees, which looks perfectly “nice” and serviceable and, I’m sure, quite economical, means no more hyacinths.

And today that makes me quite sad.

Flawless

2011-02-16T14:42:00.002-06:00

In spite of the backlash of being too Brit and too soft on Nazis, I’m going to bet that The King’s Speech will win for Best Picture at the Oscars. Personally, I thought it was rather bold (in a very polite, British way) in fingering Edward’s Nazis leanings, and in being a wanker, both literal and figurative. Plus, there’s no such thing as too Brit for me. I just damn well liked TKS all the way around. It wasn’t my favorite movie of 2010, which is going to go down as Winter’s Bone (also nominated, and less of a dark horse than a black hole horse) which was flawed but beautiful.

And that flawed thing is why The King’s Speech will win. It was virtually flawless as far as filmmaking. The story was solid. Perfectly, if leisurely, paced. No logical wholes that you had to be glossed over. The characters were uniformly strong. All recognizable as human beings, with small nuances for even the smallest speaking parts. The actors nailed it. Not one lazy portrayal. The technical aspects were all spot on: sound, photography, costuming, sets. Not one thing to take you out of the enjoyment of the story.

And it was an old fashioned story. Straight up, humble heroism. Loyalty. Overcoming adversity (even if you are a royal). People eat that shit up.

Overall, it was the only movie of the year where I didn’t walk out of the theater (twice, I saw it twice) thinking “If only”. Change this, tweak that. There are perfectly good movies out there that you enjoy, like, love, would recommend to a friend, but think one actor really stunk the place up, or the cinematography was boring (Winter’s Bone), or the story just punked out at the end, but they make up for it with a double-helix plot twist, or crazy creative art direction, or an inspired performance, or even just a damn good soundtrack. Beautiful but flawed. The King’s Speech had none of that. Classic moviemaking. And if the Academy of Motion Pictures has any integrity, they’ll hold it up as an example of the way to do it right.

And I just really want to see Helena Bonham Carter in the kiss-and-cry room.

Sneaky little bastard

2011-02-14T14:32:00.001-06:00

Okay, so I’m wandering towards the train this morning thinking about how I don’t have any idea what to do for Lent this year. Nothing really grabbing me. I’m about maxed out on my diet tinkering. Those are usually the easiest to do. Philosophically, I’m usually looking for something that may or may not be a permanent change, but that I would like to test out. The New Years resolutions are usually things that I’m sure about. Lent is more of a toe-in-the-water sort of thing. You can do just about anything for that length of time.

So, I’m thinking, “Something new. Something that I wouldn’t normally do. Something good for me. Like, oh, I don’t know, exercise or . . . oh, crap.” That’s exactly what I should do. Because I don’t want to. But I should. I despise exercise. Which is exactly why it is one of the bigger holes in my get healthy plan. The minute I thought “exercise” my whole body seized up with dread. So, of course. That’s it.

Crap.

Just a pinch of "Arsenic"

2011-02-14T12:18:00.002-06:00

Okay, so I booked 2 shows to usher for the weekend. The previously mentioned second dose of Arsenic and Old Lace and Romeo & Juliet at the Opera. I’ll start with R & J. First of all, yawn. And then . . . no actually, yawn will pretty much cover it. Three and a half hours, people! I nearly sprained a muscle with that much yawning. I coulda been catching flies.

On to AOL. As I suspected, things were much more shipshape on Friday. Nearly all the little rough patches were smoothed out. So what you were left with was like one of those little old-fashioned tin clockwork toys where individual bits whir and spin in (near) perfect timing, each charming in their own right and pretty much fascinating when moving in concert. Old-fashioned seems to be the right word altogether. Most of the performances could have been plucked right out of a 40s movie. It was refreshingly un-ironic, in a way that most theater companies seem to think of themselves as too much of the cool kids to do anymore.

To start with, the set is like a giant dollhouse, where you are looking at the exterior of this Victorian two-story, complete with gingerbread and slate shingles. And then it spins to the inside of the Brewster home. Enough tzotchkes to make a Jewish nana swoon. Stairs, hidden doors, the window seat (with dead bodies). Then the costumes were all spot-on. My guess would be that they were nearly all done for the show, or tailored for the actor. There was one of the cops who had an astonishing bubble butt that was very nearly disguised by a cleverly cut jacket and pair of pants. The Brewster sisters’ funeral outfits were simply gasp worthy. Jet beading. Lace. Devoré. Sigh. Modern clothing is such a bore.

Betty Buckley and Tovah Feldshuh as the sisters were just a scream. Sweetly tolerant of their nephews’ eccentricities – one thinks he’s Teddy Roosevelt, one has a sadly déclassé connection with the tawdry theater (tut tut), and one looks like Boris Karloff and likes to torture small animals, including his brother. They bear up admirably, and manage to still keep their little hobbies like donating toys to the needing, delivering beef broth to the sickly, and knocking off lonely, little old men, in the most benevolent manner possible, of course. These gals are dotty like a fox. And it’s kind of nice to see a pair of actresses having a great time just going balls to the wall with the crazy old aunt thing.

The one person I really had concerns about going in was the guy playing Mortimer. The movie version was one of the roles that Cary Grant was known for. And this guy is no Cary Grant. Who is? (Okay, maybe George Clooney on a good day. But that’s about it. And he doesn’t play Dallas all that often.) And, unfortunately, the person who takes up one of those iconic roles usually ends up standing in that giant Cary Grant shaped hole, trying to take up as much space as possible. What actually happened this time was that the actor rather pleasantly reminded me more of Jimmy Stewart (shout out to Philadelphia Story!). Totally worked.

Overall, the whole show is a kick in the pants. Top drawer. And if they got that spider picture shimmed on the second story landing so that it didn’t glare, I’d have been tempted to give it an A+. But points off for making me squint. Solid A, nonetheless.

Your Humble Servant, Ma'am

2011-02-10T13:13:00.002-06:00

Well, I ushered for the Dallas Theater Center production of Arsenic and Old Lace on Sunday. Somehow, I double-booked myself a second shift on Friday, so I’ll wait until next week to tell ya about it. Sunday was a little rough, and my guess would be because of lack of run-through time because of all the damn snow last week. We’ll see if the engine is idling more smoothly tomorrow. Just to be fair. I can report in advance that the sets and costumes are quite incroyable right from jump street. But more on that later.

Anyway, the thing that had me giggling on Sunday was this one patron who ran up the aisle at me just as the lights started to dim, holding her blackberry like it was a live hand grenade. I do my humble servant bit and ask if I can help. She tells me, with a look that only be called aghast, that her phone battery died before she could officially shut it off. She asks me if a call can still come in its current semi-defunct state. I’m about to say “Oh, you’re probably safe” when I realize the terrified look on her face is because she’s afraid of her phone going off in the middle of some big moment, and the theme from Sex & The City interrupting Betty Buckley (yeah, the Betty Buckley, recognize, bitches) who swoops down into the audience and goes all Patti Lupone on her ass. I’m sure the prospect of getting an Anderson Cooper Cairo Beatdown in the middle of the Kalita Humpries Theater by a genuine Broadway diva was enough to scare the poop out of the poor woman, and “probably safe” wasn’t gonna cut it. I bravely threw myself on the grenade and sat in the back of the theater with the cell covered with a handy blanket (I didn’t want to have Ms. Buckley lupone me either, better safe). Anywhoodle. I was able to assure her after the final bows that her little one had been quiet as a mouse, and no problem at all to babysit. We, the few, the proud, the valorous volunteers in vests.

Your little fat, naked dude of love

2011-02-09T13:37:00.003-06:00

You know, as a bit of counterprogramming to the endless champagne/perfume/car/diamond/ mortgage-your-soul-and-your-children’s-future commercials that are out there as a run-up to Valentines Day, I’d like to break my track record of pointedly ignoring St. Valentine and give a little buying advice. Truly, if your hunny bunny doesn’t believe it’s the thought that counts, you need to rethink the bestowal of your affections.

One way to go is, of course, spend a lot of time thinking about the beloves of your beloved, and then find some way to cleverly deliver on their secret wants and desires. I had a friend who, while she and her boyfriend were starving students, was a huge Doors fan. Her fella gave her a box of matches with the note “Come on, baby, light my fire.” Nice, right? Alright, cheesy too. But, cheese is the food of love on Valentine’s. And the matches probably came in handy considering their love of nag champa incense. Sweet, smart and practical. She married that guy.

But, really, it takes a lot of effort to come up with something like that. And no, you can’t just go out and do the same (unless you’re in love with a Doors fan, then rock n roll). My personal advice would be to go out and buy your snookums a big ass bag of Heath Bars. No, they’re not a box of Jacques Torres. Which, while flattering, will set ya back. And the response to a bag of top drawer chockies is, “You understand that I’m a classy individual with refined tastes. I’ll send you an Outlook meeting request for some classy and refined nooky. Tentative for next Tuesday.” The response to a bag of Heaths is, “Heath Bars are a cheap and dirty gift. And you really get my cheap and dirty side. I like that. Let’s go do something salty and sweet, and a little bit crunchy. I’ll meet you in the back seat of the car. Bring the Heath Bars.”

It’s all about the love, my friends. Enjoy.