I really just don’t get the whole fuss over the “porn scanners.” Those are the full-body scanners that show just how full-bodied you might be at a TSA screening checkpoint. And I skew more self-conscious about my body than the average gal. Not that I’m buying a burqa any time soon. But I’ve never owned a pair of short-shorts or a low-cut top in my entire life. And the idea of a TSA screener checking out my worldly goodies doesn’t even phase me.
I’ve been to the airport. I can’t imagine that there are too many jollies to be had ogling most of the passengers in the friendly skies. And I’ve seen a few that I’d actually feel bad for the screener that has to look. And how hard up would you have to be to get a job with TSA just so you could check out people’s silhouettes in gray scale? Um. There’s the internet. Anything you want, you can see. Though, as many and varied as the freak community is, I’ve never heard of an x-ray fetish. TSA should probably look into that though. Talk about an employee who’d be riveted to that screen. Nobody’s getting by them. Employee of the month.
Frankly, I’d far rather have some freak in a booth somewhere checking me out than that same weirdo giving me a pat down. Check me over. Especially if I could get through the damned lines at security faster.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
I like it, how about you?
Well, Tuesday and Wednesday shows at the Performing Arts Center really showed a contrast. Tuesday was the Brinker Series with Al Pacino, and Wednesday was the Jazz Roots series with Michael Feinstein.
The Brinker Series is consistently one of the best content providers at the PAC. Fascinating people talking about fascinating topics. They had the T. Bone Burnett talk and the Frost/Langella discussion earlier this year, and they have kept a really consistent high quality. And one of the least engaged audiences in town. These shows are really focused on bringing a smart focus on culture, society and nature to Dallas. And you see late arrivals, early departures and people staring at their watches. Pacino was working his ass off for most of the show and the audience was just not responding. He was telling stories that no one else could tell, with cameos from last-name types like Ginsberg, Scorsese, De Palma, and only about half of the audience was paying attention. I felt bad for him. I mean, yes, he’s a big name. But the most obvious thing is that he’s still a performer. And getting that little love from a live audience has gotta be rough. They sell a lot of tickets for those Brinker series. But it’s a lot like going to see a professional sports team that has a lot of their seats sold to corporate clients. I'm not sure what is causing the disconnect, but some step between audience and material really seems to be missing.
The Jazz series is the complete opposite. It’s a music lover crowd. They have a smaller attendance, but, man, they are passionate. And this bunch could have eaten Michael Feinstein on toast points. He was caviar, baby. From his just-jazzy-enough ensemble (the suit was exquiz) to the broad range of music, he did the American Song Book up. The opening act was Nicole Henry, who was the total package – gorgeous voice, gorgeous body, gorgeous dress. And she sang one of the most compelling versions of Fly Me to the Moon I’ve ever heard. Then Feinstein comes out and just lays it all out there on the stage. Porter, Gershwin, Broadway, even Van Morrison. And peppered it with anecdotes about the music that only a real custodian of this kind of music could. Plus, a bang on impression of Paul Lynde. And like I said, the audience couldn’t get enough. He could have sung all night.
So, I think what Brinker is trying to do is convert some of those corporate ticket types into the kind of real culture vultures at the Jazz Series. A noble goal. But you have to get them to pay attention first.
The Brinker Series is consistently one of the best content providers at the PAC. Fascinating people talking about fascinating topics. They had the T. Bone Burnett talk and the Frost/Langella discussion earlier this year, and they have kept a really consistent high quality. And one of the least engaged audiences in town. These shows are really focused on bringing a smart focus on culture, society and nature to Dallas. And you see late arrivals, early departures and people staring at their watches. Pacino was working his ass off for most of the show and the audience was just not responding. He was telling stories that no one else could tell, with cameos from last-name types like Ginsberg, Scorsese, De Palma, and only about half of the audience was paying attention. I felt bad for him. I mean, yes, he’s a big name. But the most obvious thing is that he’s still a performer. And getting that little love from a live audience has gotta be rough. They sell a lot of tickets for those Brinker series. But it’s a lot like going to see a professional sports team that has a lot of their seats sold to corporate clients. I'm not sure what is causing the disconnect, but some step between audience and material really seems to be missing.
The Jazz series is the complete opposite. It’s a music lover crowd. They have a smaller attendance, but, man, they are passionate. And this bunch could have eaten Michael Feinstein on toast points. He was caviar, baby. From his just-jazzy-enough ensemble (the suit was exquiz) to the broad range of music, he did the American Song Book up. The opening act was Nicole Henry, who was the total package – gorgeous voice, gorgeous body, gorgeous dress. And she sang one of the most compelling versions of Fly Me to the Moon I’ve ever heard. Then Feinstein comes out and just lays it all out there on the stage. Porter, Gershwin, Broadway, even Van Morrison. And peppered it with anecdotes about the music that only a real custodian of this kind of music could. Plus, a bang on impression of Paul Lynde. And like I said, the audience couldn’t get enough. He could have sung all night.
So, I think what Brinker is trying to do is convert some of those corporate ticket types into the kind of real culture vultures at the Jazz Series. A noble goal. But you have to get them to pay attention first.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Mistletoe and Jolly
Well, we’re tip-toeing into the holidays, aren’t we? Some with more trepidation than others. I’ve been kind of waffley in my holiday spirit over the last few years. Mildly interested at best; border-line hostile at the worst. I’m kind of feeling it this year. I’m actually pretty optimistic for getting my holly jollies this year.
Luckily for me, I can load up on the holiday fare at my volunteer gig at the Performing Arts Center. Nice, right? I jumped on The Nutcracker and The Grinch. And I’m eyeballing a couple of Christmas music shows, if I can work them into my greedy little schedule. I was somewhat less eager to sign up for A Christmas Carol. Let’s just say, it’s not my favorite.
Honestly, I kind of side with Scrooge in the beginning. Is there anything more annoying than cheery relatives trying to force joy down your throat when you’re just not in the mood? The bastards. And so he’s frugal? What of it? Did we learn nothing from the last spend-happy decade? Bet Scrooge doesn’t have a balloon mortgage or credit card debt. And really, Cratchit? You’re a clerk. You make jack for a salary. What’s with the 20 kids? Are you gunning for a TLC show? I realize you like the missus. But give it a rest, freakshow. Or . . . I’ve seen Victorian porn. Marital relations that would not produce offspring were not a mystery, even in the time of Dickens. In a variety of ways. Surely one of those would have offered some appeal, without creating more mouths to feed. Scrooge is a jerkwad. But not an incorrect jerkwad.
But nope. After an extended torture campaign of harassment and hallucinations that I’m pretty sure would be a human rights violation under the Geneva Convention, Ol’ Neezy caves. He drinks the egg nog flavored Kool-Aid and surrenders to the tyranny of the seasonal oligarchy. Disappointing really.
But then they posted a show on the day after Thanksgiving, and I decided why not? This girl don’t shop on Black Friday. And maybe my incipient holiday mood will be bright enough that even I will enjoy it. Or maybe in this production Scrooge will call the TAPS Team to scare off those pushy ghosts, kick the crutch out from under Tiny Tim and buy a time share in Boca for the holidays. A girl can dream.
Luckily for me, I can load up on the holiday fare at my volunteer gig at the Performing Arts Center. Nice, right? I jumped on The Nutcracker and The Grinch. And I’m eyeballing a couple of Christmas music shows, if I can work them into my greedy little schedule. I was somewhat less eager to sign up for A Christmas Carol. Let’s just say, it’s not my favorite.
Honestly, I kind of side with Scrooge in the beginning. Is there anything more annoying than cheery relatives trying to force joy down your throat when you’re just not in the mood? The bastards. And so he’s frugal? What of it? Did we learn nothing from the last spend-happy decade? Bet Scrooge doesn’t have a balloon mortgage or credit card debt. And really, Cratchit? You’re a clerk. You make jack for a salary. What’s with the 20 kids? Are you gunning for a TLC show? I realize you like the missus. But give it a rest, freakshow. Or . . . I’ve seen Victorian porn. Marital relations that would not produce offspring were not a mystery, even in the time of Dickens. In a variety of ways. Surely one of those would have offered some appeal, without creating more mouths to feed. Scrooge is a jerkwad. But not an incorrect jerkwad.
But nope. After an extended torture campaign of harassment and hallucinations that I’m pretty sure would be a human rights violation under the Geneva Convention, Ol’ Neezy caves. He drinks the egg nog flavored Kool-Aid and surrenders to the tyranny of the seasonal oligarchy. Disappointing really.
But then they posted a show on the day after Thanksgiving, and I decided why not? This girl don’t shop on Black Friday. And maybe my incipient holiday mood will be bright enough that even I will enjoy it. Or maybe in this production Scrooge will call the TAPS Team to scare off those pushy ghosts, kick the crutch out from under Tiny Tim and buy a time share in Boca for the holidays. A girl can dream.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Oh, Gwynnie
There’s an article on Slate.com about how hating Gwyneth Paltrow is hitting an all-time high. For the record, I don’t hate her. I think she’s a fairly decent actress. I’d say in the beginning she was over-praised for her English accent, but I haven’t heard her Eliza Dolittle it up since she married the genuine article, so maybe she’s improved. I will say her funniest movie (and my favorite of her oeuvre by far) is Sliding Doors. When she gets hit by the bus – I. Laugh. Every. Time.
So maybe I hate her a smidge. Nope. Hate’s a strong word. I . . . oh, let’s just go with hate. A smidge.
Why? Is it the marshmallow head on the toothpick body? Is it the Breck girl hair? The oh, that’s my husband, the rockstar, marriage? Is it that she burps and gets an Oscar for it? It’s kind of all that. Combined with the fact that she seems to have little to no awareness of her fortunate one status. It’s like she just accepts it all as her due.
It’s just statistical. Luck runs on a wide bell curve. There are going to be sad-sack motherf***ers out there who never seem to get a break. And there are going to be people who fall in horse crap and come out smelling like Chanel No. 5. The 99.8% rest of us just muddle around in the middle. But if you are one of the Fortunate Ones, the truly, truly lucky, it really does behoove you to at least have the grace to act like you’re deeply grateful, abashed, or even just a little surprised that you have it easier than 99.9% of the population (BTW – Taylor Swift? Master of the art.).
And that’s why every time Gwyneth Paltrow shows up at a red carpet wearing yet another dress that makes her look distinctly saggy-boobed, I smile just a little bit.
So maybe I hate her a smidge. Nope. Hate’s a strong word. I . . . oh, let’s just go with hate. A smidge.
Why? Is it the marshmallow head on the toothpick body? Is it the Breck girl hair? The oh, that’s my husband, the rockstar, marriage? Is it that she burps and gets an Oscar for it? It’s kind of all that. Combined with the fact that she seems to have little to no awareness of her fortunate one status. It’s like she just accepts it all as her due.
It’s just statistical. Luck runs on a wide bell curve. There are going to be sad-sack motherf***ers out there who never seem to get a break. And there are going to be people who fall in horse crap and come out smelling like Chanel No. 5. The 99.8% rest of us just muddle around in the middle. But if you are one of the Fortunate Ones, the truly, truly lucky, it really does behoove you to at least have the grace to act like you’re deeply grateful, abashed, or even just a little surprised that you have it easier than 99.9% of the population (BTW – Taylor Swift? Master of the art.).
And that’s why every time Gwyneth Paltrow shows up at a red carpet wearing yet another dress that makes her look distinctly saggy-boobed, I smile just a little bit.
Goodbye, Old Schepps
Well, another old name has fallen. There used to be a dairy company called Schepps that I could get here locally. They’ve changed their named to Oak Farms. How . . . pleasant. I’m sure it’s all part of growing the business, and moving into markets where nobody grew up with Schepps. And, okay, it’s not the most euphonious name ever. I get it. Global domination doesn’t come without breaking a few eggs.
But I kind of like a gross name for yummy stuff. With a name like “Smucker’s” . . . There’s just something about the ugly name that just makes me happy. Like Van’s Pig Stand. It’s a place to get BBQ in Oklahoma. My Dad took my Mom to Van’s when they were dating. We went to Van’s when we visited the old hometown. Yes, it sounds like a place where they serve pigs. But damn the food is good. And once you’ve had their chocolate pie, you’ll regret ever having to waste stomach space on any other type of food.
Maybe it’s my English roots. Nobody names things disgusting like a Brit. Toad in the hole. Bubble and squeak. Spotted dick. Drowned baby. Mmmm. That’s gotta be some good eatin’.
But, as the world get’s more and more tame (weep, my friends), marketing people (the bastards) look at something with a name like “Schepps” and say, “That sounds like an old dog! Who wants to drink milk when they’re thinking about an old dog? Let’s name it something with a nice ring to it!” And another good, old-fashioned, raunchy name sails into the sunset. And our world becomes just that much more boring.
But I kind of like a gross name for yummy stuff. With a name like “Smucker’s” . . . There’s just something about the ugly name that just makes me happy. Like Van’s Pig Stand. It’s a place to get BBQ in Oklahoma. My Dad took my Mom to Van’s when they were dating. We went to Van’s when we visited the old hometown. Yes, it sounds like a place where they serve pigs. But damn the food is good. And once you’ve had their chocolate pie, you’ll regret ever having to waste stomach space on any other type of food.
Maybe it’s my English roots. Nobody names things disgusting like a Brit. Toad in the hole. Bubble and squeak. Spotted dick. Drowned baby. Mmmm. That’s gotta be some good eatin’.
But, as the world get’s more and more tame (weep, my friends), marketing people (the bastards) look at something with a name like “Schepps” and say, “That sounds like an old dog! Who wants to drink milk when they’re thinking about an old dog? Let’s name it something with a nice ring to it!” And another good, old-fashioned, raunchy name sails into the sunset. And our world becomes just that much more boring.
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