Why do you hate me so when all I ever try to do is love you?

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It's a Dog Grab Dog World

So I am finally at the end of my rope with this "reality television" bullshit.

This weekend I saw a commercial for the upcoming show, The Swan on Fox.



According to the commercials, the premise is as follows:

Fox is taking on a group of (and I use their phrasing) "ugly ducklings"--a variety of OBVIOUSLY hideous and mutated women pictured in the commercial grabbing an extra bit of flab on their stomachs or grimacing at themselves in the mirror--and, with the help of plastic surgeons, transforming them into "beautiful swans." These women will undergo plastic surgery, and for three whole months they will be living in a mirror-free environment, not knowing what they even look like post-plastic surgery, the end result being that only the cream of the crop will rise to the top to compete in the beauty pageant of all beauty pageants and showcase their newfound glory...

The website calls it an "incredible opportunity" for women, describes how "each week feathers will fly as the inevitable pecking order emerges." As though they're doing these women a FAVOR. Perhaps this favor wouldn't be necessary if the media wasn't going so out of their way to be fucking up women's self-images and sense of self-worth in the first place.

Is anyone else bothered by this?

I mean, it's bad enough we have the media shoving visions of what the ideal female body is supposed to look like down our throats day in and day out, but now they've taken it upon themselves to point out to a dozen women that they epitomize what they consider to be "ugly ducklingness" WHILE ALSO convincing them that plastic surgery and being in competition on a reality television show is the way to beautify themselves and give them worth.



I mean, as women, we do get the shit end of the stick when it comes to our bodies, to each of our female bodies. I'm not trying to pull the boohoo gender card here when i say this either... But it's true.

"The female body has many uses... It sells cars,
beer, shaving lotion, cigarettes, hard liquor; it
sells diet plans and diamonds, and desire in tiny
crystal bottles. Is this the face that launched a
thousand products? You bet it is, but don't get
any funny big ideas honey,
that smile is a dime a dozen."

I mean, all you gotta do is open any magazine--not even a Vogue or a Mademoiselle or any of those trashy ladies mags, but just like, say, Rolling Stone or something--to see what I mean. Women are nothing more than bodies to look at, bodies to sell things. We're skinny little half-naked bitches pictured splashing around in the ocean to sell beer. Or we're leaning over with our asses hanging out, just to sell a pair of shoes.

And thing is, these bodies you see in magazines are processed. They're plasticized versions of what these women REALLY are--they're air-brushed, they're stretched and distorted to make these women look leaner, look taller, look skinnier, look like they're absent of flaws, stretchmarks, belly rolls. And this is the kind of physical bodily ideal that we're supposed to be hankering after--too bad we don't have some warner bros. bugs bunny cartoonist following us around with a big pencil and eraser, erasing our flaws every morning before we head off for work.

So what, you say. Stop reading magazines then!

"The female body... does not merely sell, it is sold.
Money flows into this country or that country, flies
in, practically crawls in, suitful after suitful, lured
by all those hairless preteen legs. Listen, you want
to reduce the national debt, don't you?
Aren't you patriotic? That's the spirit.
That's my girl."

Yeah, but then it's just commercials. Women prancing around in Victoria's Secret underwear dressed up as angels. Guys bonding by drooling over chicks exercising and sharing a beer. Commercials warning us that it's swimsuit season so we best get to dieting and exercising so we can squeeze into that cute two-piece and attract the stares of guys.

Fuck tv, you shout. Don't watch it then!

"She's a national resource, a renewable one luckily,
because those things wear out so quickly.
They don't make 'em like they used to.
Shoddy goods."

Then it's just movies, celebrities--women over the age of 50 suddenly vanishing from the big screen unless their bodies are being used as a punchline for Jack Nicholson (Kathy Bates in About Schmidt or Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give). Women like Kate Winslet becoming the focus of public scrutiny for her fluctuating weight.

Unless I cart myself off to the mountains and live a hermit's life, there's no escaping it.

"We do not wish to frighten or offend."

And don't give me that crap about me playing the gender card. I mean, guys really don't have it anywhere near as bad when it comes to body-image. And I don't mean that in any sort of "I wish you had a fucked up sense of self-worth shoved down your throat every day" kinda way. I'm not holding it against them. I'm just pointing out a fact.

The male body is not used to sell sell sell. It's not distorted in magazines to show the latest fashion. It's not sucked-in cheeks of anorexia and diet pills. It's not.

I mean, it's just ridiculous. The female body is no longer a temple--it's a vehicle. A way of getting the guy--which is of course a female's ultimate goal in life--and living the female dream: married with children and a white picket fence. It's a vehicle for making money. It's a vehicle.

Our temples are desecrated day in and day out because of it, not just by others BUT BY OUR OWN SELVES!

And you know, I'm tired of hearing that "women should know better" and "the media can't make you think anything you don't want to think." Yeah, maybe this is partially true. But we are so inundated with distorted images of the female body that it is IMPOSSIBLE to walk out unaffected by them.

And I say this as an intelligent female. An intelligent female who can see through the bullshit enough to write this and criticize. An intelligent female who was raised in a family where physical appearance was not made to equal self-worth, where our parents told us that what is really important is who we are as women, as individuals, and not what we look like. A female who is independent, an individual, who is self-confident in who she is and what she does.

AND YET! AND YET!

I can sit here and honestly tell you that I've dieted (despite the fact that my weight pretty much fluctuates between 125 and 135 lbs for my 5'6" body which is right in the healthy weight-range). I self-consciously cover up my stomach around the fella I'm seeing, I curse my thighs and their stretchmarks. I weigh myself a couple times a day on the scale that sits next to my refrigerator. I wish that I had the skinny pubescent boy-body of Gwyneth Paltrow.

And yet I don't. And this is what tears you up inside--the disparity between the logic (what your brain tells you is right after you sit down and really think about it) and the subconscious (what you instincually, gut reflexively think when you look at yourself in the mirror or see a model-skinny chick). And this makes it even worse sometimes, being able to see that you've been duped, that you've got a fucked up vision of your body, that you want to lose 10 lbs, while at the same time being able to rationalize that yeah, it IS an ok vessel to be carting around in every day. You end up getting angry with yourself for thinking these things about what IS a beautiful temple--and then you pinch your waist-line seconds later and think that perhaps you could stand to lose an inch.

My sister who is model-skinny and gorgeous told me just the other week that she's upset because despite the fact that she grew up in a family that assured her constantly that looks weren't important and being a strong woman is, she finds herself a bit obsessed with vanity, a bit obsessed with how she looks day in and day out. Who said this warily and with hurt in her voice.

The female body is a vehicle careening down the road, brake-line snapped, heading straight for the bridge that's out up ahead.

And unfortunately, the female brain is rattling around in our sleek sport's cars or comfortable jalopies. And as much as you might be able to think things through--pump the brakes slowly, twist the steering wheel to the left--the bridge is still out and we're headed straight for it... Perhaps there's nothing left for the brain to do.

Except send a signal that will get us to open our big mouths and hope for SOME sort of change.

So drop Fox Network a line and tell them how ridiculous you think the premise of The Swan is--give them a piece of your mind:

askfox@foxinc.com

Fox Network (national), (212) 822-7000**

Or write to your local newspaper, your ladies' magazine, give them your two cents on the topic. Do SOMETHING! Do SOMETHING, DAMMIT!



"We do not wish to frighten or offend.

We do not wish to frighten or offend.

We do not wish to frighten or offend."





________________
**(And if anyone has better contact info, gimme a holler in my comment section.)

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Forever in Blue Jeans

For years we've made fun of my dad because of his clothes. Not what he wears (although the never-ending lineage of sweatpants is quite amusing) but how long he wears 'em. He hangs onto a shirt, wearing it fairly regularly and out in public, until it is just seconds from turning into dust. All someone would have to do is sneeze nearby and *POOF*--nekkid. He owned one t-shirt for so long and it got worn so thin in the chest-area that you could literally make out a nipple through the stretched and tired fabric that was desperately trying to hold itself together on the front. The front breast-pocket area of that shirt was like a spider-web with a little nipple crawling around on the underside of it. His sweatpants meet a similar demise. They limp around until the holes in the ass or the knees just become too much and my dad finally has to give in.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, you know how they say "you will grow up to be your parents?" You guessed it--I'm turning into my father.

Just a month or so ago, I was flipping through high school photos and stumbled across a picture of me wearing a shirt that I still currently wear on a regular basis--at least 2-5 times a month (I'm second from the left)... (if that link doesn't work, try here instead b/c it's kinda being moody...)

This picture was taken in what I think was my sophomore year of high school. This means that the shirt is... about 11 years old. (My god, in fact it may actually be older than our family dog!) Not to mention the fact that I BOUGHT it used at a thrift shop, so tack on at least another potential year. It is also probably my oldest clothing item. (Though for a while I was still holding onto a noteworthy pair of black and white stretch pants that had little pictures of the globe--with deformed-looking continents--all over them and which for some reason right now make me think of Jesus Jones. But no longer.)

The eleven-year old shirt immortalized above is a blue, collared, polyester button-down shirt with cutie little shoulder-buttony random flaps of material. The side-seams are freckled with tiny holes where the thread decided that it had been long enough and just gave up. I've sewed up the side-seams at least twice and never with matching thread. One of its front buttons went on to a better place a couple years ago. Just last week, one of the buttons for the shoulder flaps finally offed itself and I was forced to reattach the nervous flap with a safety pin. The collar--I don't even know what's up with that anymore. It just sorta *POOFS* inappropriately.

I get the occasional "perhaps it's time for a new shirt" comment. When I do, I think of my dad and how I'm starting to understand him a bit more--as though we've actually bonded b/c of clothing or something.

I mean, at some point in life, you start to forget how other people perceive you. Maybe not "forget" so much as "not care anymore." You start to value more important things, think only of comfort and latch on to certain things that make you feel loved and warm and happy. You think of how they've been there with you through it all, how they serve as reminders of cross-country trips, puberty. Of how many times they've been tossed onto the floor by some eager lover. How many times you've hugged your dog in them and been left with a thick coating of reddish-blond hair in return. What friends have seen you spill wine all over them while laughing joyously in their presence.

Fuck the comments. Fuck the fact that it's not quite as perky and new as it used to be. Fuck "appropriate workplace attire." Fuck THE GAP and OLD NAVY. Fuck the fashion police.

My shirt sings of longevity; it serves as a reminder to stand in resistance against this fast-paced mortal world!

(Reminder to self: pick up some more Febreze.)

"This shirt is just an old faded piece of cotton
Shining like the memories
Inside those silver buttons"

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Hello, Danny...

First off, the left lane is for the fast people, idjits.

And now on to more important things...



I like horror movies.



MY TOP FIVE

1. The Exorcist

2. The Shining

3. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre

4. The Omen

5. The Evil Dead



Runner's up:
The Blair Witch Project; Dead Alive; Final Destination; Ginger Snaps; The Haunting (the 1963 version); Halloween; Nightmare on Elm Street; Night of the Living Dead; Nosferatu (the 1979 version); The Ring; Rosemary's Baby; Scream; The Eye.

Random Question of the Day:
What's in your top five?

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Childhood Memories I Wish I Had

Once when I was little, I had been swimming in Lake Erie with my brother. The waves were kind of choppy, so I was keeping an eye on him for my parents. All of the sudden, he dipped under into the waves. Ten... fifteen... twenty seconds passed and he still hadn't come back up for air. Panicking, I dove into the frothy waters and furiously searched for any sign of him. But instead, I came face to face with a Great White shark. He licked his lips and grinned at me. Afraid for my life, I panicked. I punched him as hard as I could in the nose. He immediately started bawling like a big ol' baby and I felt bad. He told me, "I was only trying to help you find your brother before they whisk him off to a watery grave!" "Who?" I asked. "The Jews!" he shouted, wiping away a few tears. Those lousy Jews, always kidnapping swimmers, I thought to myself. Then I saw one of them swiftly whisking away my brother along the lake's floor. I judo-chopped him in the shoulder and grabbed my brother before he knew what had even hit him. The shark, whose name was Robert Redgrave, Esquire, swooped us both up in the safety of his enormous mouth. He swam us back to the shore and dropped us off there. My parents never even found out that anything had happened.




Another time when I was about five, my dad and I were driving to the store. A rusted out old car cut him off on the side street and he started swearing at the car. In a bout of road rage, he followed the car until it stopped at a red light. He put our car in park, got out, and stomped up to the other car, fuming. As he approached the car, the door swung open and out stepped a robot. This thing was no regular robot--it was about 7 feet tall and had the words "BAD ASS" welded into its chest. My father took a swing at the huge metallic fellow. Immediately the robot shot two laser beams at my father from his eyes. Luckily my father ducked and the beams hit a car nearby instead--this car exploded into the air and landed back down in a hundred flaming pieces all around us. My father, now realizing perhaps this hadn't been a good idea after all, lurched back towards our car and got in. The robot was quickly approaching, so my father gunned the car around him. But not before he was able to shoot one enormous stream of belchified fire at us from his open metallic jaw. Thank god it missed us and hit a little old lady instead. We were safe! We made it to the store and my father told me never to speak of this incident again.

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Doin' the Robot

This year I gave robots up for Lent.

Now it seems like everywhere I go, they're lurking in the shadows, taunting me.

Yesterday, I was at the bar and this one



kept winking at me and showing some leg.

Then last Friday, the dude on the right (and yes, he was there with his boyfriend, also pictured)



kept rubbing up against me at Olive Garden. Which got to be a little bit weird since I was sitting down and in the middle of a meal.

And then this one too:



But in that case I was like, "Dude, I can totally tell that you're a person hiding under there." And so I immediately slept with him.

And then this one



was almost the straw that broke the camel's back.

Thank god for restraint.

Despite all that, I'm hanging in there.

But to those of you who gave up chocolate for Lent and keep whining about it, I've gotta tell you: next year try giving up robots. Then you'll REALLY see what sacrifice is all about.

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Searching for My Name on the 'Net

Mondays suck and I couldn't think of anything interesting to write about. So instead I did a search of my name on google.com and here's what came up:

Lauren

is a girl's name.

Originating from: English

Traditional meaning: The laurel tree or sweet bay tree symbolic of honor and victory. Old name with many variants. From Laurentium; the place of the laurel trees; place of honor and victory. Twentieth century feminine of Lawrence.

In 1997 this was the number 20 chosen name in the US

Based on the 1990 US Census, Lauren was ranked the number 162 most popular Girls name in the US.

Based on the 2002 Social Security Ranking, Lauren was ranked the number 13 most popular Girls name in the US.

Spelling Variations:
Lauryn

(from here)


Drawn by a fellow Lauren


1. This

2. This

3. That

4. This
(I'm a 12th-grade platinum winner!!!!!!!!)

5. A little bit o' that
('Cause girls love ANYthing with the word "love" in the title--oh yes)

6. And finally, some o' this

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A Day of Maura

Maura has been my closest friend for the past 8+ years. We first met when we were roommates in a quad my freshman year in college. We've been close ever since. Yesterday Maura went into the hospital for kidney surgery. In honor of this brilliant, foxy, and courageous chick (and because her surgery got me thinking about how much she means to me and all the crazy shit we've shared), I'd like to list some of my favorite Maura-moments today. Enjoy.

Her post-shower baby-powder trails;

The whole MichFest experience;

The time she got super-drunk at her apartment in Berea (partly my fault as I'd challenged her to a wine-chugging contest, not realizing she'd barely eaten all day) and ran around with television cables wrapped around her forehead until she got sick and ended up sitting in her armchair for hours throwing up in a bucket (all of which we got on video--heh heh);

One time freshman year when I was crying on my top bunk (God only knows why) but was trying to cover it up and she discovered me and was like "Are you CRYING up there?" (in a very League of Their Own type moment--"Are you crying? You can't cry in baseball!") and then almost started crying herself outta sympathy while reassuring me;

A trillion late-night Taco Bell runs;

The incoherent Lynds-Maura phone call begging me to please come down to their apartment when I returned home because they had smoked too much pot and were freaking out (this is the infamous Maura climbing into tub incident);

The plans we had to become a traveling musical duo called "Tongue in Chick" where we'd have a highly-sexualized show that'd include strip-teases and us coming on to each other while doing covers of various sexy songs;

The New York City hot tub experience (which requires explaining)--Maura, Mike (my ex-), and I went to visit my friend Lynds in Connecticut one week and ended up swinging over to NYC to spend the day. We rented a hotel room in Queens, but we rented it under the guise of only two people staying there and we snuck me in the back door. Anyways, we got a free hot tub in our room because management said that it wasn't working correctly--it didn't bubble. Anyways, we were out late and when we returned to the hotel room, we decided to fire the thing up. We filled it up and the three of us sat around in it, watching television and drinking malt liquor. By the time we started turning prunish, it was about 2 am. We got out, let the water out, and got ready for bed. A few minutes later, the phone rings. We all look at each other in surprise. Mike answers, and it's a hotel employee calling to ask if we'd been using the hot tub. Mike says yes, and the employee says they immediately have to come up and check out the hot tub. Maura and I panic and start running around because there's not supposed to be three of us there. We decide to both hide in the bathroom under the guise that Mike's "girlfriend" is taking a shower. We're standing around, shivering in cold bathing suits and dripping all over the floor while hotel employees parade in and out of our room. Listening through the door, we find out that apparently the people in the room beneath us woke up to water pouring into their room through the ceiling. The bubble-making apparatus was not the only thing broken on the tub after all. Finally the employees leave warning Mike not to use the hot tub again. We all scrunch up into the king-size bed and drift of into a restless night's sleep filled with terrifying dreams of employees sneaking into our room and finding out about the fugitive hidden within;

Mike and Maura singing and playing guitar in the stairwell freshman year;

How every one of Maura's birthdays ends up with people drunk and disrobed (most notably are the birthdays where we played Truth or Dare Jenga which resulted in a plethora of sundry--and nekkid--going-ons and another which ended with four of us strewn about my bedroom, nekkid and getting stoned together);

The wide variety of concerts we've seen together:
front row at Ani;
Bitch & Animal three different times;
standing outside in the cold to wait for the Indigo Girls to come out and then Maura getting perturbed because Amy Ray gave me a double-take and not her (heh heh);

Our little poetry-comraderie: back in college we'd constantly find ourselves sitting around reading each others' poetry and doing our own little mini-workshops of the poems (which usually consisted of us gushing over each others' work)--I miss this creative exchange;

The time we brought Maura back leftover pizza from Mama Santa's that had been sitting in the car for a while and she got horrific food poisoning from it;

Hanging out at the Crow Bar in southern Ohio--watching this chick singing covers of Rage Against the Machine tunes while locals gawked at us all (with our nose rings and outlandish clothes), stealing the crow off the ceiling (which I still have at home), and Maura drunkenly giving me a hard but happy-fun kiss as she stumbled out of the ladies' room;

The time on the way to Connecticut where I was driving her car and, in an attempt to adjust her sideview mirrors, accidentally hit the button to open her trunk (which was filled with all our clothes and belongings) on the freeway;

Maura getting upset when Mike and I first started dating and how I later (years later) found out it wasn't because she liked Mike--it was because she had a crush on ME and hadn't figured that out yet;

Smoking up on the benches out by the pond in Berea freshman year--Maura acting all cracked-out because of it (despite the fact that she hadn't quite figured out how to INHALE yet);

One of the last days of senior year in college--Maura and I watched a movie together in my bare apartment; in a happy end-of-college moment, we ended up squishing into my single bed together, staying up late and talking, and then drifting off to sleep next to one another;

The time she got stoned and tried to crawl into my kitchen sink (ultimately succeeding in completely freaking out my friend Jef);

There's a billion more stories I could tell, but I'll stop here.

The thing I love most about this girl:
She loves harder and more passionately than anyone I know.


Give a get-well shout-out to Mo in my comments section, you bitches!

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Random Jesus Talk

So man alive, I had the weirdest dream about my sister this morning--it scared the living crap outta me... About her being little still and falling down an elevator shaft. Was probably the scariest dream I've had in a long time (thankfully). Anyways, why am I telling you this? Well, because my brain is kinda unfocused at the moment because of it, so if this blog today is incoherent, that may be why.

JESUS JESUS JESUS JESUS <----That's the random Jesus talk.

Kidding. Anyways, last night I talked on the phone with my friend Kristen. She's a devout Christian, and we got into an extremely lengthy conversation about this new (and WAY overhyped) The Passion of the Christ movie. Now, I have yet to see it. So I can't offer up any big critique of it or anything. So if that's what you were expecting, I'm sorry to disappoint.

What most struck me about the whole conversation was when she said "Yeah, the movie really captured what a peaceful guy Jesus was." I was intrigued by this comment, but as we had already been conversing about the movie for at least 1/2 an hour over the phone, I didn't pursue it. But what I wanted to ask her was: "How do you know what kind of guy Jesus was?"

I mean, I understand that we have the Bible to guide us (IF we believe that it truly is a work of fact rather than fiction), to give us hints and clues as to what kinda fella Jesus was and what kind of things he went through. But again and again, I find myself wondering why it is that people forget so easily that THE BIBLE WAS WRITTEN BY MAN, NOT GOD.



So what's my point, you're probably asking yourself.

Well, last night when I was thinking about this, my mind wandered over to the Derrida documentary I watched ever so long ago. One of the things I found so interesting in it was a brief discussion of biography/autobiography--a discussion that probably wasn't anything all that new for those familiar with Derrida and his work, but one that was new for me. This discussion clocked me in the head like an anvil, simply because I'd never really given the idea of biographies/autobiographies much thought before. Anyways, I'm not going to even try to paraphrase the ideas voiced in the movie, but I will instead ramble about the tangent my brain went off on after hearing these views.

Suddenly it dawned on me that what the hell IS a (auto)biography really? I mean, our lives are so complex and so detailed and so elaborate and so full of an infinite number of activities that how can a book attempt to capture a person's life accurately, if at all? I mean, automatically the writer has to choose what events are important and create this mere skeleton of a way more complex and beautiful life--to take on the task of really capturing a person's full life would be much too large (and impossible) a task. I mean, moments like when I fell off my bicycle in primary school in front of my grandparents' house and ripped the skin off both my knees--probably not included in my (auto)bio. The time I took over all human activity in a moment of world domination--probably included.

But our lives become filtered down in SO many ways through (auto)biography. One could never capture EVERYTHING that took place throughout the course of living--even in the case of autobiography, not even the person who did the living could capture it all themselves. Memory distorts events. So even when we talk about ourselves, we aren't getting everything right. And then, what is "right?" What is a (auto)bio SUPPOSED to include?

(Auto)biographies become just as much a work of fiction as your Da Vinci Code or your latest Stephen King novel.

So why would the Bible be any different? Here you have individuals trying to tell the story of creation, of their God, of His son. But humans cannot write without imparting their judgment or their motivations into what they're writing and they cannot write without a certain subjectivity setting in. Humans are flawed. No one would deny that. So the Bible is a translation of sorts, an interpretation of events. It is the skeletal outline (and given human error, most definitely an at-times inaccurate one) of what took place long ago.

But how much do we take to be the truth? How much do we take to be the truth in an (auto)biography? Will reality please stand up?

I guess what I'm saying is for someone to say "Man, that Jesus was a peaceful guy" is a slippery thing. Because we first have the fact that they are reaching this conclusion based on their reading (or viewing) of something that is a creation of man, influenced by his hidden motivations and unavoidably subjective viewpoint. AND this piece of writing is in fact a translation itself from a different language. AND to top that off, THEY are reading these words and interpreting them and filtering them through their OWN hidden motivations and subjectivity.

We read what we want to read into something such as the Bible. That's why it can be so easily used to justify pretty much anything. There is room left for interpretation. And we jump at the chance to do so.

And this wouldn't bother me so much if this fact was just acknowledged, if people would be willing to say, "Yeah, maybe just maybe, the Bible might not be the end all and be all to religion. Yeah, humans wrote it, so yeah, there is a good chance of human error." But again and again, it's used to justify a way of living, and sometimes a way of condemning.

No one is asking anyone to discard their beliefs. No one is asking anyone to discard their God. But perhaps it is not a good thing to grasp on to human word so tightly--perhaps it is a good thing to step back and see a book, any book, for what it really is.

-------

I did good! Yay!

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Random Susan Powter Moment

So do you remember Susan Powter? Susan Powter of the "STOP THE INSANITY" craze? Susan Powter who scared the living crap outta everybody by getting in their faces back in the '90's with her crazy platinum blond butch-cut, wirey-assed body, and big-mouth? Shouting about weight-loss? THIS woman:

Well, she's reinvented herself again:

And, after about ten years or so, she's baaaaaack, shouting out to the vaginas of the world!

...And STILL scaring the crap outta everybody...

What the hell am I talking about?!?

Well, this past Friday, I went to a concert by the kick-ass duo Bitch and Animal. It's their farewell tour, and they played it up at the Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland. Despite a bit o' crabbiness on both their parts, they were on fire and a helluva lot of fun as usual. Where does Susan Powter fit in?
Well, I noticed last week on Bitch and Animal's website that their opening act for this final tour was Susan Powter. I giggled to myself when I saw it, immediately drawing up visions of the wirey woman shouting me down as I cowered in fear. But when I got to the concert, to my surprise (and despite her complete about-face in appearance), I actually RECOGNIZED this new version of the late Susan Powter! I'd noticed her prancing about at MichFest at least a handful of times while I was there. She is difficult NOT to notice, seeing as she has massive pink locks now (which she incessantly fluffs and plays with like some high school cheerleader), a rock-hard body, and a set of double-take breasts. (Pardon my objectifying, but for 46 years old, she is one good-looking woman, plastic-y though she may appear to be.) And she exudes the self-confidence of about 1,300 drag queens in one. I mean, it is near impossible for her to walk into the room without every single eye being immediately drawn to her. And I suppose there's something to be said about possessing that kind of power.

That being said, she scares me.

Not in a "I cower in your presence" kinda way, but more like "Wow, you hold some PRETTY damn loony views there, girlfriend." Now, let me preface this by saying not all her views are loony. She considers herself a radical feminist, and she is consistent with this image. But radical feminists scare me a little bit too, so maybe that's the problem. I immediately shut my ears to anyone who believes that all white men are the devil. And it scares me to think that there are those who DON'T.

During her opening act, her motivational-speaker roots came spewing forth. She shouted at the crowd. She pointed at individuals. She pushed on some folks' foreheads in that "you are HEA-ALED, my child" kinda way that preachers do. She ranted. She raved. She spoke ten million miles a minute. She had everyone's mouth hanging open.

She was scary but also impressive.

You see, I don't agree with a lot of her viewpoints. I agree that there needs to be change in the world, but I DON'T think all white men are the devil. And I was bothered by the fact that she fired forth her opinions in such gun-fire succession that it was impossible to really sit back and examine each of her points. By the time you started to grasp onto one point, it was already gone and you were trying to grapple with her next bit of rage. That's the way that motivational speaking works--inundate you with shouted-out ideas without giving you the time to think about them and get you worked up in a foaming frenzy of rage/happiness/empowerment so that you'll immediately shout out "Hell yeah!" and wanna follow her into the Second Coming. And that's scary but amazing power.

Yet, it is surprisingly easy to see through. She can shout all she wants, but when her shouting is unfocused and her points are never backed up, why are we to believe her? And yet, people did. The audience shouted and cheered at every outrageous thing she said. But is this really that surprising? All anyone (Ani Difranco, Bitch & Animal, etc.) has to do is say ANYTHING political, ANYTHING outrageous about the government, and people start cheering before the opinion has really been processed by their brains. It's just the reflex of the masses.

And it's a weird and scary thing.

I got into an argument with a certain individual afterwards about Ms. Powter. He stated that 1) she did feminism an injustice in her representation of it and insulted both the intelligence of those who shared her viewpoint as well as those who didn't, and 2) he compared her (very loosely, yes, but nonetheless) to Hitler and his ability to move the masses. Now, I agree with some of the first point. She may have insulted the intelligence of many of us who were listening, many of us who were easily able to see through her loosely-defended points and see that it rested on a foundation of straw. But I don't think SHE is the only one responsible for those who see her as representative of ALL of feminism, those who take her viewpoints and agree with them without giving them a second thought. She may state outright that she is a feminist, that she is the Jesus of feminism, but it ain't gonna make no difference unless WE believe her. We hold just as much responsibility for whether or not she becomes the "spokesperson for feminism" as she does. She could shout 'til she was blue in the face, but if there weren't any easily bamboozled, slack-jawed, unthinking folks out there ready to jump on the bandwagon without even thinking about it, she wouldn't make an ounce of difference.

And yet, I agree with Eleven. She IS a threat of sorts. She inadvertently gives feminism a bad name, just the way those vegetarian crazies who go around throwing red paint on fur jackets do the same for animal rights individuals. But that is not necessarily THEIR fault, or at least not SOLELY. The media laps this right up--the media jumps at anything shocking and so these radicals, these (sometimes) crazies become spokespeople for the whole of a movement. But WE essentially are responsible for this. We are the ones who ALLOW the media (and the individual) to become representative of a whole movement. We, the unthinking masses. We who allow one person to stand in for the whole and then shake our heads and say, "Ahhh, god, those feminists/dykes/vegetarians/gays are crazy. Why the hell should I believe them?" These individuals are not a threat to themselves but yeah, maybe just maybe they are a threat to the movements they inadvertently come to respresent.

But then again, we are the fools that allow them to.

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I have nothing to write about today!

If someone has any ideas, drop one in my comment section and perhaps (if I'm not too busy) I'll take the challenge.

* * * * * * * * *

Well, since it was requested, I shall talk about my tatts (though I think I may have done this already, but screw it--I ain't got nothin' else to talk about).

Coffee Talk About My Tatts

I have five tattoos right now. They consist of the following:

1. A sun on my lower back. This was the first tattoo I ever got. I had it done when I was at OU and designed it myself. This tattoo led to a slippery slope that tumbled me into four other tattoos. I blame Satan.

2. The Chinese (or is it Japanese? It's been so long I can't even remember, isn't that sad?) symbol for "poetry" on my lower abdomen. Now this one needs to be explained--I HATE the whole "Chinese symbol" fad. It drives me mad that every chick and her mom have SOME sort of Chinese symbol tattooed on their body. So for months and months I was resistant to the idea. However, I wanted to get a tatt that symbolized the completion of my master's degree in poetry. So I looked and looked and looked for something else that I might be able to have tattooed on me instead. To no avail. Finally I just caved. I took it as a sign that I was supposed to get this symbol when I saw it on the back of a book of poetry that one of my profs had written. So I figured, what the hell. Right after I completed my thesis defense, I barreled on over to the tattoo parlor with a couple of friends and had it done in celebration (and then got sloshed afterwards). I got it in a place where no one can really see unless I'm showing it to them, and I like it quite a bit now.

3. A symbol I designed that's on my wrist. This tatt I designed when I spent three+ weeks driving cross country with my boyfriend at the time. It is supposed to look like waves with the moon floating above them in the sky. I originally wanted to get the tattoo done when we were in San Francisco--they had a woman-owned and operated tattoo parlor there called Black & Blue Tattoo and I went as far as going there to check out the price. But unfortunately, we still had another week before our trip was over, and I sure as hell wanted to be able to swim, so I was forced to hold off. I ended up getting it in Boulder, Colorado instead. I absolutely LOVED Boulder, so I was kind of excited about getting it done there. However, it was THE worst tattoo experience possible. If I'm ever back in the area, I'm SO gonna drop by there and kick that fella's ass. Anyways, the guy who tattooed me took an HOUR to do a tattoo that should've only taken about 15-20 minutes. He made my wrist bleed excessively because he kept going over and over and over the same parts because he was worried that it wasn't coming out even enough in color. This tattoo is solid-black, mind you, so I could've probably done a better job if he'd just let me borrow the equipment. The air conditioning was broken in the shop, so he was also super-crabby. And I knew I was screwed when at the end of his tattooing, he asked me if I was gonna be in town for at least a week so he could look at it again and touch up anything that came out shitty and uneven. Consequently, I ended up having to have this tattoo touched up in Cleveland about a year later since it looked like someone had drawn in dried-up black marker on my wrist.
LESSON LEARNED: Do NOT get tattooed in Boulder, Colorado.

4. A women's ceremony design on the front of my left shoulder (click on the pic to read more about its symbolism).

After much searching, I found this design on the internet, done by an aboriginal artist. I was really fond of it because it almost looks like a flower (which many mistakenly assume that it is) but it has an aura of mystery around it and gets oohs and ahs once people find out what it actually is. I wanted to get something associated with "femaleness" so I was thrilled when I finally stumbled across it. I got it done at the ever faithful G&G Tattooing in Cleveland. I went by myself to get it (the first tattoo I got by myself) because my life was in a state of turmoil at that time and I was looking at the tattoo as a symbol of me reclaiming control over it. It was a symbol of starting down a new path and of being in control and of autonomy. And it was probably my favorite tattoo experience out of all of them. I came out feeling really good about it and what it meant to me.

5. A little star on my neck behind the lobe of my right ear. This little star is tiny enough that people rarely notice it (though it did catch my hairdresser off-guard and made her giggle with delight). I like it 'cause it's kind of in a sexy area--a place that can be licked and nibbled on, so only certain people have true access to it. This one I got at the beginning of January of this year. It was meant to be a symbol of renewal and starting a "new" life. I've always liked the idea of stars because they can be both alive and dead at the same time; they're sort of a symbol of immortality (or a sort of immortality that comes through living on in other people's memories)--the light we are seeing from some of them is light that may be hundreds of years old brought to us from a star that has long since dimmed. I went to get this one done with Eleven who wanted to get his (allegedly) final tattoo as well. The tattoo artist was a crab-ass (I would recommend that people steer clear of the oldest tattoo artist at G&G if you frequent that place) and the tatt only took a few seconds to complete, but it was a damn good experience as well.

THE END

Random Question of the Day:
I saw a license plate that read GOD L SDM on my way to work this morning. What the HELL could this possibly stand for?!?
(I'm thinking either God Loves SaDoMasochism, which WOULD be fairly accurate and insightful I suppose. Either that or God Loves Saddam.)
Waddaya think?

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(Most of the) Films I Own

Run Lola Run

Yellow Submarine

Dazed and Confused

Boys Don't Cry

Deerhunter

Primal Fear

The Texas Chain Saw Massacre

Clockwork Orange

Ghost World

Pink Floyd's The Wall

Night of the Living Dead

Being John Malkovich

Bringing Out the Dead

The Brothers Karamazov

X-files: The Movie

Jacob's Ladder

Dead Poet's Society

Night on Earth

Ghost Dog

Fight Club

Annie Hall

Bananas

Buffalo '66

Blood Simple

Fargo

Raising Arizona

The Big Lebowski

Chasing Amy

Clerks

Mallrats

Dogma

The Professional

Tetsuo the Iron Man

Strangers in Good Company

Thin Red Line

The Blair Witch Project

Meeting People Is Easy

The Great Muppet Caper

Lost in Translation

Gerry

Requiem for a Dream

Amelie

Donnie Darko

Waking Life

All the Real Girls

Bram Stoker's Dracula

Anything Else

Reservoir Dogs

Memento

And in light of the final movie on this list...
Random Question of the Day:
What tattoos do you have, where, why, etc.?

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The Hollow Men

T.S. Eliot


MISTAH KURTZ -- HE DEAD.

A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us--if at all--not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer--

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
and avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
and the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

(from HERE)

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Random Conclusions I Reached This Weekend

1. Yet another thing I'm bothered by when it comes to religion is the implication that if it was not God who created the universe, the universe and its existence is somehow less beautiful. First off, I am bothered by the sheer fact that way too many religious folks can't even conceive of the fact that the universe might've came to be simply out of sheer accident. Read Chaos: Making a New Science by Gleick and you'll see that oftentimes order manifests itself in the strangest places, in circumstances that start off chaotic and then find some sorta of rhythm. To me, this is just as likely (or unlikely) and logical an explanation as "some sort of pre-existent being created the universe." And if the universe DID in fact come to be out of sheer randomness, some fluke, some order emerging from chaos, this doesn't reduce the beauty of the universe to me. This in fact makes it seem all the more beautiful--that something as complicated as this could've arrived out of all that chaos and that it could've developed to where it is now. Seems utterly miraculous.

2. I want to leave my thumb print on the world before I die. I understand that we're ALL leaving our thumb prints everyday, through the people we touch and come into contact with. But I have this urge to do it in a more immortal, sustaining sorta way. And it's not because of pride. It's just because I value the web of art and science and math that the universe is composed of. And I want to contribute to it in some sorta substantial way, not to have my name remembered, but to have something live on that was once a part of me. And have it reach people again and again, the way films, books, mathemathical discoveries, etc. do. I want to be a little glimmering thread in the huge web of the universe. And I don't want that thread broken just because I'm no longer around.

3. People I would like to belatedly add on to my harem-list:

Jack White (again, mostly for the crooning);

Vincent D'Onofrio.

4. FAMOUS PEOPLE I'M ALLOWED TO SLEEP WITH REGARDLESS OF WHETHER OR NOT I'M DATING SOMEONE:
1. Julian Casablancas from the Strokes;
2. Jason Lee;
3. Angelina Jolie;
4. Dave Eggers;
5. ______________.

5. I have more vivid and easy to remember dreams when I go to bed slightly tanked. Examples from this weekend--I dreamt about (and this is just a small fraction of the dreams I actually had):

Kittens with mutations--one had flippers for arms and the other had a mutated eye;

Dave shaving off his moustache;

Being reunited with some high school friends at a fake prom/masquerade where I dressed up Goth for no apparent reason;

Kissing a co-worker;

Shopping for X-mas cards that were on sale;

Traveling to Chicago with Maura, Lynds, and Eleven;

Shitting in metal bowl over my aunt's house because her toilet wasn't working.

Random Items I Acquired This Weekend:
1. A folding table and chairs--something that I never would've sought out by myself, but now that I have it is coming in handy quite a bit.
2. A package from my sister containing a present for each year that I've been alive--I am only allowed to open one a day and so far the gifts have been Cookie Monster Bath Foam and a mixed tape. I don't know if i can control myself with the rest. Heh heh.
3. A beautiful day's worth of sun and springtime weather on Friday--I spent almost all day sitting out in the sun and reading.

Random Question of the Day:
Who should be my #5?
(I'm leaning towards this fella right now:)

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So the other day, Eleven said to me completely out of the blue (and I paraphrase): "I would never ever double-cross you. I'd be afraid you'd have my balls."

Now, initially I was offended by this because it made me sound like I was some sort of excruciatingly vindictive kind of person, a "rabbit in a boiling pot of water," Fatal Attraction kinda individual. After he explained a little bit more, I realized it was intended as more of a compliment...

But it gave me pause.

You see, I scare people.

(Here I will pause and let Harvey and Patrick amuse themselves with all the witty responses that are popping into their heads. And... done.)

Anyways, when I say I scare people, I don't mean like a monsterly, Leatherface kind of scare. I mean, I think people are leery of me. This is something I've noticed ever since I was young--maybe as early as primary school. And it became ever more apparent to me in grad school. My friend Michele says, "It's just because people don't know what to make of you." And I know this is probably the case. But it's something I find both terribly amusing and yet disheartening at times.

Because I'm not real complicated. So I'm not quite sure what makes me so difficult to pin down. Yet, I kinda dig the fact that apparently I am this weird little shape-shifting entity that no one can quite put their finger on.

International (wo)man of mystery--that's me!

I think if this weren't the case, I might be an inordinately dull person. So it's not something I'd ever really want to change about myself. (Not like I could anyways, seeing as I'm not really sure what it is about me that "scares" people in the first place.)

And it does help me weed out friends and lovers. Most people are "afraid" enough of me that they don't venture to bridge any sort of gap between us. But some people (I call them "the weirdies") are intrigued and attracted to my "scariness"--they flutter kamikaze-style at me like determined little mosquitos gunning it towards a bug zapper.

These are the people I hit it off with so very easily from the get-go. These are the people who just *CLICK* with me and whom I end up sharing my deepest bonds with. But these folks are few and far between.

And most of the time, those folks who aren't willing to bridge the gap really just don't interest me too much anyways. Yet, sometimes... every once in a while, I find myself wishing that perhaps I wasn't QUITE so scary as I seem to be to people--that more people would be willing to bridge the gap between us instead of standing off in the distant, staring at me, wondering WTF.

So yeah, I "scare" people. It's something that becomes evident to me each and every time I enter a new social situation. And it's something that comes up even with the closest of friends. But at this point in my life, there's really nothing I can do about it.

So I guess all I can do is just keep dealing and move on, hold my little mosquito friends close and keep that light burning.

Random Question of the Day:
Why do people find me so damn "scary?"

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STUPID MOTHERF_ING CARS!

My car done broke. No blogging today.


But I will accept donations in the form of cash, produce, or loose women. All in the name of fixing my car, of course.

Random Question of the Day:
What's your worst car breakdown story?

And for a fairy-tale history of the relationship between me and my car, the Great Purple Murple, click here.

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100th Anniversary of Dr. Seuss

So today is Theodore Geisel's (aka Dr. Seuss's) birthday--it would have been his one-hundredth. In honor of this event, I have included some pictures and links. (I was gonna have this intro rhyme but I figured I'd just get lots of moans and groans so I've spared ya. ; )

Enjoy!





Visit Seussville


Cat in the Hat.org
(has a link to some cool Dr. Seuss artwork)


A List of Books & Characters


Really Brief Bio




Random Question of the Day:
What's your favorite Dr. Seuss book or character?

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The Oscars

So yeah. I like to watch the Academy Awards. A terribly guilty pleasure for a film-aholic like me. Some might call me a chump or a sucker because of it. But I don't care.

I've caught at least a LITTLE bit of the Oscars every year since I can remember. It's something that I think of fondly partially because it reminds me of being little--it was one of the rare circumstances where I was allowed to stay up 'til midnight on a school night, breathy with anticipation, adding up the amount of movies I'd seen that were up for Oscars that year, my mom and I sitting on the edge of our seats, eagerly predicting each winner and booing when the Academy proved us wrong.

Now, don't get me wrong. Just because I like to watch them doesn't mean that I think the awards themselves are worth a whole helluva lot or that way too much of it is not just snooty pomp & circumstance. And god knows, Billy Crystal just annoys the LIVING SHIT OUTTA ME. (!!!!!)

BUT there is something to be said for the Oscars. The pomp & circumstance (though perhaps gratuitous at times) is a reminder of the grandness of movies, a reminder of the classic (and up-and-coming) movie stars and the weight they carry. How they warm our hearts or leave us burning with anger in movie after movie. That what they do is impressive. And despite the fact that every year I inevitably end up getting pissed off because a far superior movie/actor/actress gets overlooked or outshined by another far inferior movie/actor/actress, I still think the Oscars offers up something beautiful for us all--a reminder of everything that goes into all these little movie gems that we cherish so much.

I know I'm wont to forget the complexity involved in creating any given movie. And the Oscars is just a reminder (with every 30-90 second speech) of how much really goes INTO a movie--how many people are involved, how much skill is involved, how little credit everybody but the actors/actresses really GET and yet how they nonetheless keep forging ahead, relatively unknown to us, just because they share a certain sacred kinda love for film.

So yeah, perhaps I think Bill Murray shoulda won (dammit! I even lost $1 on that one!). And perhaps I can't help but be reminded of a billion OTHER really damn good little movies out there this year (and any given year) that didn't see the light of day when it came to the Academy Awards (All the Real Girls). And perhaps the Oscars are just a LITTLE bit too much about the politics and not enough about the quality of the films. And perhaps I inevitably become disgusted each and every year because of this fact--because the Academy often overlooks real quality--and end up vowing to boycott them the following year. Yet each and every year, I return for at least an hour or two... Because for those of us who love movies, the Oscars are just a reminder of why we love them--a hand skimming a pond that jostles up some of the sediment lying at the bottom. And it doesn't just jostle in our brain and hearts the movies nominated, but all the movies we've loved and enjoyed throughout our lifetime.

But then again, I'm a movie geek, so what do I know?

Random Question of the Day:
Who/what do you think got terribly short-changed at the Oscars this year (or who/what shoulda been up for an Oscar that wasn't)?

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