factory girl

I'm taking a design class. It's a mix of people - most with professional experience, some just with interest (like me), some that appear to be younger than me, some older. So, the other day in class, the instructor mentions some artists and says something about Andy Warhol. One of the students, a lady I assume is in her 40s-50s, asks for clarification. I'm thinking surely, because of the instructor's accent, she just didn't understand her. Nope. This older woman, with an interest and/or background in design/art/creative things had NEVER heard of Andy Warhol. I hope that doesn't make me snobby but it just makes me sad when someone who is old enough, who has artistic leanings has zero clue about a popular culture reference. A little piece of my brain just played a sad trombone.

six times a lady

I was watching the Maury show yesterday (yup) and one of the stories was about a couple making their SIXTH appearance on the show. (Sorry - I do not remember their names) Gloopy (the "husband") and Glompy (the wife) had come on the show five previous times (over the span of almost ten years), at Gloopy's insistence, for Gloopy to confess to his (long suffering) wife that he has cheated on her. And not the standard for these shows 'it just happened' one night stand - no, he had cheated multiple times with multiple people (I forgot the math, but the first time, he had cheated with 5 people, then the third time or so it was 25 people - which I don't know if that means a new 25 or if that includes the previous confessed dalliances).

Apparently, after all this, Glompy forgives and takes him back (FIVE times). Gloopy brings her back one last time - to prove he is no longer cheatin'! Lie detector test (not valid in most courts) prove he is no longer cheatin'! And poor Glompy says that if he fails (this test that really isn't that accurate), she is kicking him out. Good for you, Glompy! A bit late, but good for you!

In the end, he passes. He hasn't cheated on her in like a year or so, so everything is all rainbows and bubblegum. Maury ought to give them a trip somewhere (other than his show), - a second honeymoon or a first time 'I'm not cheating anymore!' trip - but he doesn't.

Which all this leaves me to wonder - if you were the wife, why in the world would you keep coming back on the Maury show? I mean, after the first two times or so, you kind of get the point that Gloopy has the Maury show producers on speed dial and that every time Gloopy says, "honey, pack your bags, we're going to Maury next week!" it means that, yes, he's cheating on you (except this last time!). Outside of the question why in the world did she keep this guy around? I mean, the first time my husband announces, on syndicated television, that's he's cheating, I'd be like, ok, alright, donzo, there's the door. Did he tell her the second, third, fourth, FIFTH time that it was a show not about his cheating or did he let it be a 'surprise' to her? And why choose that same show, that you humiliated your wife on five times before, to vindicate yourself? I mean, really.

I alone

[originally posted on myspace on July 27, 2009]

- my apologies for the stripy-ness of this...I don't know how to correct it -

I will call her “Julie,” named after Love Boat Cruise Director Julie McCoy. You’ll see why in a second (depending on your rate of reading).

As a background, I met Julie one time before seeing her again the other night. That first time I met her, eh, I just found her to be very forcibly nice. Like if she was a character in a Lifetime movie, she’d start out super nice and just a bit off-puttingly too friendly and by the end of the movie, she’d steal your husband, poison your dog, kidnap your kids, somehow get you fired from your job, torch your car, etc.

But, really, I don’t know her well enough to cast her into a movie. She seems nice.

So, the other night, she comes over to me and re-introduces herself (thankfully, as her hair was different, so I probably would not have recognized her otherwise). She reintroduces herself, still the same forced friendly, “You’re Jen, right? Hi, I’m Julie, we’ve met a few times, I think.” (unless she has been showing up at my apartment during my Daisy of Love viewings, then, no, we’ve met once).

I am standing away from the stage because, 1) the older I get, the further away I want to stand from the speakers and 2) the show was in a record store and man, did I want to rummage through the room full of vinyl. She, again, being nice, invited me to join “the rest of us,” the group of assorted band member significant others and supporters who were directly in front of the stage. I said no, thanks and she flitted away. It reminded me of a time in 8^th grade…I had made one of the ‘popular’ girls laugh and she suddenly realized I was cool and invited me to move over to the ‘cool’ section of our mutual math class (yes, our math class had a ‘cool’ section, the two rows closest to the door which was filled with all the popular kids of the class and apparently, was a by invitation only sort of seating arrangement). Anyway, it was a nice thought, but, really, I was happy roaming the store on my own. I didn’t really feel the urge to sit with others I didn’t know/didn’t really want to know and drum up conversations. There was vinyl to pillage! So much for my networking skills, eh?

Here’s where she earns the name Julie. She was working the event, like a social event coordinator, like it was her job. She was making sure the video camera was set up, she was mingling with the people. And then, she repeatedly came over to me through out the night to check on me (like a waitress, I almost asked for a refill of my nonexistent drink, but I don’t think she would have taken it as a joke). Not in a ‘do you like the music?’ or ‘what do think of the store?’ kind of way, but in a ‘are you having fun?’ and ‘are you ok?’ kind of way. Because, obviously, a person cannot possibly be happy standing by herself in a record store, watching bands play (had there been alcohol, it would have been my dream setting).

I assume she’s just working the room, repeatedly assure her I am fine, even go talk to some people to get her to back off. At the end of the night, when I normally would have slipped out quietly, as I had someplace else to be, I made it a point to go and say a kind farewell to her. I get a big old hug (expected) and again, she asks me if I had a good time, to which I, again, assure her yes (and besides, if I didn’t have a good time, that’d be on me, not the activity director). Then she says something along the lines of: “I just worry about you because EVERY TIME I see you, you’re alone.” (or it might have been “you’re by yourself”)

I can’t pinpoint why her sentence surprised me (and has burrowed a little hole in my brain and made me post a blog about it). Worry? Because we are not friends and you don’t know me enough to make an assumption about worrisome behavior (granted, if you met someone twice and both times, they were extremely trashed, you might want to worry over the state of their liver, sure).

Every time? The total of 2 (including that evening) times she has seen me equals “every time.” Yes, mathematically, that is correct. 2 out of 2 is 100%. But 2 out of 2 may also be too soon to judge, Sunshine.

Yes, the TWO times I have seen her, I have been at a show alone. Is that a horrible thing? Is that something that needs to bring on the old Jewish mother with an aged, unmarried, wallflower daughter high level of concern? It went from being friendly to feeling more like she was the camp counselor adopting woeful, anti-social me as her special project (complete with 1980s movie make over montage and my emerging out of my cocoon to rise to social butterfly stature with crimped blonde hair in time for the big end of summer dance).

Sure, there were 2 (or 3) people that, had they come along (had they been available or had I asked), it would have been a fun night. But, shocker, I had a good time by myself. And I’m sure it’s harder to believe because I know I tend to have a frown (or I’d rather think of it, I don’t have a plastic fake perma-smile stuck on my face), but when you go to shows alone, you adopt that look, that don’t bother me, please, drunk man, don’t hit on me, look (a look that drunks are oblivious to, apparently).

Or, I could see some concern if, every time, I showed up alone and went home with some random guy, or started throwing barstools at strangers for looking at me funny or defaced property. Nope. I show up, usually late, enjoy and leave, usually quietly.

Milk

[originally posted on myspace on June 16, 2010]

(more of a reaction than a review)

Long story short, I now have Netflix, so I am catching up on all the movies (many) I never saw in theaters.

After a string of happy, lighter films, I got Milk in the mail. I was leery. It looked good, but it was a biopic, a biopic on someone (Harvey Milk) who was murdered, so, I mean, it's bound to be dark and sad, right?

No, it wasn't. Yes, it was sad that he was murdered and the reason why he was murdered was sad...but it was really a movie about pushing past your lot in life and trying to make things better for your people, whoever they might be. And, I'm sure, as it's a biopic about a murdered person, it glosses over, it makes him more of a saint than he might have really been, more of a fictional character than real...I had trouble believing he was so focussed on what he was fighting for and that he, essentially, predicted his own death (I'm getting jaded, yes?).

There was a scene, early on, where Milk says he is almost 40 years old and hasn't done anything with his life (this is right before he departs for San Francisco and eventually starts his political career). Who hasn't felt that? To be a particular age and question everything, all the past years and decades and want to do something, anything.

Anyway, it was a good film. At times, a little heavy handed, but overall, really good. Sean Penn is such a good actor. It's scary to think that not that long ago (the late '70s), so close to home (the film shows footage from Miami), the cops were dragging gays out of nightclubs and arresting them.

So, I told my mom what movie I had watched and who it was about. She had no clue who I was talking about. Now, I will admit, I don't remember when I first heard about Harvey Milk, certainly not in any of my history classes in elementary, junior high, high school or college (which is so very sad, but contemporary history is typically never covered...they usually got up to the Industrial Revolution). My mom, however, is a history buff, she was alive when this all happened, she was living in South Florida during the whole Anita Bryant thing. When I referenced Anita Bryant, she knew that name, remembered the whole orange juice connection. I told her that the man who shot Milk, that his lawyers used the "Twinkie Defense" (I had zero idea about that as well, had often heard the "Twinkie Defense" referenced but had no clue it was in relation to Milk).

So, no one knows history. And fairly recently history at that.

On the Netflix website, there were lots of positive reviews, one equating it to a gay version of Malcolm X (and I think this is the biopic formula, so...) and one...one that made no sense to me. One that I read before I watched that made me get a preconceived image of the film before I even watched it (reviews are, for the most part, evil in that way). And as I watched, I got angry at this reviewer, who obviously did not watch the same movie I did.

The reviewer said that the point of the movie was to "push the gay activist agenda" and that there were "disturbing sex scenes."

Yeah, after reading that, I was expecting some explicit scenes (it was a Gus Van Sant movie, after all).

In reality, minimum sex scenes. There were kissing scenes, but it was Milk with two boyfriends from his lifetime, not random one night stands. And the kissing scenes were barely ever on the mouth and both the kissing and sex scenes (two total, I believe) were so fast, so covered in shadows. They were, artistically at the very least, beautiful. That this reviewer could see something "disturbing" in all that, that he (or she) could miss the whole entire point of the movie and dismiss it as "agenda," makes me sad for society and wonder how far we've really come (if at all) in acceptance.

not an interview

[originally posted on myspace on October 28, 2008, Thursday]

There are some things I am particular about. And I have a cold so I'm grumpy.

A "Q&A" reprint is not an interview.

I hate when a publication (print, online, whatever) runs an "interview" that is just in a "question/answer" format, such as:

Q: Why did you decide to such and such?

A: When I was a young child, an angel visited me and told me that I needed to do such and such by my 21st birthday...blah blah blah.

I hate that format! That is not an interview.

Writing some questions and copying and pasting word for word the response (you emailed your subject those questions, didn't you?) is lazy. You should take the answers and weave it into a story. Take those answers and mix in background/bio info. That is an interview. And operating from a set list of questions (that is, everyone, no matter what, gets the same list of questions, in the same order) is so lazy. You run the risk of asking questions that aren't applicable and you miss out on the opportunity of a follow up - related to the subject's unique answer - question.

Ugh.

I’m not undressing you with my eyes. I’m adding a sweater.

[originally posted on myspace on Thursday, March 20, 2008]

I got a random email from a stranger: "hey sweetie whats goin on my name is @@ i just want to say hi"

Which is fine. The use of "sweetie" and absolutely no reference to anything on my profile makes me think he is cutting and pasting this sentence to a few hundred ladies he is emailing at one time. But, whatev.

I do check out his profile, as sometimes interesting people send dumbass emails. Under his "Who I’d Like to Meet" section, it says "anyone."

Eh. Desperate, much?

Anyway, on his profile: a few hundred friends, all female (except about 2), almost all with asses and tits popping to camera.

Delete.

Over the years, I’ve gotten some ribbing about my reluctant release of details (and pics, hell, sometimes even real name) online but I know the amount of stalker potential from when I was on the radio. Creepy boys (and some girls) would fall in "love" with you just because of your voice and/or song choice. They do not need to know my real name, where I live, especially what I look like as I don’t want to run into one of these people out in the "real" world…especially not at a bar, at a show or in front of my house. As much as I (at times) want fame, I don’t want the fishbowl lifestyle that comes with it.

So, back to the asses hanging out all over myspace…I don’t see the point. I suppose, if you have it, flaunt it (even some that don’t, flaunt it, ugh). I guess there is some ego boost to have lots of "you’re so hot" comments left for you, mostly from total strangers (as their opinion is so valuable). But I guess that little wire in my head never got crossed – that wire that made it alright, well, flat out desirable to post skanky picture(s) for some total stranger(s) to jack off to (come on now, you know they do). Some guy getting off without knowing a thing about me other than knowing my tits and ass. Classy.

And what about the (creepy) guys who do want to know you better…who see the "sexy" online and want to meet that in person…with or without you knowing they will be meeting you in person. I don’t delve into the skanky pic profiles deep enough to know a thing about them (nor do I care to – and I can say the same for skanky boy pic profiles), but I just hope for their sakes, they don’t divulge lots of personal and identifiable info.

Maybe it’s some (bizarre) feminist reaction (or backlash?).

I’m sure some of these ladies mean well. I just don’t get what the point of it is, what inherent value there is to it. Maybe some of them even find modeling jobs (snicker) or love (the kind of love Bret Michaels and Flavor Flav will end up with by season finale time that may potentially require medicine). Maybe it’s just artistic expression and I will absolutely defend your right to do so, but, really, ladies, you look stupid.

[see also: http://jezebel.com/369696/how-did-we-go-from-riot-grrrls-to-girls-gone-wild]