8.20.2004
8.18.2004
The Only Time I Condone "Reality TV"
OK, so there are some of you out there who consistently harass me about my personal appearance.
Which is OK, considering that even I know I'm not using all I've got, but for crying out loud, don't give me criticisms that I can't use.
Also, keep in mind that I don't work in a particularly "professional" environment, nor do I ever have to handle clients on a face-to-face basis, so I have no "clear and imminent" incentive to change my current habits. Basically, I am one of the faceless corporate horde, a drone paid to punch keys and watch the clock. As long as I do my job, and I've been told that I do my job well, nobody cares if I come in wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants. Or even a blanket, considering the fact that the office is currently sporting a temperature of maybe 50 degrees lately.
What does this have to do with "reality TV"?
TLC, in one of its current BBC-show knockoffs, offers hope. An answer. And a new wardrobe - well, not in excess of $5000, but hey, that's a lot of money, even in NYC, where the show is filmed and victims, er, "contestants", shop. The show, called What Not to Wear (WNTW), has it all - drama, suspense, shopping and two snooty (although comical) fashion consultants who guide the fashion blind to the lasik of style. And it's not about being "trendy", but it's about looking good AND working with what you have.
Unlike the daytime-drivel A Makeover Story, WNTW offers an intense critique, lots of "confessional" victim-diaries. . . and lessons in why the clothes you wore BEFORE meeting Stacy & Clinton didn't work for you.
I've seen guys, girls and a couple go through the treatment, watching with this bizarre voyeurism combined with intense envy.
Yes, ENVY.
These folks, for the most part, are stubbornly clueless about their wardrobes and how badly they make them appear to onlookers, passersby. . . and their family & friends. Because that's how you get on the show. Your FAMILY and FRIENDS send in an application. Then they "secretly" film you for 2 weeks to get a sense of your fashion faux pas and, if you're selected, Stacy and Clinton surprise you with a loaded $5000 VISA debit card and the fact that you're a walking fashion "don't". But, the gleeful announcement hinges entirely upon the element of surprise. They even say so in the application form. And this frustrates me. And that's where the envy comes in.
I am told that I am a walking fashion "don't", but instead of getting Stacy and Clinton, who can look at my body in larger-than-life, livid detail, and tell me why all the pants I own don't work and why I shouldn't be buying half the shit that's in my closet and dresser, I get pointed to "fashion magazines". Which don't cover "style", they cover "trends". And for a long while, "trend" didn't fit.
And it still doesn't. I'm frustrated and lost in a sea of options that seem to be built for women who aren't shaped like I am. And no matter how much weight I lose, I'm still not going to be shaped that way. Even at my slimmest (a modest 140-145 lbs for my 5'7.5", leggy, short-torsoed, large frame) I was far from "petite" and far from having the ability to look anything but ridiculous in the latest fashion "trends".
I recognize that my personal appearance leaves a bit to be desired, but stop telling me that. Without a major revision of my habits, it's not going to change.
[End rant.]
OK, Now that THAT's Over With. . .
We can get into another personal appearance discussion.
One that involves boobies.
Big, fake boobies. Attached to a very real porn star.
Weeks and weeks ago, before Ronald Reagan died and the terror alert status was raised to Orange, before I pitched a fit about being harassed left and right about my personal appearance, Matt and I took a field trip to check out a strip club.
The overall atmosphere was kinda creepy. You could tell who was a "regular" and that it seemed to be an "off" night. Well, Thursday nights aren't exactly the busiest of times for anything, especially in the middle of the summer, smack dab in the middle of what appeared to be a very blue-collar section of a small town slightly north and west of the college town I live in.
At any rate, we weren't there for the usual, local girls. We were there to see Summer Cummings. Who is actually a really interesting person to talk to.
She did her set, livened up the crowd a bit, and then signed autographs and sold videos afterwards.
And, of course, we went to talk to her. She's one of maybe 3 adult film stars that I don't think look trashy, and I can tolerate clips from her movies a lot longer than some of the others. At any rate, we talked to her about her underground fan-base, implants, mammograms and questions to ask a plastic surgeon if you're thinking about getting your boobs done.
Matt couldn't believe I asked about mammograms, but they've been on my mind lately, especially as I get more deeply involved with the Avon Walk. Fear of breast cancer is really at the front of my mind, despite the lack of traditional risk factors in my family history. I'm also very self-conscious and don't see how I could justify getting implants without causing a ruckus and have other concerns as well. I've waffled between wanting the tits reduced (at my heaviest. . . a whopping 180-185 lbs in 1997) and wanting implants (at my slimmest, see the rant for the numbers), but mostly I've not known many people who have them. Or I've seen "after-school special"-type horror stories about them. So I really enjoyed the opportunity to talk them over with someone who not only likes them, but also had enough experience with women who didn't to be honest about them. I came away feeling relaxed and informed, which isn't something you'd expect from a conversation with a porn star.
Anyway, I had a good time and would go to a strip club again, just not that one.
Maybe I'll have another brush with greatness encounter on Sunday. I'm working for the station and may catch a glimpse of music greats. . . so we'll see.
OK, so there are some of you out there who consistently harass me about my personal appearance.
Which is OK, considering that even I know I'm not using all I've got, but for crying out loud, don't give me criticisms that I can't use.
Also, keep in mind that I don't work in a particularly "professional" environment, nor do I ever have to handle clients on a face-to-face basis, so I have no "clear and imminent" incentive to change my current habits. Basically, I am one of the faceless corporate horde, a drone paid to punch keys and watch the clock. As long as I do my job, and I've been told that I do my job well, nobody cares if I come in wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants. Or even a blanket, considering the fact that the office is currently sporting a temperature of maybe 50 degrees lately.
What does this have to do with "reality TV"?
TLC, in one of its current BBC-show knockoffs, offers hope. An answer. And a new wardrobe - well, not in excess of $5000, but hey, that's a lot of money, even in NYC, where the show is filmed and victims, er, "contestants", shop. The show, called What Not to Wear (WNTW), has it all - drama, suspense, shopping and two snooty (although comical) fashion consultants who guide the fashion blind to the lasik of style. And it's not about being "trendy", but it's about looking good AND working with what you have.
Unlike the daytime-drivel A Makeover Story, WNTW offers an intense critique, lots of "confessional" victim-diaries. . . and lessons in why the clothes you wore BEFORE meeting Stacy & Clinton didn't work for you.
I've seen guys, girls and a couple go through the treatment, watching with this bizarre voyeurism combined with intense envy.
Yes, ENVY.
These folks, for the most part, are stubbornly clueless about their wardrobes and how badly they make them appear to onlookers, passersby. . . and their family & friends. Because that's how you get on the show. Your FAMILY and FRIENDS send in an application. Then they "secretly" film you for 2 weeks to get a sense of your fashion faux pas and, if you're selected, Stacy and Clinton surprise you with a loaded $5000 VISA debit card and the fact that you're a walking fashion "don't". But, the gleeful announcement hinges entirely upon the element of surprise. They even say so in the application form. And this frustrates me. And that's where the envy comes in.
I am told that I am a walking fashion "don't", but instead of getting Stacy and Clinton, who can look at my body in larger-than-life, livid detail, and tell me why all the pants I own don't work and why I shouldn't be buying half the shit that's in my closet and dresser, I get pointed to "fashion magazines". Which don't cover "style", they cover "trends". And for a long while, "trend" didn't fit.
And it still doesn't. I'm frustrated and lost in a sea of options that seem to be built for women who aren't shaped like I am. And no matter how much weight I lose, I'm still not going to be shaped that way. Even at my slimmest (a modest 140-145 lbs for my 5'7.5", leggy, short-torsoed, large frame) I was far from "petite" and far from having the ability to look anything but ridiculous in the latest fashion "trends".
I recognize that my personal appearance leaves a bit to be desired, but stop telling me that. Without a major revision of my habits, it's not going to change.
[End rant.]
OK, Now that THAT's Over With. . .
We can get into another personal appearance discussion.
One that involves boobies.
Big, fake boobies. Attached to a very real porn star.
Weeks and weeks ago, before Ronald Reagan died and the terror alert status was raised to Orange, before I pitched a fit about being harassed left and right about my personal appearance, Matt and I took a field trip to check out a strip club.
The overall atmosphere was kinda creepy. You could tell who was a "regular" and that it seemed to be an "off" night. Well, Thursday nights aren't exactly the busiest of times for anything, especially in the middle of the summer, smack dab in the middle of what appeared to be a very blue-collar section of a small town slightly north and west of the college town I live in.
At any rate, we weren't there for the usual, local girls. We were there to see Summer Cummings. Who is actually a really interesting person to talk to.
She did her set, livened up the crowd a bit, and then signed autographs and sold videos afterwards.
And, of course, we went to talk to her. She's one of maybe 3 adult film stars that I don't think look trashy, and I can tolerate clips from her movies a lot longer than some of the others. At any rate, we talked to her about her underground fan-base, implants, mammograms and questions to ask a plastic surgeon if you're thinking about getting your boobs done.
Matt couldn't believe I asked about mammograms, but they've been on my mind lately, especially as I get more deeply involved with the Avon Walk. Fear of breast cancer is really at the front of my mind, despite the lack of traditional risk factors in my family history. I'm also very self-conscious and don't see how I could justify getting implants without causing a ruckus and have other concerns as well. I've waffled between wanting the tits reduced (at my heaviest. . . a whopping 180-185 lbs in 1997) and wanting implants (at my slimmest, see the rant for the numbers), but mostly I've not known many people who have them. Or I've seen "after-school special"-type horror stories about them. So I really enjoyed the opportunity to talk them over with someone who not only likes them, but also had enough experience with women who didn't to be honest about them. I came away feeling relaxed and informed, which isn't something you'd expect from a conversation with a porn star.
Anyway, I had a good time and would go to a strip club again, just not that one.
Maybe I'll have another brush with greatness encounter on Sunday. I'm working for the station and may catch a glimpse of music greats. . . so we'll see.
8.12.2004
Why Kerry Gives Me the Creeps. . .
I couldn't put my finger on it, but it hit me last night as I was shaving my legs.
John Kerry is The Smiler.
Observe The Smiler:
Observe John Kerry:
Read Transmetropolitan: The New Scum:
I couldn't put my finger on it, but it hit me last night as I was shaving my legs.
John Kerry is The Smiler.
Observe The Smiler:
Observe John Kerry:
Read Transmetropolitan: The New Scum:
8.04.2004
An Open Plea to Ralph Nader . . .
Ralph, please, for the love of an effective electoral system and the Republic, drop the fuck out of the presidential race.
You're pulling a Teddy Roosevelt/Bull-Moose Party vote-split. Again.
I understand that you're a very principled individual, and I appreciate the fact that all cars now have seat belts and the government can't put sawdust into my peanut butter, but please, stop. The nation is divided enough without splintering into "third-party" sections.
I agree with the Greens on certain issues, but have found them to be more and more willing to be like the Libertarians. . . with whom I have no patience for their altruistic (and futile) goal of pleasing all the people all of the time.
Although the major parties leave a bad taste in my mouth, you're just a pain in my ass.
Stop it Ralph.
You let me down in 2000; I believed in you. (But, then again, I also believed in the electoral system.)
(Enough Soapbox already. More fear and loathing later today.)
Ralph, please, for the love of an effective electoral system and the Republic, drop the fuck out of the presidential race.
You're pulling a Teddy Roosevelt/Bull-Moose Party vote-split. Again.
I understand that you're a very principled individual, and I appreciate the fact that all cars now have seat belts and the government can't put sawdust into my peanut butter, but please, stop. The nation is divided enough without splintering into "third-party" sections.
I agree with the Greens on certain issues, but have found them to be more and more willing to be like the Libertarians. . . with whom I have no patience for their altruistic (and futile) goal of pleasing all the people all of the time.
Although the major parties leave a bad taste in my mouth, you're just a pain in my ass.
Stop it Ralph.
You let me down in 2000; I believed in you. (But, then again, I also believed in the electoral system.)
(Enough Soapbox already. More fear and loathing later today.)
8.03.2004
Orange Alert - Day 2
Today's team meeting brought up a very good point. . . Prudential, which is on the odd-numbered side of the street, has beefed-up security and Jersey Barriers around the building. Not to mention Newark PD officers armed with assault rifles. . . although I haven't seen any at 7:30am, when I get in, contrary to whatever you may have seen on TV or in the papers, nor have I seen any during assorted sundry points during the day through the large window that overlooks the front entrance, where security is tightest.
However, and this is the thing that I had my mini-panic attack about yesterday, there's NOTHING on the even-numbered side of the street. Which is where my building is.
Um, yeah, hello. . . the warning was about a possible CAR or TRUCK bomb. And you're not only allowing through-traffic - which, admittedly, is hard to re-route, considering the fact that Broad Street is a MAJOR thoroughfare and they're doing construction on Rte. 21 (McCarter Highway) - but you're also allowing ON STREET PARKING. And our building only started checking bags going in THIS MORNING. . . of course, they're not checking bags belonging to anyone who normally works there. Which, although it's a pain in the ass that I don't really want to deal with, is a better idea than selectively checking visitors' packages. According to the intelligence, al Qaeda has been scoping the place out for FOUR YEARS. That's more than ample time for them to get someone moled up inside our building, jackass, and they're gonna be the one who carries in the weaponry.
Now, if the biggest headline-evaluation of the 9/11 Commission's report was that 3,000 Americans didn't come home on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 because of a "failure of imagination", they certainly haven't encouraged the development of an imagination in this situation. If I imagine a worst-case scenario, the preceding paragraph is what I imagine.
Too bad I'm not involved with party politics. They could hire me as a paranoia think-tank.
Today's team meeting brought up a very good point. . . Prudential, which is on the odd-numbered side of the street, has beefed-up security and Jersey Barriers around the building. Not to mention Newark PD officers armed with assault rifles. . . although I haven't seen any at 7:30am, when I get in, contrary to whatever you may have seen on TV or in the papers, nor have I seen any during assorted sundry points during the day through the large window that overlooks the front entrance, where security is tightest.
However, and this is the thing that I had my mini-panic attack about yesterday, there's NOTHING on the even-numbered side of the street. Which is where my building is.
Um, yeah, hello. . . the warning was about a possible CAR or TRUCK bomb. And you're not only allowing through-traffic - which, admittedly, is hard to re-route, considering the fact that Broad Street is a MAJOR thoroughfare and they're doing construction on Rte. 21 (McCarter Highway) - but you're also allowing ON STREET PARKING. And our building only started checking bags going in THIS MORNING. . . of course, they're not checking bags belonging to anyone who normally works there. Which, although it's a pain in the ass that I don't really want to deal with, is a better idea than selectively checking visitors' packages. According to the intelligence, al Qaeda has been scoping the place out for FOUR YEARS. That's more than ample time for them to get someone moled up inside our building, jackass, and they're gonna be the one who carries in the weaponry.
Now, if the biggest headline-evaluation of the 9/11 Commission's report was that 3,000 Americans didn't come home on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 because of a "failure of imagination", they certainly haven't encouraged the development of an imagination in this situation. If I imagine a worst-case scenario, the preceding paragraph is what I imagine.
Too bad I'm not involved with party politics. They could hire me as a paranoia think-tank.
8.02.2004
Live from Newark. . .
Although coverage in this morning's edition of The New York Times made it sound like Camp X-Ray, when I got to work this morning, not much has changed.
Yes, the security seemed a little tighter at the Prudential offices in the Gateway Center, and the usual refusal of the throwaway paper at Penn Station was a relief, since its headline was "Triple Threat". . . which could also be applied to Yankees players Alex Rodriguez, Gary Sheffield and Tony Clarke. . . but all in all, I didn't notice much change.
Until I got closer to Broad Street.
I had feared last night that the side entrances to my building would be closed. They weren't. End panic attack #1.
Since the threat was supposed to be in the form of a car or truck bomb, I expected all on-street parking to be prohibited. It wasn't on the side streets and on the even side of Broad Street. Begin panic attack #2.
On the odd side of Broad Street, where Prudential headquarters has stood since 1960, there are the concrete barriers that have the place-kicker nickname of 'Jersey Barriers', and very large police officers. Reduce intensity of panic attack #2.
And there are news vans down to the Duane Reade. I hate news vans when I'm scared.
And I'm scared right now.
Although coverage in this morning's edition of The New York Times made it sound like Camp X-Ray, when I got to work this morning, not much has changed.
Yes, the security seemed a little tighter at the Prudential offices in the Gateway Center, and the usual refusal of the throwaway paper at Penn Station was a relief, since its headline was "Triple Threat". . . which could also be applied to Yankees players Alex Rodriguez, Gary Sheffield and Tony Clarke. . . but all in all, I didn't notice much change.
Until I got closer to Broad Street.
I had feared last night that the side entrances to my building would be closed. They weren't. End panic attack #1.
Since the threat was supposed to be in the form of a car or truck bomb, I expected all on-street parking to be prohibited. It wasn't on the side streets and on the even side of Broad Street. Begin panic attack #2.
On the odd side of Broad Street, where Prudential headquarters has stood since 1960, there are the concrete barriers that have the place-kicker nickname of 'Jersey Barriers', and very large police officers. Reduce intensity of panic attack #2.
And there are news vans down to the Duane Reade. I hate news vans when I'm scared.
And I'm scared right now.
