Tuesday, February 28, 2006
My Mother
Now, I could have waited until Mother's Day to do this post, but I felt like it was so important to get these thoughts off my mind before it became...well, frazzled,that I must get them down now.
If I had to think of one woman who I can honestly say is the most fascinating, awe inspiring, commendable person I know, I would honestly say it's my mother. Now wait, hold your horses, don't think I'm being mushy and reflecting my "I wub you Mom" construction paper cards onto my sacred space. My mother and I have a trouble past at best. We love each other but it is with a determination not experienced by most mothers and daughters. We fight for our love, every day, all the time in the fact of many destructive interlopers: memories, mistakes, words, expressions, expectations. But in the end we love each other for two very distinct reasons I think: first, because we both feel like we ought to (being flesh of one flesh, blood of one blood and all) and also because we see in each other such a clear reflection of self and sheer admiration of the resilience and the will that it takes to be such an innovative and strong woman inspires in us an almost Narcissistic kind of affection. In short, I see in my mother everything that I am today and everything I want to be. In me, I believe she sees the positive things that flowed naturally from her to me.
Now the reason I am dedicating this blog to my mother is because she read the blog for the first time the other day. Then she called me and spoke to me about it. It is a curious thing when the cyber world and the real world come into contact with one another. I didn't know quite how to feel about discussing my blog with my mom. She wished particularly to talk about the Valentine's Day post. I was a little uncomfortable about her reading that for the same reason I get uncomfortable with anyone I know reading anything I write that purports to be factual. I am always afraid I've gotten some small yet crucial detail wrong or that my memory is faulty. To the stranger, the details don't matter; only the feeling evoked matters. To those close to me, the devil is in those details and if one is wrong it invalidates anything else I have to say. So, she calls me and she says, "wow, I almost feel like it's my fault that you hate Valentine's Day?" Now that one threw me for a loop. "Why?" I asked. "Well, because of the wedding," she responded.
Now it is a curious thing that mothers before a certain era (I'd put it at the 1980's) can do such a thing as my mother did. She could read that whole post about Valentine's Day and come out with the assertion that it is her fault that I hate that day. It's funny because that quality is notoriously absent of mothers today, even when it should be ever present. My oldest daughter, for instance, is what one might call a "spirited child" (she has a lot of tantrums and emotional outbursts). I feel like a bad mother just writing this, but when she does what I call her "diva thing," my first thought is not "this is my fault. I have done something to cause this." My first thought, embarrassingly enough, is "what is wrong with her?" It's not that I think my child is mental. She posesses half my DNA so she can only be as mental as her father and I put together (wait, that doesn't help my case much...), but that I don't automatically assume that anything I did or said contributed to who she is. I think that because I have this pervasive belief that childhood is this somewhat pupal stage where interaction with adults is both primary and peripheral at the same time. Everything my mother ever did affects me in some way just as what my father did (or, rather, didn't do as it were) affects me, but ultimately those were just pictures in the picture show, influences upon which I based my view of life. Based on the things my mother and I went thorugh, I could have basis to hate her, but I don't. I love her very much. Based on those same experiences, and against all convention, my mother could hate me, but she doesn't. So there is an element of choice in these things. The actions of adults in my life were taken into consideration and I chose how to feel about said adults based on not only their actions, but who I am as a person.
I think that's what makes the love between my mother and I unique. That we choose to love each other despite all the very valid reasons we have not to. I am not a very good daughter. Admittedly, I am very self centered, notorious for missing cues on when to be emotionally supportive, and (possibly the worst crime of all) I don't visit my mother enough. But she is still there to talk to me whenever I need to, gives advice liberally, gives judgement conservatively, and makes sure never to miss an opportunity to tell me how great I am. That is the essence of motherhood I think. So I guess the message that I'd send to her and to the world through this blog is that nothing you ever did messed me up. To the contrary, everything that ever happened between us was a learning experience, a feeling experience, and I am thankful for that. Even though I am an odd, ambiguous, stubborn, self centered little brat sometimes, that's what makes me "me" and I don't wish to be anyone else. Had you done anything different, I would have been.
"I wub you mommy"
If I had to think of one woman who I can honestly say is the most fascinating, awe inspiring, commendable person I know, I would honestly say it's my mother. Now wait, hold your horses, don't think I'm being mushy and reflecting my "I wub you Mom" construction paper cards onto my sacred space. My mother and I have a trouble past at best. We love each other but it is with a determination not experienced by most mothers and daughters. We fight for our love, every day, all the time in the fact of many destructive interlopers: memories, mistakes, words, expressions, expectations. But in the end we love each other for two very distinct reasons I think: first, because we both feel like we ought to (being flesh of one flesh, blood of one blood and all) and also because we see in each other such a clear reflection of self and sheer admiration of the resilience and the will that it takes to be such an innovative and strong woman inspires in us an almost Narcissistic kind of affection. In short, I see in my mother everything that I am today and everything I want to be. In me, I believe she sees the positive things that flowed naturally from her to me.
Now the reason I am dedicating this blog to my mother is because she read the blog for the first time the other day. Then she called me and spoke to me about it. It is a curious thing when the cyber world and the real world come into contact with one another. I didn't know quite how to feel about discussing my blog with my mom. She wished particularly to talk about the Valentine's Day post. I was a little uncomfortable about her reading that for the same reason I get uncomfortable with anyone I know reading anything I write that purports to be factual. I am always afraid I've gotten some small yet crucial detail wrong or that my memory is faulty. To the stranger, the details don't matter; only the feeling evoked matters. To those close to me, the devil is in those details and if one is wrong it invalidates anything else I have to say. So, she calls me and she says, "wow, I almost feel like it's my fault that you hate Valentine's Day?" Now that one threw me for a loop. "Why?" I asked. "Well, because of the wedding," she responded.
Now it is a curious thing that mothers before a certain era (I'd put it at the 1980's) can do such a thing as my mother did. She could read that whole post about Valentine's Day and come out with the assertion that it is her fault that I hate that day. It's funny because that quality is notoriously absent of mothers today, even when it should be ever present. My oldest daughter, for instance, is what one might call a "spirited child" (she has a lot of tantrums and emotional outbursts). I feel like a bad mother just writing this, but when she does what I call her "diva thing," my first thought is not "this is my fault. I have done something to cause this." My first thought, embarrassingly enough, is "what is wrong with her?" It's not that I think my child is mental. She posesses half my DNA so she can only be as mental as her father and I put together (wait, that doesn't help my case much...), but that I don't automatically assume that anything I did or said contributed to who she is. I think that because I have this pervasive belief that childhood is this somewhat pupal stage where interaction with adults is both primary and peripheral at the same time. Everything my mother ever did affects me in some way just as what my father did (or, rather, didn't do as it were) affects me, but ultimately those were just pictures in the picture show, influences upon which I based my view of life. Based on the things my mother and I went thorugh, I could have basis to hate her, but I don't. I love her very much. Based on those same experiences, and against all convention, my mother could hate me, but she doesn't. So there is an element of choice in these things. The actions of adults in my life were taken into consideration and I chose how to feel about said adults based on not only their actions, but who I am as a person.
I think that's what makes the love between my mother and I unique. That we choose to love each other despite all the very valid reasons we have not to. I am not a very good daughter. Admittedly, I am very self centered, notorious for missing cues on when to be emotionally supportive, and (possibly the worst crime of all) I don't visit my mother enough. But she is still there to talk to me whenever I need to, gives advice liberally, gives judgement conservatively, and makes sure never to miss an opportunity to tell me how great I am. That is the essence of motherhood I think. So I guess the message that I'd send to her and to the world through this blog is that nothing you ever did messed me up. To the contrary, everything that ever happened between us was a learning experience, a feeling experience, and I am thankful for that. Even though I am an odd, ambiguous, stubborn, self centered little brat sometimes, that's what makes me "me" and I don't wish to be anyone else. Had you done anything different, I would have been.
"I wub you mommy"
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Things that make you go...hmmmmmm
Pick-up truck testicles.
I mean, that phrase alone could speak for itself, but it is not in my nature to let any phenomena (commonly occurring or not) go without at least my two-cent analysis. So...pick-up truck testicles.
My ex-boyfriend doesn't believe they exist, but I've seen them. Most commonly, I encounter them as I slow down behind a truck at a red light. The first time I ever encountered them I remember snickering to myself "hey, that guys got something hanging out the bottom of his truck but (hee-hee), it looks like balls." Then I stopped. And I looked. And I squinted. And I leaned forward. And the truck started to drive away. And the car behind me honked. And I sat there with the image forever burned into my mind. Hanging just below the rear fender, off of a hook no less, were two perfectly-formed, "fleshy" pink colored testicles. And not only were they perfectly formed testicles, they were large perfectly formed testicles. Now, having held the belief all my life that the measure of most men's manhood rested in their, well, manhood, I was suprised and intrigued by my discovery.
Interestingly enough, discovering pick-up truck testicles is kind of the same as learning to drive. Before you know how to drive you never notice the stop signs or the "no U-turn" signs and so you're oblivious to it all. But once you learn to drive, you realize the damn things are everywhere. Such is the case with the testicles. I've found they are particularly prevalent along Ritchie Highway (which, to non-Baltimoreans means nothing so let me interpret: a long stretch of strip malls and gas stations that leads into a really nice, cushy suburb).
Now, having made this discovery I felt it was my pleasure, nay, my obligation to share this information with someone. I had to spread the good news. So I tell Anthony (ex-boyfriend/"babyfawva") and guess what? He doesn't believe me. So we're in the car (mine because he doesn't have one) and I'm searching frantically, furiously for testicles dangling off the backs of vehicles. But alas, we were in the wrong section of town. We were in Pigtown, the now predominantly black section of Southwest Baltimore that could be characterized as, among other things, "the hood." Now whereas in the county, having large, fake plastic testicles dangling off the back of your vehicle is considered funny or perhaps even a touch macho, in the hood...it's gay, straight up. So my effort to prove this phenomena failed.
Ever see that cartoon where the guy discovers a frog who sings show tunes but everytime he goes to show anyone the frog just sits there, ribbiting? That's how I felt. Everytime I was alone in the car, here come the testicles. I discovered they don't just come in fleshy pink, no, they come in hot pink, electric blue, red (if you're feeling racy), and black (although not such an effective color because the darkness hides the contrast and therefore leads the viewer of said testicles to think that they did not see what they did, in fact, see).
It is now my mission to get a picture of pick-up truck testicles. I don't know how many people read or have read this blog, but if you are reading this and you have a camera phone and have the priviledge of riding shotgun and have a camera phone AND you have absolutely nothing better to do, I implore you to please e-mail me a picture of a pick-up truck testicle, preferably one close-up to prove that it is, in fact, a testicle and one from further away to prove that it does, in fact, dangle from a pick-up truck. To the person who can do this, I will be indebted to you eternally.
I mean, that phrase alone could speak for itself, but it is not in my nature to let any phenomena (commonly occurring or not) go without at least my two-cent analysis. So...pick-up truck testicles.
My ex-boyfriend doesn't believe they exist, but I've seen them. Most commonly, I encounter them as I slow down behind a truck at a red light. The first time I ever encountered them I remember snickering to myself "hey, that guys got something hanging out the bottom of his truck but (hee-hee), it looks like balls." Then I stopped. And I looked. And I squinted. And I leaned forward. And the truck started to drive away. And the car behind me honked. And I sat there with the image forever burned into my mind. Hanging just below the rear fender, off of a hook no less, were two perfectly-formed, "fleshy" pink colored testicles. And not only were they perfectly formed testicles, they were large perfectly formed testicles. Now, having held the belief all my life that the measure of most men's manhood rested in their, well, manhood, I was suprised and intrigued by my discovery.
Interestingly enough, discovering pick-up truck testicles is kind of the same as learning to drive. Before you know how to drive you never notice the stop signs or the "no U-turn" signs and so you're oblivious to it all. But once you learn to drive, you realize the damn things are everywhere. Such is the case with the testicles. I've found they are particularly prevalent along Ritchie Highway (which, to non-Baltimoreans means nothing so let me interpret: a long stretch of strip malls and gas stations that leads into a really nice, cushy suburb).
Now, having made this discovery I felt it was my pleasure, nay, my obligation to share this information with someone. I had to spread the good news. So I tell Anthony (ex-boyfriend/"babyfawva") and guess what? He doesn't believe me. So we're in the car (mine because he doesn't have one) and I'm searching frantically, furiously for testicles dangling off the backs of vehicles. But alas, we were in the wrong section of town. We were in Pigtown, the now predominantly black section of Southwest Baltimore that could be characterized as, among other things, "the hood." Now whereas in the county, having large, fake plastic testicles dangling off the back of your vehicle is considered funny or perhaps even a touch macho, in the hood...it's gay, straight up. So my effort to prove this phenomena failed.
Ever see that cartoon where the guy discovers a frog who sings show tunes but everytime he goes to show anyone the frog just sits there, ribbiting? That's how I felt. Everytime I was alone in the car, here come the testicles. I discovered they don't just come in fleshy pink, no, they come in hot pink, electric blue, red (if you're feeling racy), and black (although not such an effective color because the darkness hides the contrast and therefore leads the viewer of said testicles to think that they did not see what they did, in fact, see).
It is now my mission to get a picture of pick-up truck testicles. I don't know how many people read or have read this blog, but if you are reading this and you have a camera phone and have the priviledge of riding shotgun and have a camera phone AND you have absolutely nothing better to do, I implore you to please e-mail me a picture of a pick-up truck testicle, preferably one close-up to prove that it is, in fact, a testicle and one from further away to prove that it does, in fact, dangle from a pick-up truck. To the person who can do this, I will be indebted to you eternally.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
The Valentine's Day Debacle
It seems to be a curious phenomena that every year, on this very day, I happen to be thinking precisely the same thing. "I friggin hate Valentine's Day." Now, understand that this is not a function of not being in a committed relationship (although I haven't been for quite a few years). Even when I was in "love" (and I use that term to loosely encompass obsession, low-self esteem, insanity, and divinity) I hated Valentines Day.
For a long time I linked it to the Valentines Day of my eleventh year. That was an interesting day indeed. It was rainy and I was stuffed into a poofy dress that was stuffed between my stepbrother on one side and my infant brother on the other side. It was raining outside and I remember that my brother, barely two years old, rested his head against the window. He was sleeping and his short breaths, accentuated by a mid-winter cold, made small clouds against the glass that expanded and shrunk with his snores. We were lost, hopelessly lost. We were supposed to be going to a church so that my mother and my stepfather could make their already 7 year relationship "honest" by taking vows of marriage. What ensued was a comedy of errors that even today makes me a believer of the wise words spoken by Shug Avery's minister father in the The Color Purple. "Maybe God is tryna tell you somethin'."
Eventually we found the church and the proceedings got underway and the events of the morning (oversleeping, getting lost, my baby brother's crankiness) could have been laughed off and put into the neat little box of "something always goes wrong at weddings." That is, until the itch started. It was a small nagging itch in the car. It was up my arm on a bump that looked like a small mosquito bite. Had I been a bit older (or had I paid more attention in health class) I would have known that the mosquitoes had long since died and that their ambitious offspring were probably still larvae in an egg sack somewhere, but all that is beside the point. Just as the minister was asking if there was anyone who could find just cause for them not to be married (among the ten or so friends and family that attended the ceremon, of which us kids were five), I noticed that there were now seven bumps where they used to be one. Now I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed back then, but I knew that mosquito bites did not procreate. So I tapped my step-brother, who tapped my step-sister, who tapped my aunt, who nearly back-handed my stepsister and all pointed to my arm. Though the attempt was made to keep it quiet, just as the minister was pronouncing my mother and my stepfather man and wife, a small crowd had gathered around me to witness my rapid transformation into a piece of bubble paper. That's right, people, I got the chicken pox in the middle of my mother's wedding. Not surprisingly, the marriage lasted about fourteen more months and then crashed and burned. Three lessons I learned that day: #1 pay attention to omens; #2marriage can screw up an otherwise fabulous relationship; #3 Valentine's Day is a destructive self-fullfilling prophecy of a disastrous day.
For years I toted the "Wedding Day debacle," as I now call it, as my sole reason for hating Valentine's Day but at age 29, on the cusp of my fourth decade on this great planet, I need to come clean. This is not the reason that I hate Valentine's Day.
For the longest time I could not quantify why exactly I despised the day so much. It started with a feeling in my stomach as I woke up that day. I turn on the tv and there are news stories of wierd ways men have proposed to women, flower shops charging $100 a dozen for roses, and features on how to select the best cut and clarity of diamond for your budget. Point of Contention #1: (even though I already know the answer to this question...) Why are all American holidays centered around either a) eating things that will clog our arteries and/or give us Type 2 Diabetes or b) spending exorbitant amounts of money on gifts? Yes, you know the answer too. So basically before I even get out of bed, I'm annoyed with the day already. Then, there's the phone calls. My friends all know that I'm single and at age 29 apparently this fact turns into a tragedy comparable only Hamlet or West Side Story perhaps, so my friends have to call "just to you I love you." Point of Contention #2: unless it's showing affection for a group of people that by nature should not have a romantic significant other (i.e. your kids or your pet), why do people try to pretend that the holiday is about "love" in general? We all know this is not the case so why don't we end the charade? So basically, before I've even gone out the door I am so over Valentine's Day. But then I have to sit at work all day and watch the march of the delivery men. I'm convinced that Gershwin could have made a whole musical out of this routine. They come in one by one and exchange pleasantries with our front desk receptionist who is, thankfully, just as cynical about the holiday as I am. Then everyone "oohs" and "aaahs" the flowers as if they aren't the same damn flowers that came at 9:15, 9:30, 9:42, and 10:06. The only real entertainment comes when the occasional bouquet of yellow roses arrives. These pique my interest because we all should know that yellow roses are for friendship, not love, so we have to watch to see who comes and claims them and what their reaction is. Now if the reaction is "awww, my sorority sisters are so precious," this spectacle was a waste of ten seconds of my life that I can never get back, but if the receiver of the flowers opens the card, reads it, and with a confused expression says, "oh. how nice" that makes my whole day better. You see, it's not deriving enjoyment from another's bad fortune (well, maybe a little), but moreso that the farce of this day is revealed.
Which brings me back to why I friggin' hate Valentine's Day (did I mention that I friggin' hate Valentine's Day?). It's not the flowers, or the candy, or the romantic notion. It's the implication people. The implication that romantic love is this goal to which we should all aspire. That we should live our lives searching for our "soul mate" and that when we find him or her then, and ONLY then, have we found true bliss. And if you haven't managed to find that person yet? If you are one of the throngs of poor rejects that has not managed to pair up with someone? Well, then the holiday is not about romantic love. It's about love in general. Anyone can love anyone, they tell you, and Valentine's Day is a celebration of that love. Well here's a newsflash Valentine's people. Romantic love is not the end all-be all (and I'm not just saying that because I'm not currently in love). There are many other things that are important in life. Achieving your goals, finding your passion, helping others, being a good person (Paris Hilton). So the point I'm trying to make here is that instead of having a holiday that embellishes the experience of romantic love (and, in essence, ostracizing all who don't happen to be engaged in it at that present time), why not have a holiday that celebrates the way we express our love of all things: action. Why not celebrate what we do, who we are, where we go, why we are. Or, if we do celebrate Valentine's Day, celebrate it with a sincere emphasis on all love instead of just romantic love.
I know, I know, I sound like a lonely heifer who is just crying foul because I don't "gotta man." But seriously, there is so much more to me than my romantic self that I feel like it is a disservice to only celebrate that side of myself with anyone I date. I think that when we as a culture start to value our gifts to the world and to one another as a larger community, we'll all see that Valentine's Day is a cheap ploy on the part of the chocolate, diamond, and rose industries to fool us into buying the dream, but the real question is, will you still love the dream tomorrow.
Next post: not so serious I promise!
For a long time I linked it to the Valentines Day of my eleventh year. That was an interesting day indeed. It was rainy and I was stuffed into a poofy dress that was stuffed between my stepbrother on one side and my infant brother on the other side. It was raining outside and I remember that my brother, barely two years old, rested his head against the window. He was sleeping and his short breaths, accentuated by a mid-winter cold, made small clouds against the glass that expanded and shrunk with his snores. We were lost, hopelessly lost. We were supposed to be going to a church so that my mother and my stepfather could make their already 7 year relationship "honest" by taking vows of marriage. What ensued was a comedy of errors that even today makes me a believer of the wise words spoken by Shug Avery's minister father in the The Color Purple. "Maybe God is tryna tell you somethin'."
Eventually we found the church and the proceedings got underway and the events of the morning (oversleeping, getting lost, my baby brother's crankiness) could have been laughed off and put into the neat little box of "something always goes wrong at weddings." That is, until the itch started. It was a small nagging itch in the car. It was up my arm on a bump that looked like a small mosquito bite. Had I been a bit older (or had I paid more attention in health class) I would have known that the mosquitoes had long since died and that their ambitious offspring were probably still larvae in an egg sack somewhere, but all that is beside the point. Just as the minister was asking if there was anyone who could find just cause for them not to be married (among the ten or so friends and family that attended the ceremon, of which us kids were five), I noticed that there were now seven bumps where they used to be one. Now I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed back then, but I knew that mosquito bites did not procreate. So I tapped my step-brother, who tapped my step-sister, who tapped my aunt, who nearly back-handed my stepsister and all pointed to my arm. Though the attempt was made to keep it quiet, just as the minister was pronouncing my mother and my stepfather man and wife, a small crowd had gathered around me to witness my rapid transformation into a piece of bubble paper. That's right, people, I got the chicken pox in the middle of my mother's wedding. Not surprisingly, the marriage lasted about fourteen more months and then crashed and burned. Three lessons I learned that day: #1 pay attention to omens; #2marriage can screw up an otherwise fabulous relationship; #3 Valentine's Day is a destructive self-fullfilling prophecy of a disastrous day.
For years I toted the "Wedding Day debacle," as I now call it, as my sole reason for hating Valentine's Day but at age 29, on the cusp of my fourth decade on this great planet, I need to come clean. This is not the reason that I hate Valentine's Day.
For the longest time I could not quantify why exactly I despised the day so much. It started with a feeling in my stomach as I woke up that day. I turn on the tv and there are news stories of wierd ways men have proposed to women, flower shops charging $100 a dozen for roses, and features on how to select the best cut and clarity of diamond for your budget. Point of Contention #1: (even though I already know the answer to this question...) Why are all American holidays centered around either a) eating things that will clog our arteries and/or give us Type 2 Diabetes or b) spending exorbitant amounts of money on gifts? Yes, you know the answer too. So basically before I even get out of bed, I'm annoyed with the day already. Then, there's the phone calls. My friends all know that I'm single and at age 29 apparently this fact turns into a tragedy comparable only Hamlet or West Side Story perhaps, so my friends have to call "just to you I love you." Point of Contention #2: unless it's showing affection for a group of people that by nature should not have a romantic significant other (i.e. your kids or your pet), why do people try to pretend that the holiday is about "love" in general? We all know this is not the case so why don't we end the charade? So basically, before I've even gone out the door I am so over Valentine's Day. But then I have to sit at work all day and watch the march of the delivery men. I'm convinced that Gershwin could have made a whole musical out of this routine. They come in one by one and exchange pleasantries with our front desk receptionist who is, thankfully, just as cynical about the holiday as I am. Then everyone "oohs" and "aaahs" the flowers as if they aren't the same damn flowers that came at 9:15, 9:30, 9:42, and 10:06. The only real entertainment comes when the occasional bouquet of yellow roses arrives. These pique my interest because we all should know that yellow roses are for friendship, not love, so we have to watch to see who comes and claims them and what their reaction is. Now if the reaction is "awww, my sorority sisters are so precious," this spectacle was a waste of ten seconds of my life that I can never get back, but if the receiver of the flowers opens the card, reads it, and with a confused expression says, "oh. how nice" that makes my whole day better. You see, it's not deriving enjoyment from another's bad fortune (well, maybe a little), but moreso that the farce of this day is revealed.
Which brings me back to why I friggin' hate Valentine's Day (did I mention that I friggin' hate Valentine's Day?). It's not the flowers, or the candy, or the romantic notion. It's the implication people. The implication that romantic love is this goal to which we should all aspire. That we should live our lives searching for our "soul mate" and that when we find him or her then, and ONLY then, have we found true bliss. And if you haven't managed to find that person yet? If you are one of the throngs of poor rejects that has not managed to pair up with someone? Well, then the holiday is not about romantic love. It's about love in general. Anyone can love anyone, they tell you, and Valentine's Day is a celebration of that love. Well here's a newsflash Valentine's people. Romantic love is not the end all-be all (and I'm not just saying that because I'm not currently in love). There are many other things that are important in life. Achieving your goals, finding your passion, helping others, being a good person (Paris Hilton). So the point I'm trying to make here is that instead of having a holiday that embellishes the experience of romantic love (and, in essence, ostracizing all who don't happen to be engaged in it at that present time), why not have a holiday that celebrates the way we express our love of all things: action. Why not celebrate what we do, who we are, where we go, why we are. Or, if we do celebrate Valentine's Day, celebrate it with a sincere emphasis on all love instead of just romantic love.
I know, I know, I sound like a lonely heifer who is just crying foul because I don't "gotta man." But seriously, there is so much more to me than my romantic self that I feel like it is a disservice to only celebrate that side of myself with anyone I date. I think that when we as a culture start to value our gifts to the world and to one another as a larger community, we'll all see that Valentine's Day is a cheap ploy on the part of the chocolate, diamond, and rose industries to fool us into buying the dream, but the real question is, will you still love the dream tomorrow.
Next post: not so serious I promise!
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The Grandeur of the Grammys
Well, after numerous commercials promising the best awards show ever, I have concluded that the Grammys is the most boring award show of all of them. Now, you have to have a certain amount of ridiculousness tolerance to watch award shows in the first place. The essential components of award shows demand it. First you have the celebrities. They are the building blocks of the award shows. Without them, nobody would watch the show, right? Well, the celebrities show up dressed in outfits that cost more than most people's cars and they pose on another essential element of the awards shows: the red carpet. Now the red carpet is really deep. I think it actually qualifies as a discourse community unto itself. The red carpet, for those of you who have been in a comatose for the last...oh, fifty years, is the place where the celebrities make their grande entrance to the show. What's interesting about the red carpet, in my humble opinion, is the pathology exhibited. Celebrities exit their vehicles (the make and model of which, surprisingly, are unimportant--apparently any form of limo will do) and step onto the red carpet. Every few steps the paparazzi (which doesn't quite qualify as an element of the awards shows but who deserve an honorable mention) becon to them to "strike a pose" and, almost lustfully, the celebrities comply. Now I, like many others, watch red carpet preview shows and what I tend to wonder as I watch with glazed over eyes and a gaping, drooling mouth (I mean, really, Roberto Cavalli should be a right not a privilege) is...what is this person's date thinking? I mean, is it possible to hold a normal conversation on the red carpet. And if the date, poor soul, happens to be from the dreaded non-celebrity realm, what do they do. I mean, they're in the pictures. I don't think some of you get the impact of that statement, so I'll restate a little louder. THEY'RE IN THE PICTURES. Just think about it. It's amazing in and of itself that you know someone going to the Grammys, much less someone who is nominated for one but then they want to invite you. I mean, who the hell are you? Then you have to get all dolled up (no doubt by a celebrity "stylist"--imagine getting paid to read Vogue and go shopping every day), get your hair and make up done and by the end of it you look in the mirror and even you are asking "who the hell are you?" and you get in the limosine and go the award show red carpet and your date is ignoring you because he's flashing 70 million watt smiles at the paparazzi. So what do you do? Clearly, you are not as glamorous. Clearly, you are not who the viewers of the pictures will be looking at (unless you happened to end up in the hands of a demon stylist who totally screws you up). Do you try to smile? Do you put on your best "pleasantly bored" expression (which, really, would be pointless because Paris Hilton has that bag all tied up). I mean, what do you do? Anywho...it is about these poor lost souls that I think when I watch the Grammys.
Ok, so besides the celebrities and the red carpet there is one more essential element to a good awards show (and by good I mean you spend the entire next day IM'ing your friends to talk about the show and its impact on "the world" instead of working, causing your job to fork over huge amounts of cash to increase its firewall capacity). That element, which was painfully missing from last night's Grammys was...DRAMA!!! There was no drama, there was only celebrities all dressed up getting awards, and who the hell wants to see that? On the MTV VMAs when Madonna kissed Britney (and Christina thankyouverymuch), that was an awards show. On the AMA's when Kanye West got beat out by Gretchen Wilson and was left in the middle of the aisle stuck in a self congratulatory stance, that was a moment. When a drinking, drugging rock star has the nerve to preach about politics and telling us to vote (like he will), that was a moment. When they dredged Axel Rose from whatever rock he was hiding under to play with a band that in no way, shape or form resembled Guns 'N Roses, that was entertainment. What occurred last night...there isn't even a word for it.
However, thanks to the wonder of TiVo, I was able to extract some interesting moments that I have yet to see commented upon by other journalists when talking about the award shows. I would say they are my Top 10, but they aren't in any specific order and if I think of more than 10 I'm going to list them.
1. NOTE TO THE GORILLAZ: You guys are animated which was cool for, maybe, ten minutes. But now we're bored with you. The very fact that you're animated dictates that you do something other than strike a Nirvana-esque pose and do your best impression of every alternative rock artist of the 1990's. And by the way, underwear boy is so not hot!
2. Madonna: Keep on weeny rollin'!
3. Kelly Clarkson really could have thanked American Idol in some form. I mean, I know it's a Cheezy Show but, dammit, don't be afraid of where you came from!
4. Did anyone else notice that Bono managed to make it through an entire show without giving a political manifesto?
5. Kanye West give it up. The chest thing...not gonna happen.
6. Is it me or has Mariah Carey put on some weight? Also, has she just been screaming so long and passing it off for music that she doesn't know how to sing in normal octaves anymore. Finally, it was sooooo apparent that her lack of decollage was because of her duet with Hezekiah Walker's choir. You can't fool us, Mariah, we know you're a freak.
7. NOTE TO THE SOUND EFFECTS GUY: When U2 wins an award, U2's song should play, not Kanye Wests. I know Bono is from the UK but that's a pretty big leap.
8. Based on her singing last night, can we safely label Ciara as the black Britney Spears?
9. Two notes on Sly Stone. #1 Was it just me or did he look like that really hard core Gremlin in Gremlins 2? (Ok, that was mean) #2 Was his abrupt entrance and exit onstage a sign that he, too, thought this "tribute" was the lamest thing ever.
10. And speaking of that performance, did anybody notice Randy Jackson playing the guitar in the background? Holla......!
11. Now back to Mariah (or, rather, post Mariah). Did Teri Hatcher really say she felt like she was "saved" by Mariah's Performance?
12. And speaking of saved, Kanye West and Jamie Foxx totally saved that awards show from fading into obscurity.
13. Did anyone else notice that Paul McCartney looked a little apprehensive about standing too close to Jay-Z?
14. Why the hell didn't Green Day perform? Oh yeah, because American Idiot came out two friggin' years ago!!! Get with the times Grammy. If Green Day can still win an award for that album (which rocked by the way), then Jamie Foxx should have qualified for his debut album.
And finally...
15. Big-Ups to John Legends momma, jumpin' and carryin' on like that. Her hat actually managed to upstage will.i.am's grandmomma. And while we're on John Legend (who is my babydaddy by the way), did he really thank someone named "Pookie" in his acceptance speech or did I just have fuzz in my ear?
Anyway, that's all the stuff that really mattered during the 3.5 hour long Grammy awards show (did I mention it was 3.5 hours long?). If you liked my blog, hit me up and show me some love.
Until the next big, ridiculous moment I am yours truly...
Ok, so besides the celebrities and the red carpet there is one more essential element to a good awards show (and by good I mean you spend the entire next day IM'ing your friends to talk about the show and its impact on "the world" instead of working, causing your job to fork over huge amounts of cash to increase its firewall capacity). That element, which was painfully missing from last night's Grammys was...DRAMA!!! There was no drama, there was only celebrities all dressed up getting awards, and who the hell wants to see that? On the MTV VMAs when Madonna kissed Britney (and Christina thankyouverymuch), that was an awards show. On the AMA's when Kanye West got beat out by Gretchen Wilson and was left in the middle of the aisle stuck in a self congratulatory stance, that was a moment. When a drinking, drugging rock star has the nerve to preach about politics and telling us to vote (like he will), that was a moment. When they dredged Axel Rose from whatever rock he was hiding under to play with a band that in no way, shape or form resembled Guns 'N Roses, that was entertainment. What occurred last night...there isn't even a word for it.
However, thanks to the wonder of TiVo, I was able to extract some interesting moments that I have yet to see commented upon by other journalists when talking about the award shows. I would say they are my Top 10, but they aren't in any specific order and if I think of more than 10 I'm going to list them.
1. NOTE TO THE GORILLAZ: You guys are animated which was cool for, maybe, ten minutes. But now we're bored with you. The very fact that you're animated dictates that you do something other than strike a Nirvana-esque pose and do your best impression of every alternative rock artist of the 1990's. And by the way, underwear boy is so not hot!
2. Madonna: Keep on weeny rollin'!
3. Kelly Clarkson really could have thanked American Idol in some form. I mean, I know it's a Cheezy Show but, dammit, don't be afraid of where you came from!
4. Did anyone else notice that Bono managed to make it through an entire show without giving a political manifesto?
5. Kanye West give it up. The chest thing...not gonna happen.
6. Is it me or has Mariah Carey put on some weight? Also, has she just been screaming so long and passing it off for music that she doesn't know how to sing in normal octaves anymore. Finally, it was sooooo apparent that her lack of decollage was because of her duet with Hezekiah Walker's choir. You can't fool us, Mariah, we know you're a freak.
7. NOTE TO THE SOUND EFFECTS GUY: When U2 wins an award, U2's song should play, not Kanye Wests. I know Bono is from the UK but that's a pretty big leap.
8. Based on her singing last night, can we safely label Ciara as the black Britney Spears?
9. Two notes on Sly Stone. #1 Was it just me or did he look like that really hard core Gremlin in Gremlins 2? (Ok, that was mean) #2 Was his abrupt entrance and exit onstage a sign that he, too, thought this "tribute" was the lamest thing ever.
10. And speaking of that performance, did anybody notice Randy Jackson playing the guitar in the background? Holla......!
11. Now back to Mariah (or, rather, post Mariah). Did Teri Hatcher really say she felt like she was "saved" by Mariah's Performance?
12. And speaking of saved, Kanye West and Jamie Foxx totally saved that awards show from fading into obscurity.
13. Did anyone else notice that Paul McCartney looked a little apprehensive about standing too close to Jay-Z?
14. Why the hell didn't Green Day perform? Oh yeah, because American Idiot came out two friggin' years ago!!! Get with the times Grammy. If Green Day can still win an award for that album (which rocked by the way), then Jamie Foxx should have qualified for his debut album.
And finally...
15. Big-Ups to John Legends momma, jumpin' and carryin' on like that. Her hat actually managed to upstage will.i.am's grandmomma. And while we're on John Legend (who is my babydaddy by the way), did he really thank someone named "Pookie" in his acceptance speech or did I just have fuzz in my ear?
Anyway, that's all the stuff that really mattered during the 3.5 hour long Grammy awards show (did I mention it was 3.5 hours long?). If you liked my blog, hit me up and show me some love.
Until the next big, ridiculous moment I am yours truly...
