Wait a sec. Is there an election going on?

It's hard to have hope. According to the American Research Group (Anyone? Anyone?):

"Among all Americans, 34% approve of the way Bush is handling his job as president and 59% disapprove. When it comes to Bush's handling of the economy, 29% approve and 63% disapprove."
[And those 29% are stinking, stinking drunk, and living in the back seats of their rusted out Chevy's.]

And yet, a new election cycle is our way of saying, in the words of the great sage Cher: Believe in life after love! And yet, as Master Tina warns, We don't need another hero. And while the general consensus is that 78% of the time, when Hillary opens her mouth, she is instantly identifiable by many, many people as their prototypical Angry Ex-wife, and 82% of nonvoters believe that hottie, Ba-rockstar, hasn't enough miles under his tour bus ("tour bus" being the analogy for, you know, his career and "miles" meaning "foreign policy"). I'm not worried, though: My posse and I generally choose the next leader of the world by whom we'd rather pair up with for Seven Minutes in Heaven (aka Stacy's dad's basement storage closet). Plus, you know, what they can do for me and people who look and act just like me.

I kid. I kid because I am terrified [that your candidate might win].

Admittedly, the process is kind of exciting, even for the highly suspicious such as myself. I can see almost anyone [new, Bushie, anyone new] revitalizing our country, which hopefully includes fewer people wanting to blow us up. Oh, and then there's those niggling little details, like healthcare for babies and a tofurkey in every pot. But the slog! The brain-dulling rhetoric and First Spouse smack downs! Can't we do this reality TV style? Put McCain and Hillary and Ba-rockstar and Romney on an island and insist they hammer out the national budget out of cocoanuts and palm fronds! And whomever eats something weird faster wins!

Oh, yeah. I see you, getting all horrified at my mild wave of ennui, with your red-white-and-blue straw boater, waving your pennant flag. You're one of those chipper "This is a New Era!" glee club types. Meanwhile, I'm exhausted already and we're barely into the foreplay. See my hand up? I call Premature Election Fatigue.

It's nothing personal, big, matte-powdered talking heads, except that you are politicians and I don't really, honestly trust you. I don't trust Joiners, and I don't trust Leaders. I worry about anyone who is egofantastical enough and has compromised enough to get as far as all of you have. I worry about all the promises you are making that you can't or won't keep. There's rather a pattern of that sort of thing. Basically, I am all smoking a snagged butt, dawg, in the shadows of the back hall, squinting at the store-bought decorations of your dance party.

Wednesday crumbs

Things about which I should so not care, but do:

The next kid craze. I lived through Pokemon (barely) and the resurgence of "Star Wars" (Yes, we have the 1.3 broken plastic battery-operated light sabers per room) and we've avoided Webkinz. The world is due for the next magic/fantasy characters who need to smack it out old school. Shall it be vigilante fairies? Streetwise teddies? Murderous musical toads?

I'm gonna put my money on people "finding the cute" in flying, winged monkeys.
.
Atonement. Everyone tells me to see it! See it! You'll cry like crazy!

I look at the stills of that terrifically grim Keira Knightly all skeletor-serious with her Kohl eye makeup and her razor-sharp cheekbones - and I seem to recall hearing vaguely about World War II not being so terribly romantic. Yes, there were lots of good-looking men in tall boots, but they were Nazis! A thoroughly unswoony group! And two-plus hours of thwarted love? And Great Britain? Did you not see that my grousy blues pushed me most recently to stage a marriage ceremony between two inanimate objects? And cater the reception?

Okay,okay, I'll go see it, but one of you has to come with me.
.

Britney's intervention. Hurry up already! Ohmygod Britney's people, do you not feel a sense of urgency?

At this point, frankly, I don't see why Congress isn't involved. Or how about we hand Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg a vial of chloroform, an unmarked, window-tinted van and ask her do what's needed to just let the healing begin?

Britney's ability to surround herself with sycophants is the number one argument for Communism (You heard me). While she has the power to grant employment/lattes/ Mercedes Benz on yes-people, she will only hear "You are working that sheer blouse/chewed nails/glazed eye look." Take away her riches and people can tell her she's batshit crazy without worrying that they've lost their meal ticket. She threatens to fire them? "Go ahead. I am perfectly supplied with my monthly toilet paper supply/one stew chicken/generic toothpaste package from our glorious lock-step government."

[Added Thursday afternoon: Well, there ya go. I had no idea they were waiting for me to say something.]

Mental Health Monday

Whew. I feel better. Don't you feel better?

This weekend, I attended a kick-ass magic show (Yes, really. Even when I could figure out the trick, I was all Oooh! Fast hands! And Ooooh! More fast hands!). And when I went home and Googled "how to do levitating table," I gots nothing! Good! A woman in a funk needs a puzzle! Keep me in the dark! It's giving me something to think about that isn't politics or global warming. Finally! [Oh, and also I found this by Lewis Black, but I warn you, if you are A) Against them crazee gays, B) afeared of naughty grown up words and C) afeared of explicit sexual references, don't click. And if you are A) and B) and C), what are you doing here?]

The next day, I worked at an animal shelter and if you ever have the blues, do that. Go to an animal shelter and look at the gorgeous Black Lab puppies someone surrendered because, you know, they're all moving and like, real! And they need attention - and food! WTF? The sudden violent loathing you feel for fools and more fools will burn away your funk.

*

Another reason my spirits are so refreshed: we had a wedding this weekend! I was the official photographer!

Lego Catwoman and Finger Puppet Ganesha decided to have a civil ceremony. I'm a little upset they went the secular route, but you know those interfaith couples . . .

Anyway, Androgynous Clay Snowperson officiated:

The reception was crazeee! You know how they get: Lego Catwoman was all about the evil and Finger Puppet Ganesha was all hands. [Sorry]

We danced the hora and then Lego Catwoman had to do crimes with her minions, which meant an evening for those of us left consisting of Boggle and cold pizza.

For those of you who have expressed interest, they registered at Archie McPhee.

See you next week

Another belated film review: Balls of Fury

I laughed.

Okay - a little longer: I laughed more than once and I think "BoF," while very, very stupid, was more clever below the surface. Except that the last part was extremely homophobic, which was a shame.

*
And speaking of extremely homophobic:

. . .

I just deleted my rant. So many hatemongers have lifted their snouts from the watering hole, in fact, that I am fatigued from all of my outrage. Oh, how they do come out to preen. I made a rookie mistake - I read message boards. All sorts. And the amount of vitriol and utter shite actually typed by actual people has stunned me. Brought me way down, maaaan. It's acted as some sort of ennui fog on all of my righteous indignation. If there are really so many evil-hearted assholes out there - with Internet connections! - how will we ever be okay? Apparently basements are full of these people, furtively typing hate mail while elderly Mom boils cabbage upstairs. And they even get on the air.

It reminds me of when I was ten, maybe twelve. I spent an inordinate amount of time pretending in swimming pools to be a mermaid. I didn't seek out pools in which to fulfill this image, but if I was in a pool already, I really worked on the whole two-legs-equal-one-tail thing. This was before Disney went all musical sea on us. While a great deal of my attraction may have been the otherworldly princess idea, the overwhelming draw was that a mermaid is not suited for either world. And as the preteen years hit, you know, that's what it's all about. You are neither here nor there.

Maybe because of the torrential downpour out my window, I'm thinking of mermaid escape - for the first time since I was ten, maybe twelve. I feel like that now, neither suited for here nor there, without the pool, or the long fantabulous hair, or the comfort of the silence below the surface. I don't quite fit. I'm audience and I'm media - but I'm not that audience and I'm not that media. I'm not the person to make a YouTube video declaring my everlasting unrequited love to a recently deceased actor, but I'm also not posting my version of what I am sure happened and how he deserved much misery.

I sometimes feel that the rest of us, the deargodplease majority of us, are kind and careful and know where in the story we do and do not belong. But the things I read were enough to make me go looking for water. Can you image? "Henry! There's some middle-aged lady perched on the edge of the hot tub in the back yard! She's blowing bubbles and combing her hair!"

So, I'm stepping away from the glowing screen for a few days. I need to readjust my perspective on what's important. This afternoon I am training at an animal shelter to walk dogs while they're waiting for new homes.Win/win, baby! Good for me to be near all of that in-the-moment cheerfulness and good for the dogs. I'm gonna sneak everyone extra cookies. Don't tell.

And if I find a merdog, well, that would just be perfect.

Enjoy this now, before he's "disappeared."

Dear Scott Baio/Bret Michaels/Jeff Conaway,

Please, please, PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE stop.

Sincerely,
Barbara

Just Another Angry Woman

I wrote this surprisingly angry rant about Maxim. I didn't mean for it to be angry - it was only when I sat back and read it, I thought, Wow. That seems angry. I don't know why, exactly, it is. I'm not angry at Maxim. I worked for Hooters (magazine) for Pete's sake! Far be it for me to get all objectifying women blah blah blah. Maybe those Maxim writers, just like me, took the jobs as they said to themselves, Ohgod, okay sure, oh sorry, babyjaysus, and let this be a quick career move for me and also please don't tell my dead grandma.

But Hooters, while mind-stiflingly stupid, didn't write copy that objectified women (They just ran the objectifying photos! And, really, who looks at those?). But Maxim did that "unsexiest women" piece last fall and I saw a recent quote from Sarah Jessica Parker (the unsexiest of them all, said Maxim) and I felt so bad for her. So I wielded my mighty keyboard.


And six hours later, my eyeball exploded.


Have you ever had that hideous thing, a subconjunctival hemorrhage? It's a broken blood vessel in your eye and it looks like your eyeball is slowly filling with blood. Which it is. Sort of. And I think I broke my eyeball by sneezing, actually (and/or by barking phrases in Japanese at the top of my lungs at my children when least expected [It was a very long Wednesday, indeed.] because it made them laugh to the point of almost vomiting and that's right where you want 'em), not by Being Righteous, but wouldn't it be cool if my sad little blog entry is the eyeball equivalent of The Ring? Don't read it! It will make you hemorrhage! And also crave mini cheese enchiladas!


I wrote:
Maxim, long, long ago (okay, last October) named Sarah Jessica Parker "the unsexiest woman alive." I know it was forever ago in Internet time, but it's still pissing me off. Har de har. I mean, come on, it's kind of funny, right? She's got that large nose and she doesn't have implants! She's got a mole! On her face! That's like, insane! She could instead so easily just look like everyone else! All she has to do is get some plastic surgery so some guys she'll never meet and could care less about and who haven't a single film or production or clothing line credit to their collective names might deign to touch themselves while thinking about her. [See? A leetle angry!]

In fact, that's what's common among all of these "unsexy" women - they don't have big, fake breasts. Oh and they've been wildly successful - more so than any of the Maxim guys, none of whom by the way, look like Johnny Depp or Zac Efron or George Clooney? [I came back to add - or, ohmygod Don Cheadle. His smile. His smile. Do any Maxim writers look like Don Cheadle? Well, do they? Hah! Good day, sirs!] Who does that - makes a list of people they think are unattractive and then publishes it? Really? People do that for money? Being cruel is okay if it makes money? Unless, of course, if it was a woman they knew and loved, like their daughter or sister or wife. Then maybe the writers would call "foul."

They also listed Britney as "unsexy," because, although she's horrifyingly batshit crazy, I guess they feel she should at least be working on her abs. And they named Madonna, who made more money during one single concert than the entire Maxim masthead in their whole entire lives.

They also named Sandra Oh, due to her "boyish figure." Because, you know, her burning up the screen in "Sideways," "Dancing at the Blue Iguana" and "Arli$$?" All flukes. Lithe, smart and talented? Ew, gross. Don't get that on me!

And, they said, Amy Winehouse is damned unsexy, because, well, she's an addict! And making fun of open-sored addicts is funny! [Note: This is a) off topic, b) makes no sense in terms of my argument and c) mixing the a sudden combination of pissed offedness at Maxim and pity/horror for Winehouse is probably where I blew my head gasket.]

What's really going on is that Maxim, like many publications, is probably hurting. They need to drive traffic to their site to make ad revenue. Print mags just aren't making the bucks like they used to, and being mean-funny is easy. It's also a great way to catch the eye of those fifteen-year-old boys who will shell out money to look at minor actresses in bikinis.

My own meager writing has, at times, invited some very public comments. I've had people say incredibly nasty things about me, and about my family. I've had other writers say crap things about me from what they read between the lines in an essay or two - which I find horrifying and fascinating. Wouldn't you think a writer, of all people, would get that what's in the final piece may simply be a(n edited by someone else) sliver of the whole story? And don't you think, as audience members, that what you see of someone is so often just a sliver of who they really are?

Two points and then I have to go put a tourniquet around my entire head:

1. If you can't say anything nice ...

and

2. Everyone who touches a product (something you read, something you watch, something to which you listen) or is treated as a product (Britney, Madonna, Britney, SJP, Britney, Amy Winehouse, Britney Britney Britney) is an actual person.

Men

Quite a number of men are in the headlines today. Matthew McConaughey and David Spade are about to be unwedcelebridads. Mitt Romney just scored Michigan. OJ Simpson violated his bail.

Here, then, are four famous men, off the top of my head, for whom I should like to bake a cake:

Alec Baldwin. Shut up.

Jack Black (as seen in "High Fidelity," but perhaps not Jack Black as seen in almost anything else).

John Cusack (as seen in anything - especially as seen in a crisp button down. Or a big fluffy sweater.)

Stephen King. His fiction is griftctfkbzmoxzq, but any man who says this, "I watched 'Titanic' when I got back home from the hospital, and cried. I knew that my IQ had been damaged," deserves one Hell of a flourless chocolate cake.

And then, I can quickly think of these - three famous men for whom I do not much care:

The Mittser

That Adnan fellow (and his facial sidekick - the thing on his chin. One can tell a great deal about a man's intentions by the way in which he presents his jaw area. Plus, you know, the creepy enabling and squiring and using and exploiting and all, but mostly by That Thing! That Thing!).

Really, it's too, too upsetting. We simply mustn't discuss it further. But Sir? Know that I am appalled by your behavior and verily too, by your poor follicle choices.

Johnny Damon. Because I never let things go. Ever.

What about you? What well-known or in-the-news fellas have you thinking about baked goods and/or tire-slashing, grudge-holding revengeful acts?

Next come the locusts

Oh, yeesh. It's Monday and apparently, the End of Days: CNN is "live-blogging" Britney Spears' custody hearing. Yes, way.

Juno - A slapdash review with mild spoilers

I really, genuinely want to know what you thought of "Juno." I'm having this days-long argument by email about it with one of my best friends.

Okay, not to set you up, I'll go first.

I saw "Juno," yesterday, finally, finally, way after all of you. I came to it slightly differently from the women sitting next to me who laughed at every line, all the time, even when it was not supposed to be a funny moment, because Michael Cera! He's so funny! Did you see him in "Superbad?" Oh my GOD! All the time with the underplayedness! So funny!

We know, Lady. He's Adorable. Shut. Up!

When I was 16, I went on the city bus and then the subway with my best friend, who as also 16, to Planned Parenthood, so she could get a blood test, and I was with her when we walked to the library to use that one pay phone no one used for privacy to call to get the results, and I sat there at Brigham's eating fries with her when she fell apart and announced her life was over. And I helped her navigate the hallways of high school, obviously pregnant, and I was drawn into offices "privately" to be spoken to about how "we" should encourage her to drop out. And months later, I was her Lamaze coach. And I listened as she tried to figure out what to do.

And then a whole gizzillion years later, I was also a woman who struggled with infertility, so basically? I cried a lot during "Juno." A lot. I was a officially viewer with Issues.

So, that said, I hated how it opened. The shop guy as played by Rainn Wilson? Nope. And no way a teen would be so blase about letting people know she's pregnant. And no one talks the way he talked, and yes we all learned in film school to make character dialogue unique to that character and still? Damn no. It took me out of the story utterly. Also? I am madly in love with Rainn Wilson. I am all pro-Rainn in general. Just saying. And don't read anymore if you haven't seen the film, because I am not gonna be spoiling it.

Okay, for the rest of you? Like, OhMyGawd, right? Justin Bateman. He is so my secret boyfriend. Justin Bateman (updated to add: Jason. I know it's Jason - he's my boyfriend, Duh! I'm high on migraine meds. I just called my child by the wrong name, too. Doesn't mean I'm not devoted. Just altered. Wheeeeeeeeeee!), immature and in pain and kind of a louse? The best.

But Juno? She would have been flayed alive in high school. And almost everything made me cranky from a writing standpoint. It was too quippy from word one. I didn't believe how Juno acted, I didn't believe how blase her parents were, or how Vanessa acted when things fell apart. Hell, as stated, I didn't believe the shop clerk or that she'd buy the tests in her own town. No pregnant teen does that.

My favorite moments were the few times when Juno lost her shit. And when people were in pain and struggling. I love me some snappy dialogue, but so much of it was lost in the next bit of snappy dialogue. God, take a breath, everyone! Give it a beat. Give it three beats. Give me funny and quirky, sure, but still let me feel the scene.

I felt the emotional truth was glossed over in favor of "the cute," like what "Pretty Woman" did for sex workers, this does for first moms.

I didn't dislike the movie, and I liked lots of it, but I could only accept it as farcical - a teenage fairy tale, where unplanned pregnancy triggers ye ol' coming of age.

Okay. So I'm thin-skinned and craz-eee. What did you think?

Oh, Johnny!

I don't recall seeing much of "21 Jump Street." I tend to think one doesn't want to watch shows about high school unless one is a) in middle school or b) in one's 30s, when the combination of a colicky baby, sullen husband and one's faded dreams makes one nostalgic and I didn't hit the "What happened to my life?" mark until the early "Friends" years.

Still, I am as guilty (i.e., stupid) as the next person when it comes it hype, and that brings me to Johnny Depp. I enjoy his work - everything I've seen him in (and that includes almost everything he's been in) - and while maybe 80% of my enjoyment is what he brings to the game, the other 20% is that he's so cool. He doesn't feed into the Hollywood hype. He thumbs his noise at the machine!

Right?

I've never stepped back and thought about that until I came across this today on Dlisted.com:

My first thoughts included "Grrr" and "Yay!" and other ridiculous sentiments, because, well, hello? Although he's roughly two-thirds size (IMDB clocks him in at five feet, nine inches. Riiight.), he's a lotta gorgeousness. And he's so indie! And anti-establishment!

Yeah. Except he's posing with his shirt askew on the cover of Rolling Stone, which is the epitome of male Hollywood hype.

Other than talent and a whole lotta matte makeup (okay, and apparently false eyelashes, Zac Efron!), what sets these two covers apart?

(tapping fingers)

Well?

Thought so.

Oh, I'm still a BIG fan, mind you. But hopefully I'm a big fan with a clue. The hype machine is there even if I can't see it.

And now, to help you cleanse your palate of cheesecake, I give you this Carrot Top image. Think of it as eye sorbet:

I'm sorry. It was medically necessary.

(Note to Johnny: Did you get my care package? I didn't mean to set off the alarms! I just punched holes in the box for air flow. Call me!)

Mrs. Robinson

I fear I have the vapors.

Ten minutes ago, there was a firm, almost insolent knock at the front door. I opened it to a tall, brawny, buffed, deeply-tanned, brown-haired, luscious-eyed twenty-something gentleman of dubious intent. Under one exquisitely flexed arm he held a case of imported beer.

Living in a surfer/outdoorsy college town means one is surrounded by utterly gorgeous men and women who are young enough to be my own children. Yeah. The first two-thirds of that sentence rocks.

Brawny appeared, at first, baffled by door-opening me, in my stretched-out tee and sudsy-handed glory. I was even, I cringe to tell you, holding a dish towel.

And then? He looked disappointed. He was looking for the party house next door.

I thought about offering to let him watch me do the dishes. I was about to start rinsing the glassware.

He left anyway.

Brawny was extremely good looking, no doubt. But also? He was too young. Still, I did have a pang that he was all "A mom. Huh," rather than, "Going to the wrong house and having the door opened by that smoking hot lady is just like the beginning of my favorite classic 1970's adult video!"

soggy

I really enjoyed this house, but what was the concept? It's not a Winter Wonderland. It's not a place wherein one could stroll and delight in the many facets of the All-encompassing Christian Holiday. Did they just plug in everything they owned which lit up? The house is on the edge of the worst part of town. My son has drum lessons two doors away and I have been sitting outside, in my car, in the dark (drum lessons = loud.) and watching as the lights snap on in sections. They are dismantling all of it tonight - the numerous trees and the neon choo-choo(s) and the inflatable roof Santa(s) and the musical wreath(s).

I feel bad for them. I hope Presidents' Day has some LED-laced mascot, too. Bring the children by to see 14 Honest Abes, waving multiple stovepipe hats from the roof!

*

I have a dear friend who dislikes anything pretending to be something else. Teapots shaped to look like fruit/cherubim/donkeys? Avocados that are really candles? Not fey, she declares. Disingenuous. Annoying.

I'm on the fence myself. Not about this, mind you:

Teapot Garfield makes me crave medication with side effects. And I get her point. Hey, look! A lighthouse!





Oh. It's an elevator shaft.






If I was seriously into lighthouses, that would have pissed me off right there. And if I was into elevators? Well, I'd be confused.

And yet, there's something about a place that is not itself which draws me in. I can't let myself pretend along with everyone else, but I am always intrigued. I suspect for most grown ups, the real draw of Disney is that it feels like being on a film set. There's that sense that something fantastical is about to happen, even when you know it's not.

At the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, there's the indoor arcade, with pirate/Pompeian-themed mini golf, because what goes together better than Mount Vesuvius and swashbuckling?



It has that hyper-cartoon Disney look. I like to watch the animatronics.

You can't tell, but this guy slooowly pops up and talks in a "aaaargy" voice. It scares the bejesus out of children walking by. It's sad. And unkind. And a little awesome, when he freaks out the stoned college kids, which is, hello? All the time.

And? I am fascinated by the fortune booths. They are like Disneyland in almost-lozenge size.

The designers gave him atmospheric lighting, but I think the glare of fluorescent (and a flash attachment) really brings out the freak factor:

That is one stellar price for infinite wisdom and a peek at your future!
I pay more than that for weak coffee.

Here we are again

Well, it took me fewer that 48 hours to freak out. You?

I found myself on New Year's Eve drumming. In public. And yes, hopping on one Keen-clad foot and then the other, hitting a cowbell, stone-cold sober, joyous, light and silly and cheerful.

New Year's Day, I walked along the beach with twelve hundred other people and it was gorgeous. I was full of hope and Vitamin D and all was New Beginnings.

January second, right around midday, it hit me that I am not svelte and am in need of further employment and there are ever more dirty dishes awaiting my ministration. This year, in fact, feels like a rope bridge.

Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeee!

What, then, will give me the energy to move forward, onto the treacherous tippiness that promises to be 2008? Rock of Love 2, with Bret Michaels!

The first beach day of the year