American Satire & Obama Drama

Since I've been getting emails and IMs about this, I figured I may as well lay it out here in Ye Olde Blog. I think there's nothing wrong with The New Yorker's recent cover. You know, the one causing all the ruckus, since it's got the Obamas all dressed up like terrorists. Since I'm not terribly politically-minded, I can only assume all y'all are harassing me 'cause I used to work at that fine magazine. That's ok. Just let me share my piece.

I really think the biggest problem with the cover has nothing to do with the magazine or the artist (Barry Blitt) at all. I think the biggest problem is that American's don't get satire. And that's fine, except, there are a lot of smart media outlets like TNY that are really great with satire, and the Obama cover is a perfect example. It addresses all the propaganda that the right-wing pundits are throwing at the Obama campaign. You know, that bullshit about him being a terrorist, a Muslim (and who cares if he were, really, but that's another blog for another day), etc. It highlights that "terrorist fist jab," has a flag burning in the fire place, and a portrait of Bin Laden on the wall. I mean, really, folks, what's not to get about this? It's so absurd, it has to be a joke.

And, okay, okay I get that it's a controversial cover. But seriously, the folks at The New Yorker are smart people, and you shouldn't think for a minute that they weren't expecting some sort of lashback from Obama supporters and the liberal media. And they know exactly what Fox News and all those conservative pundits are going to do with that - but, let's face it, those guys are preaching to the converted. You could put Obama in a crown of thorns, a frilly pink dress, or a Hitler-esque mustache on a magazine cover and these folks are still going to refer to him as "B. Hussein Obama" when they call in to raise a stink on talk radio.

But let's face it folks, controversy sells. This cover is going to move units, and that should make Obama supporters happy. If you actually open the magazine, you'll find not one but two articles on the senator. Now, given that a) I don't work at TNY anymore and b) as a result of a) I'm broke (and busy), I haven't had the time or money to sit down and read the articles (you may have noticed I'm up to my ears in teen and middle grade books), but, given the way the magazine tends to lean, you can be pretty sure that they have something good to say about Obama. At the very least, you know that they are going to be smart, no-bullshit pieces. And, you know what? That's exactly what the skeptical and the undecided need to read.

Yes, I support Obama. As I previously stated, I'm not very smart about politics. I'm one of those horrible people that gets pissed off when the President gives a speech or there's an important debate and it interrupts my TV programs. I don't read a lot of political magazines (or any, these days - like I said, too many kids' books), and I don't do a lot of research on the candidates. That said, I have seen Obama speak, I've heard what he has to say, and it seems to me he has a lot of good ideas for the American people, and the drive, ambition, and will-power to see these ideas through to fruition. Barack Obama loves America. For Chrissakes, anyone who is going to let a magazine cover dissuade them of that fact was never willing to consider Obama's character in the first place.

In conclusion: what's the big deal?

In another conclusion: I think you guys just need something to complain about. As if there wasn't enough already. Seriously.

Only The Fashion Police Can Judge Me

There is little more unnerving than cleaning out your closet and taking your clothes to a consignment store. Let me explain.

I have a clothing addiction. It's been a problem since I first started my career as a mallrat in the 7th grade. I bought things that I thought were hip, but not suited to my body type, just because they were on sale at Contempo for $4. As I got into high school I would buy things that I would have to take in or fix because, well, this is a deal and just because the zipper is busted, well, $12 for this twill tube dress is just awesome! By college I had discovered the glory of eBay and the array of DIYers and thrift-store junkies that sold their goods therein. I wound up with clothes that didn't quite fit or that weren't quite like what they appeared as in the listing or that were so outrageous that I wore them to one party or on one day at class and then stuffed back into my teeny tiny exploding college dorm closet.

You can imagine how much my wardrobe expanded when I lived in Brooklyn for two years, with a professional salary to boot. I went to actual (not virtual) thrift stores, bargain stores like Daffy's, and neat local shops. There was an H&M on almost any corner and I knew where to find the best sales at the cool boutiques. When I started packing to move to Austin, I found tons of clothes that still had the sales tags in my closet. In addition, you can imagine, I pulled out many skirts, jackets, shoes and t-shirts that were never going to see the light of day again. And, so, I took them to Beacon's Closet, the hippest thrift store I'd ever been to, and dumped my items on their counter.

My boyfriend, Mark, came with me that day for emotional support. We went to lunch while they evaluated my goods, and I dreamed of the pile of money I was going to rake in. Much to my chagrin, I became only $11 richer that day, despite the designer jeans (still with tags!), funky vintage waitress dresses, trendy shoes and cashmere sweaters I had in the huge bag. They told me "we bought these two pair of shoes which will retail for $35," and gave me a voucher to cash at the front of the store. My heart pretty much dunked itself in sadsauce, but I had already resolved to, for the sake of the move, give whatever the didn't take to charity. I took my $11 and swallowed my pride.

Pride, because, what feels worse than a bunch of hipsters telling you "only two pairs of shoes in this whole bag of swag are cool enough for our store"? My answer is this: hipsters going through even MORE of your clothes in an even HIPPER town while you watch them reject pieces one by one.

Today my dear friend Katy gave up some of her time to take me and four big shopping bags' worth of clothes and shoes to a really cool shop called the Buffalo Exchange. Apparently this is a national chain, so you might have one near you. Reader, I must tell you, get thee to one of their locations should you find one in your area. What variety! What style! What a disaster for a girl on a mission to save more money this year! Katy and I browsed the aisles briefly while one of the super-hip store managers began to evaluate my clothes. Quickly we decided to go back to the counter before either of us were tempted to part with some sweet, sweet green. I found myself eying her, praying in my head each time she grabbed an item out of the bag: Please take this one, please take this one, this one is sooooo awesome!

Damn. It's like being personally evaluated on a cool-o-meter over and over. In my head I imagined her saying "Wow, this girl is so lame — she bought this hideous sweater!" and "Jesus, why would she think this is hip? This isn't vintage, this is dated!" and "There's 'so ugly it's cute,' and 'so ugly it should be burned!'" I supposed I live more in fear of judgment than the average gal, but I'm willing to bet I'm not the only person who feels this way at the counter of a consignment store. At least I made more than $11 today. I walked out with a clean $53.20. And promptly took Katy on a very romantic date at Sonic. We even shared dessert.

This is Your Blog on Drugs

That's what I was going to call this blog, anyway. It turns out the prescription painkillers I was prescribed did almost nothing for me. Oh, well.

I was brushing my teeth last week when suddenly a piece of my molar fell off. Well, it more or less peeled off. That's what you get for ignoring your cavities, kiddies. I officially feel like a southwestern hillbilly. Luckily I had two days left of insurance from my previous job in which to have a dental adventure.

I'm petrified of the dentist. Honestly, as far as I'm concerned, anyone who wants to spend their lives inside other people's mouths is either a nut job or a sadist or both. Of course, I have to make the exception for my boyfriend's mum, a dental hygienist, who is one of the nicest people I've ever met. We called her that night at around 1am to find out what we should do, and she didn't even complain about the hour. In any case, I just don't understand the profession, and most of the tools I see in the office resemble torture devices from spy movies. (Remember that tooth-pulling torture guy from Alias? Seriously. Imagine that guy giving you a root canal and that's what I picture every time someone says "dentist.")

I've sort of known for months that I needed a root canal, actually. The molar in question has been in pain for years, following what I think was a botched filling. The dental industry has had so many opportunities to redeem itself, but is constantly failing. This particular incident was in November 2004 - I had three fillings done and, not only did 8 shots of Novocaine not numb me while drilling, the fillings hurt constantly for several months. And it wasn't just a little ache, or a sensation when eating hot or cold. It was a constant throbbing, blinding pain in my teeth.

I called the dentist and she prescribed a painkiller (it was acetaminophen-based, but I don't remember what the naughty stuff in it was. Not codeine, though, since I was too busy in college to be taking anything that would render me useless), which, as per usual, did nothing. I put myself on a regimen of Excedrin, taking two or three pills every four hours, including a dose at bedtime to avoid waking up in excruciating pain (this almost always failed). By January or February I was no longer in constant pain, but still had regular toothaches. Even years later that one molar always bothered me, but I just thought that, with my history of panic and anxiety, it could be psychosomatic.

When a brown spot appeared on the tooth — followed by a crack — I knew I was wrong. So last week when the tooth just finally broke, I wasn't so much shocked but angry that I'd let my fear of dentists get the better of me.

Seriously, though. The dentist guy from Alias. So scary.

So I've got a temporary filling in place and will be getting a crown on Tuesday. I'm not happy about it, but seeing as the only real pain I've had so far from the root canal is from chewing up my own cheek (and let me tell you, that is some serious pain), I'm feeling better about it. But, you know, if I'm going to be doing this whole dental thing on a regular basis, I'd better at least get some fun drugs out of it.

Star Power

I really only allow myself to read gossip magazines in two places: the hair salon, and the airport. But the internet spews the same information at me constantly. My room mate introduced me to Perez Hilton several months ago, and I'm guilty of checking his website about once every two weeks. Sorry Perez, but you bring my faith in humanity way down.

This man is famous for drawing fake coke and cum on photos of celebrities who may or may not be down on their luck. Regular parts of his vocabulary are "fugly," "pAArty," "hot mess," and "hag," not to mention his juvenile, dirogetory nicknames for his favorite celebs (i.e. Mischa Barton = Mushy Fartone and Britney = Unfitney). Hilton's escapades have moved from his blog to YouTube (his channel is mostly him going over his own personal life and dancing for the camera), a show on VH1, and, apparently, guest appearances on various other media outlets. At least Paris Hilton is famous for being famous, not bringing her peers down. I don't think I could live with myself if I centered my life around the downfalls of others.

So apparently Britney Spears is so addicted to fame that she goes looking for paparazzi. I wonder if she would have dug such a hole for herself if Perez and his colleagues hadn't given her the shovel.

At this point Perez can make or break a new artist by mentioning him on his website. This is a power to lift up, so I can't comprehend why he instead chooses to — with such unwavering joy! — make one destructive post after another.

Yeah, I read it. But I find that, generally, tales of celebrities' personal problems just make me disillusioned at best. I did, however, find this satirical celebrity gossip blog, that doesn't have the same attitude problem as Perez. Should I feel the need to feed the celeb goss cravings, I feel a little less guilty there than at perezhilton.com.

The Obligatory Christmas Gift Post

Believe it or not, I'm literate. I spend a lot of time reading pop novels, because that's what I like to read. I'd like to think that one day I'll battle through Ulysses, or even engage some of the Hemingway tomes I've bought for my boyfriend. I have books by Virginia Woolf and fully intend on reading them. It should be noted here that one of the reasons I have yet to read Mrs. Dalloway is that my emotionally unstable siamese peed on it (along with Microserfs by Douglas Coupland and Averno by Louise Glück) when I left it out on the kitchen counter, which is, apparently, her new favorite place to assert her authority. The truth, however, is I probably wouldn't have read it yet anyway. Though, it may be noted, that I have a ton of books by decorated poets. And I've read most of them.

The point is, I think, that pop novels make for great holiday gifts. I've read all of these books, and thusly can give my stamp of approval. I'm even gifting some this year (I feel safe saying this because my giftees either have an aversion to internets or to blogs). And, as tacky as it is, Happy Holidays to all two of you who read this blog. And a happy new year, or whatever.
( And, yes, I'm aware that I'm a bit late for Hanukkah, but that never stops the cashiers at Macy's from saying "Happy Holidays." I recommend avoiding that place right now, it's a zoo. A zoo filled with steroid-enhanced wildlife that may or may not have recently snorted cocaine.)

A Tale of Two Sisters by Anna Maxted
I read this one last year, picked it up because it's by one of the only chick lit authors I enjoy, Anna Maxted. But it surprised me. This is as much a warm, heartfelt book about taking responsibility for one's own place in life as it is a punchy comedy. The story takes turns between the perspectives of two sisters, Lizbet and Cassie, as they struggle through their relationships (Lizbet is single but committed, whereas Cassie is married but questioning her vows), their jobs (editor and lawyer, respectively), and their feelings for eachother just as a surprise, followed by a tragedy, hit the family. Perhaps it sounds a bit cliche, but trust me when I say that this is Maxted's best book, rife with wit and cynicism, and a great gift for any woman in the family.

The Seas by Samantha Hunt
What I love most about this book is its insane romanticism. Let me pause. It's not insane because it's romantic, it's romantic because it's insane. Or is it? The narrator has a special idealism in the face of imminent tragedy, and is convinced of certain paranormal experiences - most prominently she believes she's a mermaid - that really define the ebb and flow of the story. She is engaged a doomed love affair with a much older Gulf War vet, and lives in a small ship-building town, that, despite giving no specific geographical location, reminds me of northern Maine. It's the spirit of this book that has caused me to already gift it twice.

Hey Nostradamus! by Douglas Coupland
It's not really about religion. Its characters, in various states of spiritual decomposition, don't have a platform on Christianity. In the wake of a high school tragedy, the four narrators of this story are all determined to move forward. Some get there faster than others, and, like you might expect from Coupland, each character's progress is interwoven with the others'. Like most of Coupland's work, this novel leaves both an apocalyptic and a hopeful aftertaste.

Songbook by Nick Hornby
This was actually given to me a few years ago, by my childhood best friend. It's nonfiction - part memoir, part music journalism, with Hornby's musings on his 32 favorite songs. This makes a perfect gift for a music-lover - the friend who has a story for each of his favorite songs. You know, the "Oh the first time I heard this I was driving down Congress Street with Joe..." friend. It's also a quick read, so it's not like you'd be burdening him with the chore of reading War and Peace. Unless, you know, he's into that sort of thing.

Cockatiels for Two by Leo Cullum
Leo Cullum is among my favorite New Yorker cartoonists. And cat cartoons never cease to be funny. This book, comprised entirely of his cat cartoons, is a no-miss gift. Unless your recipient is a dog person. For him, there is Cullum's book of dog cartoons. But that one doesn't interest me nearly as much.


Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot
For lovers of fixed-verse poetry and cat fanatics alike, children and adults, this Eliot classic is a pleaser. I mean, who wouldn't love a poem about Jennyanydots, or Macavity the Mystery Cat? These poems are entertaining and nostalgic, and most fun read aloud!

Beasts by Joyce Carol Oates
A coworker recommended this book to me as she said it reminded her of having gone to college in a rural, eastern location, much like I did. It takes place at an all-girls college in New England, where one girl's obsession with a professor of literature, and, in turn, his wife the art teacher, quickly becomes unhealthy. While dark, Beasts is a compelling read that draws a narrow line between art and self.

Big Mouth and Ugly Girl by Joyce Carol Oates
When I initially purchased this book from half.com, I suspected that it might be a young adult novel. The cover art, I suppose gives it away. I mostly didn't care, as a) Joyce Carol Oates is awesome and b) I like kids' books. What surprised me was the careful, strong narrative Oates crafted using two teenage misfits as protagonists, and, in the aftermath of so many school shootings and bomb threats in the 90's and 00's, the way she tackles such an incident without gimmick or glamor. This is the sort of smart, funny novel that teenagers should be reading, and that adults can certainly get a kick out of, too.

Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami
This was the first Murakami book I read. I know, he's a huge buzz name right now, but hear me out. Your contemporary-literature-loving friend probably doesn't have this one. It's not one of Murakami's more well-known novels, but perhaps it should be. I admit, I chose it not on its merit, but on the fact that it was the shortest of the Murakami novels that were on sale at the Strand. I don't regret this. It mostly takes place on a remote island off the coast of Greece, in search of a woman who has disappeared, seemingly, without a trace. While Murakami is, arguably, hard to read, once you discover the elaborate mystery and romance of this novel, it's difficult to put down. I, for one, missed my stop on the train at least once while reading it.

Latin for Even More Occasions by Henry Beard
Okay, this was geek-love-at-first-sight. Henry Beard may not be a creative genius, but I can't say I haven't enjoyed this book a little too much. And I'm certain that anyone with an interest in Latin, language, or Greco-Roman studies will get a kick out of this. This is especially useful for the holidays: Cogito sumere potum alterum.

Slam by Nick Hornby
I haven't finished reading this yet, so I can't give you an absolutely definitive opinion. But, I can tell you that Nick Hornby's first young adult novel is a hoot. It takes on both heavy and light-hearted subjects with the sort of narrative voice that I have enjoyed In every other Hornby novel that I've read through the eyes of Sam. Sam is a 16-year-old skater (not an ice-skater, mind you, a skateboarder) living in London. He has girl trouble. And there's very little not to enjoy about his story.

Miss Wyoming by Douglas Coupland
Another Coupland novel that I devoured this past year, Miss Wyoming is as delightful as it is frightening. Frightening in the sense that, yes, this is the human condition. It skips about in time, narrating both the history and current affairs of a former teen pageant queen and a washed up movie star. Susan Colgate has survived a plane crash followed by a year-long disappearance, John Johnson has survived a drug overdose followed by months of self-prescribed homelessness. They both have survived, as you can imagine, some extremely odd family dynamics. As the story switches perspectives and carves out each surprise, you find yourself putting faith in the aforementioned human condition, and the odd little mission that this pair ultimately have set out to achieve.

There you have it. Happy shopping (read: may you not venture into any malls or department stores). And, if you're wondering what to get me, here's my very own Amazon wish list. I like presents.

Have an Original Thought Already

For some reason, I love horror movies. I am stating the fact in this manner because horror movies, as a genre, are consistently disappointing. All the good parts are in the previews, so you think you're going to be batshit scared and then, not only is the plot shaky and dragged out, not ONLY is the acting weak and misdirected, NOT ONLY is the dialogue predictable and painful to follow, but the anticipated edge-of-your-seat queasefest is entirely nonexistent.

It's probably just the fact that it's all been done, and all there is left to do is gross out the audience. I mean, once upon a time, Jaws was terrifying. Today, that shark is fairly laughable, even if the movie is great. Even films like The Shining and The Exorcist can't scare me (side note: admittedly, Evil Dead does). I need faster, grosser, weirder monsters — or a psychological element so terrifying that I can't sleep at night.

Last night I was watching the Horrorfest 2006 movies that were being aired on Sci-Fi. I caught the end of The Hamiltons, which, while not particularly frightening, is a fairly interesting flick. It, unlike the rest of the Horrorfest films that I've seen, had its moments of innovation. It had a twist on an old favorite (vampires), a morally ambiguous cast of characters, and quite a few surprises. In addition, a lot of the shots were through the eyes of the teenage protagonist, and the lens of his hand-held video camera. Unrest, while a step up from many horror films in some of its visual stimuli (a huge chunk of the film takes place in a bleak cadaver lab, with medical students cutting and groping at body parts in a totally-not-for-Grey's-Anatomy fashion. But, naturally, the whole the dead-comes-back-to-life-to-avenge-postmortem-disrespect thing is so overdone that no element in this film can possibly make up for it, especially with its lack of subtlety, giving no credit to the intelligence of the audience. Penny Dreadful is the worst of the batch, as it could have been a great psychological thriller, but instead is the audio-visual torture of a girl trapped in a car with her dead therapist crying and having panic attacks.

I really don't know why I keep watching horror movies and expecting something out of them. The last truly scary movie I saw — a squeeze-your-date's-hand-so-hard-it-sorta-hurts movie — was 28 Weeks Later. It was fast-paced and unpredictable. I really liked it. Previous to that, only the Japanese could make me cringe. Films like Ju-On and Ringu really got my attention, but, like all trends, this one hit a rut as well. Reincarnation (Rinne, in Japanese), was a part of last year's Horrorfest, and since it was directed by Ju-On's Takashi Shimizu, I expected it to be so terrifying that I couldn't bring myself to watch the DVD for weeks. But it was as predictable as any other horror film. Come on, Horrorfest, give us something to sink our teeth into!

This year's "8 Films to Die For" look remotely promising. The blurbs on the website make the films sound more creative than last year's, and interesting enough that I'm tempted to have hope. I worry that I've become completely desensitized to gore, but at least one of these eight films must have what it takes to make me cover my eyes and scream.

Body of Evidence

Women are fat.

We're not chubby or plump. We're not hefty or big. We're fat.

Men can be jolly or whatever.

I've decided to be squishy.

Most of the time I'm okay with squishy. My boyfriend is okay with squishy, he's really only ever known me squishy. Of course there's the inevitable return-to-the-hometown desire: I hope everyone else is fatter than me. The truth is, I would love to be tiny for my 10-year reunion. And recently I've discovered that some pants don't fit like they did six months ago. Being happy with your body is just really bad for dieting.

And I don't believe in dieting. This whole culture of feeling in control of our lives by controlling what we eat is weird. The Atkins diet shits me - the guy DIED from cardiac arrest and put a ban on vegetables but people still want to eat steak steak steak to lose weight weight weight. And then there's Weight Watchers where you go to meetings, which, I presume is something like AA:
"Hi, I'm Judy Jones, and I'm FAT."
"Hi Judy."

"Hi, I'm Katie Clarke, and I have been thin for six months!"
(thundering applause)
And of course Nutrisystem, which, apparently, costs a damn fortune (their prices don't include a lot of parts of the "meal" they send you - like the meat).

And there is, of course, the idea of skipping food control all together and going straight to appetite control. Pills! We have a pill for everything — AND YOU NEED THEM. We have celebrities to endorse them all, too. FAT celebrities, who got skinny.

I don't think Americans — Westerners, even — will ever have a healthy relationship with food. We think of food like something naughty, an indulgence, a vice. Food is not something we eat to sustain ourselves, but to satisfy ourselves. And there's no balance. If we are satisfied, we must have had too much. My weight loss plan is this: don't think too much about it, do some pilates, walk more. I don't want to think about my snacks in terms of calories and carbs.

My friend Amelia has this theory on feeding children: kids' bodies know what they need. If you make good food available, they will, usually, get what their body requires. Her daughter seems to eat like a pigeon, but, if you watch closely over several days, you see that she gets everything she needs from several food groups. I don't see why we, as adults, can't function similarly. Eat what we want, when we want, listening to our bodies instead of the ingredients list on the backs of packages. And if I want I need I must have McNuggets, so be it. If I never lose this extra weight, I'm okay with that, too.