Thursday, July 31, 2008

That's It. I'm Never Taking a Bus Again.

I thought the urine smells and crying babies were bad. Nope.

(A reminder of why I loathe the bus can be found here, back when this blog was just a wordy little zygote.)
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Men in Tights?


I have never, to my knowledge, met a man who felt sartorially stunted by his inability to wear pantyhose on a regular basis. In fact, I sort of assumed that tight nylon over the male genitalia—let alone over all that leg hair—would be uncomfortable. Not so, according to e-MANcipate.net, a suspiciously European-looking site devoted to advocating for men whose brethren think his tights-wearing is... um... fey. Or something that rhymes with fey.

Read the whole post here.
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Wednesday, July 30, 2008

You Know You Have a Problem When ...

The other night I was in the kitchen washing dishes when Jeff burst out laughing.

"You have ..." he could barely get the words out. "You have jelly ... on your back."

It has come to this, my friends. It is not just that I leave a trail of crumbs—inadvertently, unlike the cautious Hansel—wherever I go. Not just that I am unable to bring a spoon to my mouth without dribbling its contents down my chin. Not just that I sleep under sheets more crusted with peanuts and chocolate flakes than a Snickers bar. No, it's much worse -- I now have food that I don't even eat show up on places on my body I can't even reach.
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Monday, July 28, 2008

Fashion Gets Hippy

Jennifer Connelly's aboriginal hips were just the beginning ...
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Blast from the Past

A friend put this photo on Facebook today -- I'm in the green room of the '92 Theater at Wesleyan, about to perform in a musical set to '90s rock and pop which involved, among other things, a choreographed dance to "Bugaboo" by Destiny's Child.


That tee shirt is a costume, thank Christ. And seems to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Why do I look so pissed? In college, you don't know yet that your life is about to suck for at least five years.
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And They Say the Obama Coverage is Ridiculous...


Thanks, CNN. Gross.
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In Case You Were Wondering What Sorts of Things I Write For Money ...

...and even if you weren't, it's a busy day at the office, so the best I can do is recycle my own work. Love and kisses! I promise I'll have new content soon.

Très Sheikh
An island oasis aims to bring VIPs to the UAE.
Published in BlackBook, August 2008

Brace yourselves—the Louvre and the Guggenheim are moving to Abu Dhabi. We had to trade them for oil. Kidding! Well, about the second part. But a Frank Gehry-designed Guggenheim and a Jean Nouvel-helmed Louvre will soon be cultural hot spots on Saayidat Island, a 10.4 square mile “island of happiness” (both literal translation and marketing slogan) less than half a mile from Abu Dhabi’s shores. The island, which has up to now been totally undeveloped, will over the next 15 years become a luxury community complete with residences, hotels and resorts, museums, restaurants and shops, a performing arts center, and even an NYU campus. While its main purpose is to boost tourism to the UAE, developers expect a year-round population of 150,000.

The official website has the feel of a videogame introduction (“Great explorers passed through these desert lands in search of a dream … they discovered the property of life …”) and the renderings resemble a mystical Sim City (the Performing Arts Centre, designed by Zaha Hadid and Patrick Schumacher, juts out over the sea like a futuristic amoeba), but Saadiyat promises to be a very real destination that bridges global cultures (case in point: France doesn’t give up the Louvre to just anyone). It’s not exactly secluded—two 10-lane freeways will connect the island to the mainland—but it is an easier trip than it seems, a mere 15 miles from the Abu Dhabi International airport. And you have plenty of time to pack: the first phases of development are scheduled for completion by 2012.

Reining Ladies
The women of championship Polo.
Published in Bridgehampton Polo (yes, secretly I am a polo master! Kidding), Summer 2008.

Polo, much like golf, hunting, and the presidency of the United States, has long been considered an upper-class men’s sport, but you wouldn’t know it at the Southampton Hunt & Polo Club. The first New York club to have an all-woman league, Southampton has seen women coming out to play in ever-increasing numbers, and the rest of the country seems to be following suit.

As recently as a decade ago, female players were few and far between in the 2,000 year-old sport. “I didn’t really see any women at first,” says Ashley Schiff, one of the highest-ranking players in the Northeast and the only woman to ever compete at Bridgehampton Polo Club (in the Mercedes-Benz Polo Challenge, see sidebar). “Then, after college, I started playing in Florida. It was the first time I saw incredibly competitive female players, like Vicky Armour and Sunny Hale, women who were great athletes and great polo players.” Hale, one of the top female polo players in the United States and the first woman to achieve a four-goal ranking, played her first match in 1979 at the age of ten and went on to found the Women’s Championship Tournament Polo (WCT) in 2005. “The only challenge I faced as a woman was getting the opportunity to play on teams as a professional player,” she recalls. “This was not the norm when I started.”

Professional athletes like Hale and Schiff share a deep commitment to and love of the sport (“I think polo is the most exciting sport around,” says Schiff). But there are other factors drawing more and more novice women players to the field.

“Women like polo because it is very social and team-oriented,” says Stacey Widlitz, who plays Novice/Intermediate League at Southampton Polo and is one of the organizers of the club’s recent Ladies Cup (see sidebar). Schiff agrees. “Women who showed as kids and want to get back into riding are seeing polo as a great opportunity for team play and competition,” she says. “Showing is very individual, and polo is very social.”

Women are well-suited to the sport, Widlitz adds, because so many of them have riding experience. “Most of the women who play polo have equestrian backgrounds,” she says, “So they are already skilled at riding. A lot of men have never been on a horse!” This gender divide tends to give women a leg up. “Your level of competence in polo is mainly based on the quality of your horse and your skill at riding,” says Widlitz. “Obviously there is some strength and muscle involved, but there’s not a real handicap for women.” Schiff is more blunt. “In polo, your horsemanship is of paramount importance,” she says. “The better you ride, the better you play, and that’s the bottom line.”

While riding skills are not gender-specific, “there are differences between male and female players,” Schiff admits. “After all, the best male player is a 10-goal and the best female player is only a 5-goal. I think that has to do with strength and maybe an inherent craziness. I mean, polo can be a dangerous sport. Women are a bit more practical and a bit more hesitant.” That said, she is quick to add that there are two women who have been on teams that have won the US Open—Gillian Johnston and Sunny Hale. “Women are just as aggressive as men,” Widlitz agrees. “I went to a coed match last year, and you wouldn’t know if it was a man or a woman playing, except for the ponytail.”

Increased visibility and media attention may be another reason that women are flocking to the fields. “I think that women’s polo in general is experiencing a new attraction and direction due to the network created between top women players, new players and sponsors through the WCT,” says Hale. “Polo has also become more commercialized,” says Widlitz. “It’s been made into a social event and sponsored by big name brands, so more women have watched it and thought, ‘Hey, I want to try that.’”

Frank McNamara, the president of the Southampton Hunt & Polo Club, is more puzzled by the influx of female players. “I don’t think polo is becoming more popular,” he says. “In fact, if you exclude the women, I think growth is probably declining.” Still, McNamara estimates that 80 percent of new members of Southampton are female, including 16 of its 19 novice players. “We do try very hard to make polo accessible to everyone,” he says. “And women seem to be responding.”

Widlitz adds that “inviting beginners into the sport has made it much more open for women. Most people don’t realize that polo is very approachable, and not all that expensive. You have to have a certain level of financial stability to afford the horse and training, but it’s far from the exclusivity people perceive.” Southampton makes everything is one of the few clubs that has a novice league, Widlitz says, which makes polo more accessible to women who are just beginning to learn.

Both Schiff and Widlitz agree that all types of women play at Southampton—“women who got hooked on it because their husbands play; single women; Wall Street women; artists.” And while Schiff is still the only woman to play at Bridgehampton (and will play again at this year’s tournament—see sidebar), she says that she isn’t treated any differently by her male teammates. “They see me as one of the guys.”
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Friday, July 25, 2008

Team Ugly Brown Fabric vs. Team Saggy-Boobed Peacock Hooker



Read all about it here.
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Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Imagining a Sassy White House

My friend Amy sent me this link, and I freaked the fuck out.

I hope you watch it before reading the rest of this, but there's no way for me to force you to do so. Anyway, nothing strikes fear into the heart of a blogger like the words "what began as a colorful Internet fluke". I actually thought this was real for about 60 seconds. I was like, What on Earth did I blog?
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Marc Summers is my God

I don't have cable, through a cruel twist of fate and bad wiring, so I have to watch most of the shows I covet via Netflix , iTunes, or indulgent, bad-day-binge purchases at Target. One show, however, has eluded me—until now.

Two of my very favorite things in the world are 1) candy and 2) those behind-the-scenes segments on Sesame Street where you get to see how crayons are made. So imagine my euphoria when I discovered that the Food Network airs a show called Unwrapped, which goes behind the scenes to show you how CANDY IS MADE. Agggggghhhhhhhhhhh! (Minor stroke).

And it's hosted by Marc Summers! From Double Dare! Where people got to dive into huge bowls of whipped cream! Agggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! (Seizure of happiness).

I of course have ordered it on DVD, sight unseen.
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The MTA, New York's Timekeepers

Below is a chart that was published in the New York Times yesterday. Apparently, subways are—prepare yourselves—not on time. Slower than ever, even. So slow that they have to raise fares, because inexplicable loss of time is, apparently, money.

But while this angers me, my overwhelming feeling, when looking at this chart, is shock. Who exactly is telling me that the Q train runs on schedule 97% of the time? Because I wait for that slow mofo every morning and the B train—the B train! Who even takes the B train?!—comes three times as often. And look at the rest of the numbers—practically every single train, according to this data, is on time, all the time. Does the MTA not ride the trains? Let me see these so-called "schedules." I bet you $5 they are handwritten on Olde English wrappers.


And then we have the reasons for the delays. Some of them are clear (i.e. track work, sick passenger), but the overwhelming percentage of delays are caused by mysterious "other" factors. I imagine this list to include things like "narcoleptic conductor," and "rat stuck in clutch."


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Tuesday, July 22, 2008

WTF?

Okay, so apparently there is a water-based competition show called Wipeout on right before I Survived a Japanese Game Show -- I just caught the end of it. And one of the host dudes signed off by saying "Good night, and big balls." I swear to God. Can anyone explain this? I know that answering this question means you will have to admit to watching Wipeout, so feel free to post anonymously.
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Monday, July 21, 2008

Holly GoHomely: Turning Japanese

I vaguely remember being in Germany visiting my friend Charlie in the summer of 2000. I say vaguely because I was drunk on liters of beer and/or stoned on the brick of hash we smuggled back from Amsterdam in a Nutella jar pretty much the whole time. But I do remember watching a Japanese game show called Takeshi’s Castle. I remember it as being not unlike the final obstacle course on Double Dare, except with more potential for physical pain and a lot of reaction shots of Japanese people cracking up. Which is to say, it was awesome, especially when paired with the brick of hash.

Two weeks ago, I discovered I Survived a Japanese Game Show, an American version of Takeshi’s Castle currently airing on ABC. It is AMAZING. Your usual dumb American reality show contestants have to do things like peddle a tricycle on a treadmill that is moving backwards, or jump onto a giant Velcro board wearing Velcro suits. The show is filmed in Japan, and throughout the humiliating challenges, the host totally mocks the players in Japanese, and the audience laughs, and the players smile and nod like assholes! During the episode I watched, the winning team’s prize was a tour of a smelly fish market. And the losing team had to work in a rice paddy! Why aren’t more people watching this?!

I will leave you with possibly my favorite game ever of the Japanese version, Human Tetris.


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Sunday, July 20, 2008

Liveblogging a Marriage

Me and Jeff, sitting on the couch, watching Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.

I absentmindedly put my feet up on the coffee table and start to smack my thighs together rhytmically.

ME: Look! I can clap with my legs!

JEFF: That ...

ME:
Is awesome?

JEFF:
... doesn't turn me on.
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Friday, July 18, 2008

Holly GoHomely: Project Runway!

So I haven’t really recapped shows on the blog because Television Without Pity, fourfour, and countless other sites already do it, and do it well. But then I thought, I’m going to be fashion blogging for Popserious, and Project Runway is one of my favorite favorite shows, so … one stone, two birds, making fun of clothes—what could be better?

Read my first installment here.
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Whitley Gilbert says Don't Stop Dancing!

I saw The Dark Knight last night. At 12:30 am. I don't know what I was thinking—I am usually exhausted after 8 hours of sleep, and last night I got 4. But it was fun, and a good movie, and before we waited in a three block-long line in Times Square, Alex screened some vintage Batman clips. And it was totally worth it (I am not a big comic geek, believe it or not), because Prince's Batdance, a DVD extra on the 1989 Batman directed by Tim Burton, is the most amazing thing ever. It is his Thriller.

(Also--what late '80s TV actress does Prince remind me of in this? I feel it is some strange combination of Jasmine Guy and Lisa Bonet, with maybe a little Dwayne Wayne and Ron Johnson thrown in. So basically the entire cast of A Different World.)
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Thursday, July 17, 2008

Please Don't Let it Be Sexual Innuendo

So I had a dream last night that I tripped and fell down a giant Slip N' Slide in front of Mayor Bloomberg. Usually I'm pretty good at interpreting my own dreams, but I don't even want to touch this one. Thoughts?
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Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Keep On Keepin' On


This is what I feel like today. Face in the ground. Helpless. Wrinkly and confused.

(And that's not a backwoods stock photo baby--that's me! 2008 Una to 1980 Una: I feel you, girl.)
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Breakin' 2: Toe-less Bootie-loo

(Sorry about the title, I couldn't help myself, I have been at work for over 12 hours.)

I have on this blog denounced the hated ankle bootie. Cutting off your leg at the thickest part of your calf, they make a girl instantly stumpy.

But, you know, at least those booties had toes.



I mean, am I wrong? If it's cold enough for boots, it's too cold for bare toes! Do not even get me started on the open-toed sneakers. Sneakers are worn for comfort. They are worn so that you don't have to worry about getting your toes stepped on. What's next? Toe-less steel-toed boots? PEOPLE. This is the exact same thing as making a sweater with the nipples cut out. The only difference is that that I might actually wear (what with global warming, you never know when you'll need a nice breeze).

Whoever thought of this, I hope their toes fall off from hypothermia.
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Monday, July 14, 2008

The More You Know: Delicious Sandwich Cookie Gone Bad

I love CNN -- I really do. It inspires so many clogs (um, blogs. But CNN clogs I would like to see; they sound awesome) with its ridiculous headlines (last week I was sent into hysterical laugh-sobs by the phrase "'Cindy Brady' halts broadcast to vomit").

Anyway, today, I read that John McLaughlin referred to Barack Obama as an "Oreo." "Does it frost Jackson, Jesse Jackson, that…an Oreo should be the beneficiary of the long civil rights struggle which Jesse Jackson spent his lifetime fighting for?" McLaughlin asked his panelists.

An "Oreo," for those who do not use cookie brands as racial slurs, is a black person who is acts white, or is "white on the inside". Get it? I had a friend in elementary school who was referred to as an Oreo. In 1989. And that was the last time I have heard that word used in that context.

Who knew McLaughlin was so old school? But, more importantly, just because it's a cookie doesn't mean it's not a slur, kids.
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Saturday, July 12, 2008

Blah Blah Blog

I had a CRAZY week at work last week, and next week will be even crazier, so I won't be posting quite as much. I'll try to post at night, but chances are I'll be either passed out on the couch or having some alone time with a bottle of Pinot Noir and the new season of Project Runway. When the working day is done, girls just want to get drunk and piss away the tatters of the gray matter they have left. HEY! Jeff finished my sentence while I was downstairs pulling fashion magazines out of our mail box. Sweet, now I don't have to do it myself. Thanks, honey.

What else? I'm pretty boring this week. Jeff is having an affair with one of our pillows. I get up before he does, and as soon as my still-warm body has excised itself from his tangle of limbs, he embraces the pillow and turns his back to me. As soon as I started calling him on it, he started using it to stoke the flames of my jealousy (yes, I get jealous of inanimate objects, what?) "Oh, pillow," he'll whisper, loud enough for me to hear. "You're so ... soft." It kind of sucks, but it's nothing a pair of scissors can't take care of.

On Thursday night I reunited with my old co-workers (the ISHAS) at Old Town bar. We shared approximately eighteen pitchers of beer and Bryan Ambition and I reminisced about the days when we used to take a break from work to sing karaoke. The place would open at 2, and we'd show up at, like, 2:14 (the proprietor must have thought we were basically the saddest people ever. Well, I always assumed that. Bryan has no shame). But even though we were there at a ridiculous time, EVERY time we went, we heard this middle-aged dude singing show tunes by himself in a private booth. In an empty karaoke bar on a Tuesday afternoon. I have wanted to do a post where I go to a karaoke bar alone when I'm feeling sad and blog about how the experience makes me feel (i.e. better? worse?), but I just can't bring myself to do it. I'm not good at solo activities in the eat lunch by yourself, go to a movie by yourself way. Obvi, I am great at solo activities in the watch 12 hours of 'The Hills' in a single Sunday while your husband is working way. Um, what was I saying? That I was boring this week? Yeah.

Last night, Jeff and I went to Syosset for the wedding of his coworker Genio (short for Eugenio, which the DJ pronounced like 'El Nino'). Jeff put cake icing in my wine, I tried to retaliate by dripping my icing on him, the icing fell on the floor, and when I bent over to get it, apparently it looked like I was doing something innapropriate in Jeff's lap. Good times.

Now I am sitting here, writing this, with inexplicable exhaustion. Which may explain why all of this writing (Jeff just looked over and remarked, "Wow, you are pretty prosaic today.") is kind of aimless. Sorry. If you made it this far, I salute you. I should come up with something AWESOME to reward you. Think think think ... got it.

When I was little, my best friends Salvador and I used to play a game called ... wait for it ... "Look in Butt."

(You're welcome.)
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Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Home-Grown Pot Psychology

You know sometimes how you realize you haven't told your husband/boyfriend/partner/cell mate something important about your personality? And they've known you for, like, ever and it seems weird that they wouldn't know this thing? And you're hungry and you're searching in the cupboard for snacks, and you find your clandestine bag of foods you never eat in front of anyone, and you just can't help yourself? I just experienced that. Here is how I dealt:

ME (walking into living room, clutching bag of beef jerky): OK, I don't know how to hide this, so I'm just gonna come out with it. Sometimes I eat beef jerky, and this is one of those times.

JEFF: Interesting.

ME: Think of it like a beef Fruit Roll-Up.

(a few minutes pass)

JEFF: Or, like ... Calfy Taffy!

ME: Har har. I guess I shouldn't eat this silica bag, huh? It says "DO NOT EAT. AGELESS OXYGEN ABSORBER."

JEFF:
Woah, that is harsh.
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Monday, July 7, 2008

Taking Over the World, One Blog at a Time


Like my crankypants fashion musings? As of this month, I'll be blogging about rompers, gay-making sandals, and couture chastity belts over at Popserious.

(And this week I am super busy, so I apologize in advance for my post-less-ness. Although tonight I am gonna pour myself a big 'ol glass of wine, in which case prepare yourself for slurry Lost conspiracy theories.)
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Thursday, July 3, 2008

Men's Fashion Preview: How Gay is Too Gay?

I want to preface this by saying that I love a man with style, and that my husband has taken lately to wearing pink. A pastel pink tie paired with a white shirt and his dark scruff is kind of manly-sexy and very summer-appropriate. However, looking at what Style.com calls "Spring 2009's hottest trends, plucked straight from the still-warm runways of Milan and Paris," I worry that style-conscious men may be tempted to go too far, adding a whole cup of gay when only a dab'll do ya. Observe:

This is Givenchy. Presumably French for "Who needs a fly? I pee sitting down."


And now, the pink. Louis Vuitton is totally bringing back the jeans I wore in 1991 (but even I wouldn't have done pink-on-pink. I had a neon yellow tye dye shirt I paired them with, thank you very much.)


Heeeeeere's Gucci! Put your thumb over the head and it's Debbie Harry! Magic!


This is the sartorial incarnation of a crush I had in high school. I so wanted him to ask me to prom, but he didn't, he went with this blond girl he had a crush on, and I was kind of heartbroken. But then, in college, he came out. (P.S. Red shoes! Searing my eyeballs! Why, Salvatore Ferragamo?)


Dolce ("Sweet") and Gabbana ("Shiny?"). This dude looks like he's pissed off that no one appreciates the fierceness of irridescent culottes. ("They're from Barneys, asshats.")


This outfit makes me want Nerds. Mmmmm, two flavors, one box, soooo delicious.


Okay. This is weird. I had a Donnie Wahlberg doll (shut up, it was awesome), and in my blossoming adolescent lust I used to pretend that Donnie was my boyfriend and that we -- gasp! -- made out. And this is exactly what the live version of the doll would look like if he rolled out of bed after a drunken tryst with my friend Vanessa's M.C. Hammer doll and accidentally put on the wrong pants.


So, Blossom hat aside, it's not the outfit I take issue with here; it's the shoes. Specifically, it's the ties wrapped around the ankle. Look, I am a sensitive person, OK? I love the gays. But some things, some things belong to only one gender, and dainty strappy sandals are one of those things. I can deal with man-huaraches, OK? Even clogs. Or (shudder) Crocs. Get your thong on, guys, go crazy. Just ... don't wear these. They are really too faggy for words.


Oh ... hi. Something in my brain just cannot compute this fantastic equation. Is it Beetlejuice x Almodovar / Lukas Haas, or Tim Burton + Buster Keaton x M.C. Escher? Either way, those shoes are not made for bullfighting, senor. Prepare to lose a toe.


Happy 4th! I have downloaded the entire 4th season of Lost to my iPod and there is a bucket of frozen margarita mix waiting for me at home. I will celebrate my independence by consuming both.
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Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Fine Jewels, Sassy Curmudgeon-Style

Remember my extensive collection of mismatched and/or five-lb earrings? Well, apparently there is a high-end version:

These must be HUGE and if you buy them (only 140 Euro!!) and send me a photo of you wearing them I will love you forevs:


For that bejeweled butcher and/or knife afficionado in your life:


What time is it? Time to get some ill jewelry, yo!


And this, I just covet:


If you are a purist and want the original goods, though, there is -- shockingly and sadly -- a place you can still buy them (DO NOT click on that unless you are ready for some serious troll action. You have been warned):


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Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Goodbye, Pulitzer

Interviewing famous (or, let’s be honest, in my case only semi-famous and sometimes just totally normal) people sounds really exciting, but I think to do it well you have to have the right personality type, which I have narrowed down to some combination of the following: unrepentant ass-kisser and/or shameless invader of privacy. I fall a teensy bit into the former category, but mostly I am just uncomfortable. Talking to a celebrity is only exciting if they are not being forced to do so by their publicist(s). Sure, there is the fantasy that they will totally spark with you and you will become BFFs and/or lovers, and the interview will just fly by because you are having so much goddamn fun.

No.

They will be polite, but the more famous they are, the more reticent they will be. They will repeat the same sound bites over and over. If you ask a question you think is funny, they will sometimes look confused. Also, the written question is much different than the spoken question. You will find yourself tripping over the words that sounded so eloquent and thoughtful on paper, sounding inadvertently like a robotic stutterer who cannot use contractions. Also you inexplicably feel the need to read them their own biography by way of introduction: “So, you grew up in Stamford milking cows before moving to Guadalajara to become a performance artist …” They nod, blankly, waiting for the question, but you did your Wikipedia research too well and have a good paragraph before there is any punctuation.

Also, half the time the publicist will be on the phone with them. You pick up the phone expecting to talk to Martin Freeman, hear the tell-tale echo of speaker phone, and then: “Hi, it’s Jenny! I’m here with Martin. I’ll just be listening in, you guys go ahead.” Talking to anyone in this scenario would be awkward, but engaging in what is essentially an imitation of a conversation under these circumstances is much worse. Every awkward pause, every failed joke is magnified by the number of ears listening in.

I think everyone has a word or phrase that they use far too much. For me, with authority figures, this word is “absolutely.” If I am asked if something can be done, I say “absolutely.” If I am told an opinion that I agree with even half-assedly, I offer a hearty “absolutely” as a show of my support. And in interviews, any halfway intelligent thing said by the subject is agreed with in this manner. The problem is, it’s my only fall-back word. “Yeah” and “Mmmmm hmmmmm” seem too informal, so I might say “absolutely”—with varying degrees of inflection, to spice it up—25 times in the span of 10 minutes. It’s out of my control. At least my version of Tourette’s is only expressed in pleasantries.

So, in summation, an interview with a famous (or even semi-famous, or even not famous at all) person, for me, is not an awesome and enlightening conversation with a fellow human. It is an embarrassing and humbling exercise in social skills (or lack thereof) under the duress of forced merriment and familiarity. This is why I stick to self-posessed essays. Just for the record.
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A Few Things

1. Who takes personal calls in a public bathroom? Twice now I have gone to pee to find a woman standing idly among the stalls, chatting on a cell phone. Which seems rude to the person you’re talking to, not to mention the people trying to “make” (to use my favorite euphemism … for some reason that always makes me crack up. But I digress). Then again, had she not been talking, I never would have heard the following:

“So Joe goes over to Edmon’s table to see if everything’s cool, and Edmon goes, ‘Yeah, we’re cool. They’re all sluts, especially Bridget, but we’re still boys.’”

I bet you anything she was Bridget. Hahahaha, you slut, stop talking on your phone in the bathroom!

2. So I saw this headline on CNN today, something like “Crime on McCain agenda”—which, if you think about it, is funny and totally the wrong wording, but what else do you expect from a news source that last week blared the line "'I’ll rip apart’ raped kids, lawmaker vows." Anyway, remember McGruff, the Crime dog? Doesn’t McCain kind of remind you of him – old, kinda mangy? Can’t you picture McCain telling kids to take a bite out of crime?



Yes you can!
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