If Office Jargon gives you a perverse thrill, you must read this essay by Mark Labash on the movement to bring “Coercive Joviality” to the workplace.
It’s about ‘the infantilization of corporate America.’ It is delightful reading material, and enlightening as well. I learned that the ancient Greek word for work was ponos, derived from the same root as the Latin poena, meaning sorrow.
I can’t remember how I discovered Danish-born designer Camilla Staerk, but I love her. Everything she does is so good that I can’t even take umbrage at her enormous oversized handbag. You can find her stuff at Brittique, a wonderful site for checking out the best British designers. Their sales are great, and their customer service can’t be beat.
Nothing could prepare me for the awfulness of HBO’s new drama, “Tell Me You Love Me,” not even the deeply annoying “Californication,” Showtime’s own genital-driven atrocity starring that guy from the X-files.
“Tell Me You Love Me” follows the dirge-like unhappiness of three couples, who should all be shot, in my humble opinion. Two of the wives look like Sheryl Crow, and all three of the men are required to exhibit their balls, for some reason. While I’m sure that’s a treat for some viewers, I found myself dreading each succeeding sex scene. Are testicles the new black this season?
I wondered aloud why the show wasn’t considered porn, but then I remembered that HBO’s mandate is to be Not TV. That used to mean boldly original, back in the day. Now, it just means icky night-time soap opera.
Here I was so relieved to be through with “John From Cincinnati,” and look what I get! A bunch of dreary couples who can’t get along with or without sex, who are traumatized by masturbation and Tampax. Tonight’s opening episode ends with the 150 year old marriage counselor in bed with her amorous white-haired husband, who looks like he’s just wandered in from a Viagra ad. As her head moved down his body, I screamed and covered my eyes.
If they did anything involving his balls, I don’t want to know. I think a better name for this series would by “The Horror of Intimacy.” Be warned.
Just like any normal person, I am fascinated by stories about female teachers who have sex with their students. It seems like a recent phenomenon, but perhaps it’s just coming to light now. Mary Kay Letourneau will always be my favorite, but I’ve just read about Allenna Ward, a married, 23 year old middle school teacher who has admitted to having sex with five of her students, all aged 14 and 15.
Allenna Ward is a white Minister’s daughter from South Carolina, and her ‘victims’ were all black. I learned this by googling her after reading a small item about her in the Los Angeles Times. In the Times, there was no mention of race.
I assume that the race aspect was left out in a concession to political correctness. But to my mind, this is part of the story. It’s not the whole story, but it’s significant. I’ve tried to figure out a reason for it’s significance that doesn’t strike me as racist, and I’ve come up with this: By having sex with black boys, this white teacher has crossed yet another boundary, besides the one that forbids physical intimacy between teacher and student. I don’t want my newspaper to decide what part of a story is too racially inflammatory to report.
Opinions, anyone? Meanwhile, here is the mother lode of stuff about ‘women predators on campus.’
A new book called ‘Deluxe: How Luxury Lost its Luster’ cites some statistics about designer handbags that I find deeply upsetting. Apparently, 40 per cent of Japanese people own a product made by Louis Vuitton. Girls in Japan will resort to prostitution in order to buy a Louis Vuitton or Hermes handbag.
In 2004, luxury brands collectively sold $11.7 billion worth of handbags and other leather accessories. Shit! I think about $10 billion of that was my fault, but I’m not taking the blame for the rest of it.
This horrible scourge of “It Bags” and what it represents is a depressing subject for me, since I consider myself somewhat enlightened and devoutly anti-authority, but I still want a nice handbag. By ‘nice,’ I mean expensive. By ‘expensive,’ I mean that anything under $500 is unacceptable. By ‘unacceptable,’ I mean brands like Coach or Cole Haan or any other mid-priced brand. I don’t mind using a vinyl Hello Kitty bag if I get the urge, but otherwise it has to be an eye-popping luxury piece that says ‘Look! I’m Not Afraid To Waste Money!’
I’ve read The Theory of the Leisure Class, and I know about conspicuous consumption. I snicker at people who care what kind of car others drive. I like thrift shops and second hand clothes. I hate Republicans. But I am hopelessly caught up in the handbag thing.
Is it insecurity? Vanity? Status-Seeking? Advertising? Brainwashing? I’m not sure, but I’m hoping that ‘Deluxe’ will enlighten me. The appeal of Louis Vuitton has always seemed unfathomable, since those logo handbags are so drab looking. And I had no idea that the Japanese has switched their affection from Prada to Louis!
My enormous yellow handbag has stopped giving me a thrill, sort of like when you hit a wall with Zoloft and have to try Lexapro or Effexor. I am presently involved in a transaction with Vivienne Westwood, which may solve the problem. God knows I have prostituted myself to pay for it!
What’s so funny about Owen Wilson’s suicide attempt? I’m not sure, but an ABC news anchor couldn’t stop laughing when she had to report it.
Is it because Owen Wilson is such a jerk? Or because he is so privileged that the idea of his ‘pain’ just seems ludicrous? Is it his nose, or his hairdo?
Two of my friends dismissed my guilt for not caring about Owen Wilson by refuting my weak claim that He is a person, after all! Apparently the consensus is, no, he isn’t. What I’m wondering is, where are his band-aids? His wrists appear to be in perfect shape, as seen in some blown-up paparazzi photos. Where are the cuts, Owen? Did you even break the skin?
People who want to end their lives should jump out of windows or go visit Phil Spector. Poor Owen has only increased his problems by acting like a pussy (with all due respect, or course.) There are loads of suicide chat-rooms he could have logged into for some decent advice. There, he could have found support and suggestions for how to ‘take the bus,’ or whatever term for death they’re using now.
Until someone tells me a good Owen Wilson joke, here’s mine. Owen Wilson goes into an emergency room, and the doctor says, Why the long face?
The September issue of Vogue is pleasingly hefty, but in all other respects it is a huge disappointment. I remember the days when opening the September Vogue was a sacred ritual. You had to set aside a period of time to look at every page, letting the waves of sumptuous unaffordable suede and leather fantasies wash over you. Every fall, you were commanded to wear high boots and wool menswear and darker lipstick, as if they’d all just been discovered for the first time.
This year, Vogue has lost its authority and direction, I think. Maybe it’s the fault of the designers, or maybe it’s Anna Wintour. How can you even believe in the fashion dictates of a woman who still wears a stupid pageboy with bangs when she has a grown-up daughter? Then, she goes and puts Sienna Miller on the cover. What next, Chloe Sevigny?
I miss the old Vogue, with its bossy mandates that left no doubt about what you needed to look for. I will never forget the precision of “Think yellow, like the inside of a banana.” Things were always “key,” meaning Follow these directions or you’ll blow it.
This year, Vogue wants you to wear ankle boots AND high boots, wide-legged pants AND skinny ones. Make up your goddamned mind, Anna. The one thing to be happy about is the end of the baby doll dress. I don’t even want to see a baby wearing one, at this point.
Here are the new trends, as if you didn’t already know:
1. The Bootie. Sickening word, but don’t blame me. I like ankle boots, so I’m on board with this one.
2. The Menswear Look. You know the drill: slouchy trousers, neckties, fedoras, bla bla bla.
3. Black Tights. Yay! The bare leg was too daunting for those of us who can’t stand the smell of the fake tan stuff.
4. The Funny Sleeve. Call if trumpet shaped or balloon shaped, just as long as it’s funny looking.
5. The Cropped Jacket. Yes, we’ve had that for years now, but pretend it’s new.
6. The Clutch Handbag. No way. If I can’t get my sunglasses in there, it’s useless.
7. The Chunky Knit. Think grandpa, or soup lines in the winter.
8. Grey. Everything must be grey, it’s all about grey, don’t even think of ignoring this one!
9. The High Boot. Think biker or riding boot, then add around $800.
10. Patent Leather. This makes me happy, but it could start making me mad. You know how I get.
To mark the tenth anniversary of Princess Diana’s car-crash, the US media indulged in the usual TV specials and analyses of the event and its significance. Predictably, there was a lot of criticism of poor Diana, as if it were her fault that people are obsessed with her.
I’m not mad at Diana for being anorexic or media savvy or whatever it is that pisses off the anti-Diana faction. I don’t worship her, either. I do own a big clock whose hours are each accompanied by a photo of Diana doing something characteristic, like holding a dying orphan. The clock has started to run slowly this week, in an obvious tribute to her.
On my way home from San Francisco last week, I called in to a Fox News radio show whose sneering host had challenged callers to explain why Americans should be interested in Diana. I used a silly English accent and called myself ‘Fiona.’ I was so impressive that I was ‘bumped to the front of the queue’ and immediately on the air. I started blabbing about how Princess Di represented a fairy tale come true, but “at the same time, she was terribly human.” The Fox guy sneered some response, calling me Fiona several times. He finally gave Diana props for her nice teeth, especially in comparison with most Brits. I agreed that teeth in the UK were “a bit crap.” With that, Fiona was hastily dropped like a hot potato.
Is ‘crap’ really a bad word to say on the radio? It’s not like I called anyone a fag or nigger, for god sake! My husband rebuked me for using the word ‘crap,’ just as he still rebukes me for the time I called my boss a cunt. I don’t see any problem with either word, and that’s the truth. Fuck!
Meanwhile, let us take comfort in the word “Dianafication,” which is generally used to indict the British for giving in to emotionalism instead of keeping a stiff upper lip.
Long live Princess Diana, and all the conspiracy theories about her tragic “accident!”
Here’s my tattoo. Ma haine dure (my hatred endures.)
I am very happy with it, but it seems to upset strangers, which was not my intent. I’m getting tired of explaining its genesis, and that hatred is my fuel, my strength, my currency, etc.
I’m going to start saying it means “I love puppies,” just to avoid pointless arguments.
I finally saw the documentary “American Hardcore,” and while I’m obviously too old to judge the music of the ‘hardcore’ movement, I know an orgy of homoeroticism when I see one.
The featured bands are comprised of rebellious teenage boys who’d rather jump around on a stage, screaming bloody murder, than go to school or get a job. Not that I blame them, of course. Their fans are basically the same demographic, who come to shows ready to punch and wrestle with other audience members.
The scenes at these shows are like mini-riots, but the sweaty young males are frantic with excitement as they shove and pummel each other. There are no women anywhere in sight: It’s a strictly male enthusiasm. Who needs girls when you can watch the young Henry Rollins prancing around in his underwear?
When we meet the band members as they are today, they all seem like lonely bachelors who still wear black t-shirts and can’t really move on from their memories of former glory. They speak of each other in reverential tones: Vinnie Stigma, Joey Shithead, who can forget them?
The music is awful (oops, I forgot!) but it’s fun to observe a subculture so gay and seemingly unaware of it.
