Cars are dumb, and I am too.
So I got the car-recall thing taken care of this morning, at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.
I went to the Chevy dealer down the street, which was weird, because I always go to a fast-lube kinda joint for my oil changes et cetera, and I haven’t been to a dealer since I bought the damn thing, so I didn’t really know the protocol.
Anyhow, dropped it off, and brought my big fat book with me into the waiting area, expecting to sit tight for the hour and a half it was expected to take to get fixed. But this woman came in and sat next to me, and for Christ’s sake was she a mouth breather. It was like she was snoring, all phlegmy and audible, louder even than the Early Show blaring from the TV. Set my teeth on edge.
So after 20 minutes of tapping my foot and surreptitiously putting my finger in my ear to block the rippling wheezing sound coming from my left, I had to get out. I walked to the Safeway, where I purchased my first-ever [that’s right, FIRST EVER] cup of Starbucks brand coffee. It was OK. Pretentious little cup of joe, nothing special in my opinion.
Anyhow, walked back, car is sitting out front. I light a cigarette and drink my coffee, again having no idea where the service guys were or if my car was already done or not even started, but noting with huge relief that SnoreLady was gone. I must have hung around that waiting room for 20 minutes like a big fat ignorant chump. Finally, the lead tech guy comes over and goes, “Uh, Mrs. E, your car’s done, has been for a while … you can leave now.” Ach. Such an idiot I am.
Anyway. Had this thought the other night: I want to start a regular feature on Supafine. I was gonna call it Portraits of Baltimore — POB — but figured Portraits of Baltimore County was a wee bit more accurate. The plan is to document the interesting strangers I meet in normal daily encounters, such as grocery shopping or making a fool out of myself at the auto shop, and profiling them in PoBCo. Of course, I’ll be careful not to provide too many identifying details for fear of libel and defamation charges, but that’s OK.
Anyway, SnoreLady was going to be the first, but I coopted her to do the tale above, so we’ll have to wait for next time.
Until that next time comes, I gotta get my ass to work [in my new-and-improved car, which I no longer fear exploding].
Tina Fey’s hotness: A double-edged sword
“Mean Girls” is the first teen flick I’ve wanted to see in a long while, and this only because it was written by the fantastically talented Tina Fey and based on the book “Queen Bees and Wannabes.”
I think a lot of folks out there feel the same way. And I’m glad she’s finally getting some real mainstream recognition right now, ‘cause she totally deserves it.
And yeah, it’s cool that most “hipster-esque” guys these days say she’s the hottest thing walking, because it’s a relief to see some people value brains over breasts and individuality and intelligence over porn-star-predictable good looks.
But I’m getting kind of sick of people sexing her up [a la WaPo]. I know she’s attractive, and I know her brain is what does it for a lot of these guys, and I know it’s nice that she’s breaking the old “guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses” adage.
But come on, she’s got so much going on, let’s leave her sexiness out of it for a second.
I consider Jon Stewart to be the male Tina Fey, and he’s hunky as all get-out [for the same reasons Tina is hot], but people don’t keep dwelling on his sex appeal as much as they do his comedy and political insight. They don’t say in article leads: “Jon Stewart is glancing coyly over his cup of coffee, offering a heart-fluttering grin as he gives his ‘news report.’ His blue suit clings to his broad shoulders, giving a hint of the rippling muscles underneath.”
No, of course not. They don’t fetishize his blue tie, or whatever. They talk about his smarts and his attitude and his comedy.
That’s the kind of respect we should give Tina. Let’s not forget that behind those geek glasses and sassy smirk there’s an incredible talent and a truckload of smarts to go with. To do otherwise does her a disservice, and the rest of us girls, too, by yet again reducing an awesome woman to her sex appeal.
*cough* I LOVE YOU TINA *cough, cough*
Ahem. OK. Just had to get that out.
The problem with Corporate ownership of news outlets …
Is that news consumers suffer when journalistic decisions come from the corporate end, and not the journalists.
From a David Folkenflik article in the Sun today:
The Sinclair Broadcast Group will yank Nightline from its seven ABC stations tonight because of a plan to devote the show to reading the names of the hundreds of American service members killed in Iraq, which Sinclair says is intended to damage support for U.S. actions there.
Ted Koppel, anchor of the ABC News program, is attempting to “disguise political speech as news content,” said Mark Hyman, Sinclair’s vice president for corporate relations. “He’s welcome to participate in political speech, but this purports to be a news program. There is no journalistic value here.”
I’m astounded. This is journalism if ever I heard it; Koppel is not making biased or partisan claims, he isn’t lying or distorting the truth. He is reporting the deaths of our troops in America’s current war. How is that political speech? Moreover, how is Hyman’s blocking of this report not political speech? He’s not even a journalist, he’s a businessman. Why is he making journalism decisions in place of the paid professionals such as Ted Koppel?
It seems rather obvious to me that the Sinclair group has a bottom-line [or political] interest that greatly diverges from the values of journalism they claim to uphold.
UPDATE: From CNN — “According to campaign finance records, four of Sinclair’s top executives each have given the maximum campaign contribution of $2,000 to the Bush-Cheney re-election campaign.” None donated to the Kerry campaign as far as records show.
Fortunately, the journalists at Sinclair’s stations aren’t so easily cowed. Leroy Sievers, executive producer of Nightline, said: “If you agree with the war or disagree with the war, these people here have died in our names. We think it’s the least we can do, to list their names.”
I agree. It’s atrocious that corporate headquarters is passing down an ultimatum prohibiting what they call “political speech,” when that very action is political in its unquestioning support for Bush and the war.
I wonder what other news Sinclair has banned from being broadcast? And if you’re wondering, this affects WBFF in Baltimore and also a station in Columbus, Ohio, among others.
Proud to report that WBFF [Fox Baltimore] journalists objected internally to the proclamation, as they ought to. In journalism, even broadcast journalism, the public’s right to know should always trump corporate interest. Especially when it leads the public to believe that said corporate interest may be deep in the pockets of the current administration.
Good job, gang, and shame on you, Sinclair.
Apartments are for the birds.
Dear Ann Landers,
My husband and I have lived in the same apartment for almost two years, on the ground-floor of a three-story building.
We have a neighbor who lives directly above us, on the third floor, who enjoys decorating his porch with windchimes, plants, ribbons, and birdfeeders.
The only problem is this: he has at least 5 or 6 windchimes, which are always making noise; every time he waters his porch plants, the water runoff falls between the slats of his porch and the one below and lands on our patio, sometimes on our heads when we’re outside enjoying the fresh air; and most annoyingly, his birdfeeders seem to lose several pounds of birdseed each week. The birds will knock into it or take a little bit, or the wind will catch it, and a veritable shower of birdseed will fall down onto our patio or the grass just beyond it. Last week I swept up almost two gallons of birdseed that was clogging and carpeting our cement patio. And the birdseed always seems to fall in our drinks or in our hair when we’re sitting on the porch; not to mention that we’ve had some strange plants growing in the grass as a result of those seeds.
Ann, this guy is driving me batty. I want to tell him that if he wants a birdfeeder, he should build a net to make sure we don’t have to clean up after his mess.
What should we do?
Sincerely,
Going Apeshit in Baltimore, Maryland
Happy Hour Part Deux?
Thinking it may be time to plan another Baltimore Bloggers happy hour and try out a new bar.
Thoughts, Dear Readers?
Enough already.
Because linking is easier than writing: I like APCB’s take on the women’s march last weekend:
While it was refreshing to see the turnout for the March for Women’s Lives on Sunday, it was also sobering to read the New York Times story yesterday about the change in tactics by anti-abortion organizations. The blockades of the late ’80s/early ’90s, while not completely gone, have largely given way to legislative efforts and “family friendly” attempts (web sites, literature) to win younger people to their cause. The Bush Administration is loaded to the gills with people who, as Sen. Clinton put it, “consider Roe v. Wade the worst abomination of constitutional law in our history.” Even so, opponents have been backing away from the idea of an outright ban and instead have been lobbying for laws and regulations that gradually erode the right to choose. The whole frog in a pan of water concept keeps springing to mind.
More …
Lower hemlines = support for Bush?
Not necessarily.
Via Intellectual Defenestration: The Great Hollywood Cover-up [-USA Today].
“There’s a new definition of what looks sexy and what looks appropriate,” Raffin says. “There’s a new sophistication” that young women “really have not been exposed to, no pun intended.
“There’s very little left to show anyway. Everything has been revealed.”
The conservative thread weaving through pop culture is not only indicative of fashion’s fickleness. It’s a sign of the general zeitgeist, Rubenstein says.
“It’s not a happy time in this world,” he says. “What those ’50s-inspired clothes represent is the illusion of times being calmer.”
Fashion and war have always gone hand-in-hand. Look at the short skirts and wide shoulders of the 1940s and WWII, when women were pulling Rosie the Riveter shifts down at the local factory and enjoying more prestige and freedom than they had in a long time. Contrast it with the the Donna Reed look of the 1950s — wide fluffy skirts, buttoned up tops — reminiscent, actually, of the antebellum South. And there was a time after Vietnam and before the Esprit neon-pink days of the 1980s when women’s fashion returned, albeit briefly, to soft frills.
Nowadays, with the war in Iraq continuing [despite Presidential claims to the contrary], it could be argued that America is seeking a nostalgia for “happier” days.
Or perhaps by turning the current culture wars into a fashionable New Look [Dior ca. 1951, anyone?] designers and celebrities are signalling their acceptance of the president’s regime.
Or perhaps we are all tired of glittery tube tops and jeans that barely clear the crack in your behindside. I confess I was pining for a vintage shirtdress on Monday, and wondering where I could find one ‘round town [Anybody have a suggestion?].
At any rate, I definitely know some women who would welcome a return to lower hemlines [opposite of these]. A new sophistication would be welcome.
And which fashion dictate is more feminist? The skimpy one or the retro one? Cue “Madonna v. Whore” debate. And let’s not forget the cultural impression one may unknowingly give off by returning to a pre-Women’s Lib couture — that we have no problem going back to a time when women barely had the right to vote, much less control their own reproduction, earn equal wages or enjoy any other rights the first and second wave earned for us.
But personally, I’m not one for ultra skimpy anyway, unless I’m trying to get a tan. I can’t pull off the tube tops [they have a tendency to fall down; go figure]. I don’t bare my belly. In fact, I didn’t even wear shorts from 1998-2001. But that was before I realized that it’s way cooler to show off the ugly scars on my legs [from the Rollerblading tooth-losing debacle] than it was to pretend they weren’t there.
If I could find the perfect fluffy 1950s skirt or shirtdress [and shoes to go with; still looking for my perfect Mary Janes] I think I’d wear it. I’ve got the Bobby Sue bangs-and-ponytail thing down, at any rate.
God don’t make no junk.
Thoughts:
- Jayson Blair’s book, Burning Down My Masters’ House, is an interesting read. I see a lot of parallels with Stephen Glass; I see a lot of appropriate talk of race vis a vis journalism; I see a lot of skimming, skimping and skipping as far as reasons why he lied. But definitely an interesting read. And was surprised, for some reason, that it was in the biography section and not fiction. That’s not a snark, just a holdover from reading The Fabulist.
- We didn’t win the effing lottery. I’m bitter and jaded about those Mega Millions, I can tell you that much.
- Was thrilled to see that this issue of Bitch is the Smart issue. I’m no genius, only minutely above average, but I do feel a certain frisson of belonging when such topics arise. Also, a great article that touched tangentially on lesbian monkeys.
- BaltimoreSun.com has an entire cicada package to introduce me and other newbies to the 17-year plague of Brood X that will appear in about two weeks. It’s crammed to the gills with educational tidbits, QandA, and extraordinarily gross imagery. I’m talking specifically about ankle-deep bugs and dog vomit, as well as cicada fondue. *shudders*
Lord, how I hate bugs, especially big loud red-eyed ones that descend in a swarming cloud of ickiness. But now at least I feel prepared with the facts.
Anti-shoutout: To the loitering guy on the street corner who is apparently of the notion that just because I am smoking, he deserves to have one of my cigarettes, no charge, and when I deny that I have any more to share, has the right to call me a goddamn liar, in not so many words. Eff you, my man.
Eff eff eff eff eff. Fuck it.
This post brought to you by: Lonely Day by Phantom Planet.
P.S. Hurricane, where you at?
With a capital B, baby
Note to self: Bitch’s latest issue is out now, so go get it.
Cleveland-based mag Urban Dialect has a lovely interview with Bitch’s founding co-editor Lisa Jervis. Thanks to E.P. for the link.
This post brought to you by: Communist Daughter from the album “In The Aeroplane Over The Sea” by Neutral Milk Hotel.
Boat drinks.
All right, here you go. A real post.
Weekend in review:
Friday: A sucky sucky day. I was in a horrible mood for no discernible reason. Iain and I went to Tully’s for happy hour, and nobody showed up. Then we went home and watched “Ghost World.” Which was good.
Saturday: A supremely rad day. We hiked a few miles around the Gunpowder and then ran into Rick, an old boating friend of Iain’s. I remember timing one of the Riversport kayak races with him, the weekend Iain proposed; he’s a cool guy. He’d just gotten out of the river, having done the “boulder gardens, squirrely eddies” and scrapey bits of the river, and we caught up for a while. Pretty cool.
Then we came home and showered and and changed and went out for a steak dinner, which was so good that we drove home in a state rather resembling euphoria. And we watched some more movies and went to bed.
Sunday: Iain woke me up by carrying my out of bed and setting me in front of the computer, the screen of which displayed a Nottingham brick-facade Cape Cod for $165K — nicely within our price range. It cheered me up. We spent the rest of the morning pouring over the real estate section of the Sun and reading snippets from Kiplinger’s “Buying and Selling a Home.” Then we cleaned the apartment and went grocery shopping, and right now we’re listening to Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” as Iain makes fruit salad.
Not bad.
Jesus, et cetera:
Spent a good four hours on the phone with Carrie Friday night, discussing small-town dating [hopeless], meeting new people [almost hopeless] and religion [me: hopeless; her: not so much]. The religion part of the convo was very fascinating — we’d never really talked about it before. One of the most interesting parts, after teasing out what it was each of actually believes, was the part about heaven and hell. If I believe in “heaven,” I think of it as pure Truth. As in, when you die, you finally get to know everything — why the dinosaurs died, what happened to Amelia Earhart, what the deal is with the Bermuda Triangle, why humans are bipedal, everything. All the mysteries of the world are revealed once you part with the living world.
Carrie’s heaven is more a feeling: pure Peace. Everyone wanders a giant metropark, totally serene and at peace at last.
The whole thing is rather interesting to me. I’m no theologian, and frankly waver between atheism and agnosticism these days, but having grown up Catholic I’m still interested in religion as a human phenomenon and also a philosophical question. I probably have more to say about it, but whereas it’s not an important part of my life, I understand that it is for a lot of people I’m close to, and I’d rather not piss them off or have them worrying about the state of my soul, so I’ll leave it for now.
Shout-outs:
To the Hot French Boy, for cheering my good friend up considerably this weekend; to the Hurricane, who I hope recovers quickly from her surgery; to Stitch, whose new tat I hope heals nicely; to Ska-meister, whose Big Day is rapidly approaching; to D.H., who also suffers from house fever; and to the Dynamic Duo, who understand the fact that a country bar without Johnny Cash is not a country bar at all.
Peace and Truth to you all.
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