Formula One Racing CEO Bernie Ecclestone said in a July 4 interview with The Times of London of Adolf Hitler: “…he could command a lot of people able to get things done.” The comment has drawn massive criticism from Jewish groups, with one German Jewish organization calling for a boycott of Formula One Racing.
Howard and I present two views of the controversy in this week’s Perpetual Post.
MOLLY SCHOEMANN: Say what you will about Bernie Ecclestone, the man knows how to walk on the sunny side of the street.
I mean it. I know plenty of perfectly good, honorable folks, and yet I would be hard pressed to say anything nice about many of them. In fact, I’ll admit, I can be a little overcritical and judgmental sometimes. I lose sight of what’s important, and forget to stay positive. But not Bernie. He’s got a good word to say about everyone—even Hitler!
And not just a slap-dash compliment, either. No half-hearted “He wore his suits well” or “I hear he was a decent painter.” No, Bernie Ecclestone went the extra mile with a thoughtful comment on Hitler’s superior abilities as a commander. The man clearly doesn’t let himself get caught up in the details—Ecclestone looks at the whole picture, and for him, even the darkest, most despicably evil cloud has a silver lining. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Ecclestone add that Pol Pot “knew how to dream big,” or that Mao Zedong “was always the life of the party”. Here’s someone who knows how to look on the bright side of mass-murder!
It is rare to come across such an upbeat outlook during these gloomy modern times. We are so quick to judge one another—we barely give decent people a chance to prove themselves, let alone cruel, despotic tyrants. So what a breath of fresh air it was to hear Bernie Ecclestone compliment Hitler! He truly does think outside the box of humanity.
A couple of weekends ago, my little sister and I got together for a mini Schoemann family reunion. As typically happens under such circumstances, when relatives spend several days in close quarters, we ended up making a stop-action animation movie starring Shark Bites fruit snacks. As she notes, it was our first collaboration on stop-motion animation since elementary school. I helped with the first few seconds of footage, but the inspiration and the editing were all her. Nice work Sarah! Watch it here.
Dear Readers,
I’ve recently begun a stint as the Raleigh Fresh Foods Examiner on Examiner.com. I’ll be sharing delicious recipes there several times a week. Check it out! (Yes, that picture may look familiar. Truth is I don’t have many pictures of myself where I’m not either eating or drinking).
Cheers,
Molly
Jillian and I debated the Twilight series in the Perpetual Post. Don’t judge me. Read her side here.
I never intended to read the Twilight series, but a friend of mine sent a copy to me in the mail. Really. I’m not making that up to defend myself. She called and asked if I’d read them yet, and a week after I answered “No, why would I?” an Amazon.com box with the first book landed on my doorstep. As is the case with many addictive substances, the first one is free because once you’re hooked you’re willing to pay anything. ANYTHING. Lucky for me the next two books were already in paperback, but I actually forked over $24.95 for book 4, which at the time was only available in hardcover. I’m not proud to admit that I elbowed a tween in the face to grab the last copy at my local Borders.
Now, I don’t like to get off my high horse as far as books are concerned. It’s smug and comfortable up there, and I get to say things like, “This novel is devastatingly honest and luminously haunting”. Movies are a different story; I love trashy movies and I live for Lifetime movies of the week. But where books are concerned, aside from the occasional pulpy bestseller, I like reading good books. So finding myself becoming drawn into the rainy vampire world of Twilight left me feeling conflicted, namely because it invited my long-obscured twelve year old self out of the shadows to frolic. While reading all four books (in about a month), the war in my head sounded something like this:
28 Year Old Molly: “I’m extremely skeptical of this series. It’s a like Sweet Valley High meets Count Chocula cereal. The main character is a whiny brat and I don’t care if she lives, dies, or gets laid, which she probably won’t, because the author is a Mormon. Why am I reading this? It just reminds me of high school, and I don’t need to remember high schoo—“
12 Year Old Molly: “SQUEEEE!!! She’s the new girl in town and the hottest boy in school is in loooove with her because even though she seems like an average girl to everyone else he knows she’s SPECIAL and he can TELL.”
28 Y.O.M.: “Yeah, right, he thinks she’s special. He thinks she’s a pork tenderloin in converse sneakers. This girl moves to a new town and the only friend she can make is some creepy loner who becomes fixated by her and watches her sleep at night? Why are we teaching young girls that it is acceptable for them to date controlling men who isolate them from their friends and family? Obsession isn’t love! It’s a warning sign! And what does he even love about her? She’s a drip!”
12 Y.O.M.: “OMG! Bella is lonely and angsty and feels like she doesn’t belong—kind of like me! I bet that if Edward went to my school, he’d totally fall in love with me and watch me sleep because deep down he can tell that I’m not like other girls.”
28 Y.O.M.: “Their relationship is based on nothing! He’s weirdly dominating and discourages her from hanging out with her best friend! She gets injured in every other chapter due to hanging out with him and his family and then hides the bruises from her father! How is this ok?”
12 Y.O.M.: “He doesn’t want her hanging out with Jacob because he’s a werewolf and they’re natural enemies. But Jacob is also hot, even though he’s younger than her. Jacob is in love with her too and she kind of loves him even though he’s not Edward, kind of like how I love Jonathan Taylor Thomas but I also love Zachary Ty Bryant. And then she has to choose between two guys! Just like I do! Sort of! In my head! Are you on team Edward or team Jacob?”
28 Y.O.M.: “Team Jacob all the way. He has the best one-liners. Also he treats her like an actual person and not some fragile collector’s item. But I sort of think Edward is hotter in the movie, but Jacob is hotter in the book—you know what? We are not talking about this.”
12 Y.O.M.: “I wonder if that really quiet boy in my physics class secretly realizes how special I am and is in love with me. I wonder if he can smell me from across the room and it makes him weak and his life didn’t begin until he first saw me. I wonder if he’ll invite me to prom.”
28 Y.O.M.: “Remember how she ends up not going to college because she’d rather hang out with her sparkly vampire boyfriend and lie to her parents? Remember how she feels like her life is empty if she’s not with a boy?”
12 Y.O.M.: “Boys are yummy.”
So I guess you could say that I can see both sides here.
Jillian, Akie & I took on iPhones vs Blackberrys vs Nothing in Thursday’s Perpetual Post. Read the full account here.
I will readily admit that I have spent little time fondling either a Blackberry or an iPhone. And I don’t really have anything against either one—yet somehow, my ambivalence comes across to devotees as a thrown gauntlet. Yes, your iPhone is neat. Yes, I’m impressed by the ingenious App you just downloaded for free. I’m sure it’s already saved you lots of time. Look how quickly you found us a local restaurant. ENOUGH ALREADY.
Sure, tell me more about your iPhone. How long have you had it? What do you like to do with it? How has it changed your life? I’m sorry, but listening to someone tell me about their iPhone is only a little more entertaining than hearing them talk about their children. I have to feign the same kind of enthusiasm. “Aw. He’s adorable! He sure has your apps.”
If I ever got an iPhone, I’m sure I’d like it; just like if I ever had a child, I’m sure I would enjoy being a parent. But if I’m not ready, don’t push me. I’ll get pregnant/switch to AT&T when I’m good and ready—and not before. The relentless pressure I receive from both parents and iPhone owners has left me a little bit leery of the concept of either.
And don’t get me started on the Blackberry. I know even less about it than I do about the iPhone—probably because the Blackberry appears to be the phone du jour of the successful business person, and I don’t really know any of those. None of them will return my calls. From what I can tell, having a Blackberry gives technology junkies yet another device to cradle 24 hours a day and consult obsessively. I can’t imagine that this would benefit me. Forget about having access to email and Facebook updates—I already cradle my boring, normal cell phone 24 hours a day and check it obsessively for text messages. I thrill to the vibrating sound my phone makes when I’ve gotten a text message, even when it’s a message from my boyfriend that says, ‘did u finish the milk?’ If my phone gave me access to weather updates, breaking news and movie times I would probably stare into its screen like Narcissus gazing at his reflection in a pool until I perished. I don’t really want a device that enables me to be even more obsessive-compulsive about my cell phone than I already am.
And no, I don’t particularly need a phone that connects me to email and internet. I’m not a doctor. I’m not a lawyer. If I can’t access the internet for an hour, no one suffers except for me, and it’s the kind of suffering related to having to socially interact with other people.
Speaking of socially interacting with other people, has anyone else noticed that the more time they spend hunched over a cell phone, the less that happens? I can’t help but wonder whether cell phones have become tiny social crutches. Alone at a party and not sure who to talk to? Just whip out your iPhone and play a game of virtual pinball or pull up a map to the nearest liquor store. Sitting by yourself in a coffee shop? Why not grab your Blackberry and check your email one more time. People will see you and think, “She’s here by herself, but she’s doing something with her phone, so she probably has lots of friends.”
When you’ve got your iPhone, you’re never really alone. You’ve got a wee digital friend by your side! Your iPhone always wants to hang out with you. Of course, you pay it to, while your friends will hang out with you for free. But you can’t play Snood on them, and they can’t instantly update their facebook statuses for you, except by telling you how they are– which can take minutes. I guess it’s a tradeoff.
George Clooney pulls up on a motorcycle and doffs his helmet with casual grace. He is arrestingly handsome in person, and his suave, familiar smile leaves me breathless. But looking into his warm brown eyes up close, I see a tinge of sadness. The unlucky-in-love Clooney is said to be in mourning these days; recovering from yet another failed relationship.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” George says, holding the door for me as we enter a small, unpretentious Hollywood café. “I just got back from playing racquetball with Brad [Pitt], and things got pretty heated. We do enjoy a little competition.”
Off the racquetball court, it can be argued that Brad Pitt is the one coming in ahead these days. With a beautiful woman on his arm and an enviable family life, Pitt has been lucky enough to find that special someone. He never has to worry about having no one to come home to at night. Though Clooney has dated a string of beautiful women over the years, it’s widely evident that he still has yet to find a soul mate.
George orders his coffee black and I do the same. “I’m trying to watch my figure,” he says with gruff charm, and winks. It’s obvious that Clooney is concerned about maintaining his attractiveness. As a single man in his forties, he is well aware of his diminishing appeal. The older he gets, the slimmer his chances are of ever finding a woman to settle down with. These are sobering thoughts for a single man of a certain age.
I decide to be daring, and address the elephant in the room, asking Clooney point blank about his most recent devastating break-up, with Vegas cocktail waitress Sarah Larson.
“Wait, who?” he says, expertly feigning confusion. It’s clear that his heartbreak has not yet run its course. “Oh right, Sarah. She’s a great girl—it’s too bad it didn’t work out. I wish her the best. Let me tell you about this project I’m working on with Don Cheadle. The man is a fucking genius. It’s been so much fun kicking ideas around with him. The other day we were out in LA…”
As Clooney talks, I am struck by how much he reminds me of a lost little boy. I want to take him home with me and set him up on a blind date with my maiden aunt. His rumpled button-down Oxford shirt and salt-and-pepper hair cry out for a wife’s loving, critical attentions. Still, I admire the carefree smile he presents bravely to the world, hiding his pain and loneliness with a life full of exotic travel, wild parties and a rewarding, illustrious career in film and television.
I halt my mournful reverie long enough to notice that Clooney is telling an amusing story about the time he and Matt Damon lost a friend’s Camaro in a poker game in Mexico. “Man, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he cackles gleefully. “I could get in trouble.” I wonder briefly what his apartment looks like, and the thought makes me sad. No matter how he tries to fill it with track lighting and stylish décor, underneath the expensive rugs and modern furniture it must be a barren place; an empty, husk of a shrine to his failed hopes and dreams of becoming a happily married man.
As our conversation winds down, George pays our tab and escorts me to my car like a true gentleman. It is heartening to realize that such men still exist in our world, even suffering as they do from lonely hearts.
“Don’t ever give up hope, George,” I want to tell him. “I know in my soul that there is a woman out there for you. A partner in crime; someone for you to wake up next to every morning for the rest of your life, instead of a steady stream of cocktail waitresses and young party girls who are only out for a meaningless fling.”
But instead, I only smile as we part ways. “Keep your chin up, kid.” Clooney tells me. “It’s nice to see you smiling.” A stretch limo pulls up to the curb next to him and the back window rolls down. Through peals of laughter I hear a female voice inviting him to climb in. As the limo pulls away, I catch a last glimpse of Clooney. He has a glass of champagne in one hand and a woman’s stocking in his teeth. Perhaps this time, he will finally find love.
Howard and I took on media coverage of David Carradine’s death in this week’s Perpetual Post. Read his side of the story here.
News media, I’ve gotta say. The way you’ve been handling this David Carradine thing is freaking me out a little. The ghoulish and unnecessary details continue to leap unexpectedly out of the headlines of even the blandest websites. WordPress.com, why are you telling me where I can find pictures of Carradine’s naked corpse? CNN news, why are you barraging me with tawdry details while I’m on the treadmill at the gym? CNN! Talk to me about tax hikes and the swine flu! Don’t discuss the history of erotic asphyxiation! Even you, MSN.com. I visit you in search of Bundt cake recipes, and I come away with a recipe for a scrotal square knot.
Granted, the whole situation is freaky, and it strikes me as the kind of tragedy that would really hit a family hard. However, having never met the deceased, I would prefer to be left unscathed. This is where 24 hour news coverage becomes a serious drag, as does the public’s apparent unblinking fascination with the sordid and intimate details of public figures. Not to be a sentimental fool, but whatever happened to not speaking ill of the dead? Apparently it’s more important to have salacious headlines and increased web traffic. The unceasing attention to and strange disapproval of the situation surrounding Carradine’s death could lead an outsider to believe that he was some sort of evil, hated public figure. His movies were good! He died in a mysterious, disturbing manner, but most importantly, he’s dead now, and that’s sad! Can we move on?
I think we may need to give the news media a bit of a breather. It appears to be on overload; popular broadcast channels have too many hours to fill with breaking stories and urgent information. A few concessions from the American public might be in order—perhaps a general agreement permitting live networks to take a few minutes to air some utterly useless footage once in awhile. Really, would it hurt anything if news anchors spent twenty minutes thumb wrestling or discussing their cats every once in awhile? Perhaps the cameraman could go outside to capture a cloud shaped like a duck that one of the interns spotted during her lunch break. If there are no looming cold fronts or impending hurricanes, the weatherman might indulge viewers with a brief tap routine. At this point, I’d rather watch Wolf Blitzer tie and untie his shoes Mr. Rogers style for fifteen minutes than hear anymore horrible details about the unfortunate death of David Carradine.
Jillian and I took on fashion trends in this week’s Perpetual Post. Read her side of the story here.
One of my favorite quotes about fashion comes from the writer Lester Bangs, who said, “style is originality; fashion is fascism.” I think of this quote whenever a particularly nauseating fashion trend takes the world by storm and dresses it in pleated pants.
When it comes to fashion, I’m all about comfort. I’m also all about hating new trends, and then quietly buying into some of them several months after they’ve peaked and gone out of style, and can be purchased in thrift stores. I like to call this Cheap, Poor and Lazy Chic. Still, there are many trends I steer clear of—including the resurgence of trends I didn’t understand to begin with (high-waisted jeans, I’m staring in your utterly unacceptable direction).
I dreaded the Dawn of the Formal Short, for one thing. If you are lucky enough to have shapely legs that go one for miles, you might while wearing formal shorts manage to give the impression that you are an attractive girl wearing unfortunate shorts. And really, that is the BEST outcome you can possibly hope for when wearing such shorts. Meanwhile normal girls with average sized and shaped legs have to walk around looking like Gumby.
Another unfortunate trend I can’t stand? Belts that appear to be keeping your breasts from sliding down your ribs. I have no problem with putting a belt around your natural waist—which I realize can be quite far above your hips. But I’m fairly sure it’s also at least a few inches below your breasts. I’m just saying. Pull your damn belt down. You look like you’re trying to cinch in your ribs—and I thought we were past all that.
So it was with great trepidation and fear that I learned from Jillian of the potential come-back of The Scrunchie. Why, fashion world—WHY? I feel like I’m in the movie Groundhog Day, except instead of reliving the same day over and over again, I’m reliving the same regrettable fashion trends that vanished—for a reason!—into the ages and the closets of so many regretful trend-followers so long ago. Although, come to think of it, I have the feeling that the film Groundhog Day may itself have promoted The Deadly Scrunchie. But don’t blame Andie MacDowell—she does have a ton of hair. I understand the function of the scrunchie; the soft material was perfect for wrapping around your wrist while you waited for your turn to play kickball. The fabric patterns on scrunchies offered a great variety of self-expression, which is unmatched by the thin, dull elastic. I believe I had one scrunchie in day-glo yellow with peace signs on it—which was a perfect reflection of the point in my life that I was at in the seventh grade. But I think we can all agree that the scrunchie’s day is done. Let us wrap it around the wrist of history. You can never go home again.
I Heard Tell 