Jessica, Stephon and I took on the topic of High School reunions in this week’s Perpetual Post. Find it here!
My ten-year high school reunion is around the corner, and my feeling is, either I’m showing up with Hugh Jackman on one arm, pushing a stroller full of nonuplets with the other, or I’m not showing up at all.
A high school reunion is no time for subtlety. Trust me, nobody wants to hear about your new springer spaniel puppy or your job in publishing. They want to see whether you got fat or divorced or developed a nervous tic. They want to hear if you’ve saddled yourself with a whiny loser or popped out any kids. They want to casually pretend not to recognize you, to show that they’re too cool to bother remembering once knowing you. Ninth grade habits die hard. Maybe things will be different in another ten years when you all feel like failures, but right now it’s still too soon. Your only defense against this kind of behavior is a good offense, and you only get one chance to make a dynamite first impression—to achieve that sweet moment of redemption that somehow erases an entire freshman year spent pretending that you had no friends on purpose. You better make it good.
But wait, put the monocle down, sparky. Don’t bother going if you’re going to look like you’re trying. You cannot walk back into the gym reeking of desperation. If you’re busy whiting out the word ‘Assistant’ on your business cards or thinking up ways to make it sound like you moved back in with your parents because they missed you, stay the hell home, and I’ll tell you why: Above all, the name of the game is to keep those bitches guessing, and sometimes, putting in a non-appearance is the flashiest way to do that. In the back of their minds, those people I spent four years love-hating are bound to have a brief moment of wondering, “Huh, and where is Molly? I was looking forward to pretending not to recognize her.”
Is she sitting at home watching The Wedding Date and eating raw Pillsbury Crescent Rolls from the can? Or out partying topless on the French Riviera with Kate Moss? Maybe I’m home polishing my Nobel Peace Prize or at a cocktail party chatting with Tom Wolfe and wearing a 24 karat gold pantsuit. No one really knows. And nobody really wins, either, but I also don’t have to nod with a frozen smile on my face as my former classmate tells me she just got back from spending the year in Machu Picchu, “just hanging out”. I don’t have to congratulate girls who used to make fun of my thrift store clothes for passing the Bar exam, or having babies, or headlining the World Organization Committee on Agricultural Transportation Banking Summit. So actually, someone does win: Me. Take that, Class of 1999!
Howard, Steve and I took on women in comedy in this week’s Perpetual Post. Check it out!
I’m growing tired of hearing about how Tina Fey and Amy Poehler are such funny women. I mean, yes, they are. But is this such a revelation? The amount of attention those two receive for being funny is becoming a little patronizing, because for the most part it’s the same reaction of good-natured astonishment that would be elicited by the sight of a gopher wearing chaps or a tap-dancing kitten. The implication is: Look! These women are breaking down barriers, they’ve turned our misconceptions upside down; they’re thriving outside their element! It’s as thought the general public thinks each of them woke up one day and said, “Today, I think I’ll be funny– unlike women.”
Tragically, I was never informed that women aren’t funny. As a result, I spent my clearly misguided youth worshipping witty, smart-ass female authors like Erma Bombeck, Jean Kerr and Cynthia Heimel. I listened to old records and radio programs and grew to love the crackling improv of Elaine May and Joyce Grenfell and the sweet guile of Gracie Allen. I rented early Saturday Night Live episodes and marveled at the physical comedy of Gilda Radner and the snarky wit of Lily Tomlin. All of these women were brilliantly funny. I guess none of them got the memo.
It’s true that my many female comic idols are often less well-known than their male counterparts. George Burns’ fame far surpassed that of his counterpart and comic foil, Gracie Allen. Ricky always told Lucy she couldn’t be in the Babalu show. Saturday Night Live, for all its talented female stars, never seemed to launch their careers as far as it did the careers of legendary comedians like Steve Martin and Jim Belushi.
Indeed, for every smart, funny female role model I discovered through books, radio and television, there were many mediums which suffered from a distinct lack of vibrant female characters—or any female characters. After all, Bugs Bunny had all the good one-liners. None of the women stranded on Gilligan’s Island had decent comic timing; Smurfette was dull as dishwater. But to me, the lesson there was still not ‘girls in general aren’t as funny as boys’—it was ‘those girls aren’t funny’. So instead I watched Murphy Brown raise hell, and dreamed of the day I would live un-chaperoned in the Plaza Hotel like bossy, outrageous Eloise.
I agree with Steve Murphy that humor thrives on awkwardness and alienation, and that an adolescent penchant for feeling like an outcast is very likely to produce an individual who is quick with a one-liner and has a Simpson’s quote for every occasion. But I disagree that humor is a defense mechanism and a means of social survival mostly for males. Rather, I think it is a natural reflex for either sex—one that, if properly nurtured and cultivated, can be merrily abused as a dysfunctional means of self-protection by both boys and girls. After all, both face a tremendous amount of pressure to fit into their respective roles—and there are always going to be those on both sides who look around and think, “Wow, this shit is hilarious.”
I also agree with Howard that individual women who are not funny are often used as an example to somehow prove that women in general are not funny—which I find unfair. Were this standard applied to men, Pauly Shore alone would irrevocably prove that all men as a rule are desperately unfunny. Which is fair to no one, except Pauly Shore.
Emily Saidel and I debated the usefulness of the short-lived iPhone Baby Shaker App. in this week’s Perpetual Post. Catch her side here.
Just when I thought the iPhone had come out with an application that would be useful to me in everyday life, it was cruelly rescinded!
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy playing Snood and making my iPhone look like a frosty mug of beer as much as the next person, but when it comes to spending $3.99, I’d just as soon purchase an application which teaches me a lesson that will really enrich my life—and leave it filled with babies. Alive babies.
So, it turns out you’re not supposed to vigorously shake an infant. Who’s supposed to teach me that, now that my iPhone is no longer permitted to? From what source am I to glean the knowledge that a rapid back-and-forth jerky motion causes X’s to appear over the eyes of a newborn? Do I pick that kind of information up on a street corner? At the local library? In school—a daycare, perhaps?
Videogames have long educated me on the ways of the world. From them I have learned that jumping on a giant mushroom with eyes and squashing it will keep me safe. I have discovered that shooting a dragon in the face with a crossbow rewards me with extra life and energy points. And I was on my way to learning what happens when you briskly shake an infant—but that knowledge has been unfairly ripped away. I vaguely believe that the results were bad, but I’m not completely sure anymore. How is this my fault?
Apple, return the Baby Shaker App to its rightful place in my iPhone. Some of us really need it.
Stephon Johnson and I also took on David and Victoria Beckham in the latest issue of the Perpetual Post. Read our two sides here.
“They Like Us! They Really Like Us!”
When the Beckhams relocated from England to settle across the pond in Los Angeles, I, like many other Americans, wasn’t quite sure what to think. Should this news thrill me? Should it fill me with pride? Should I pretend I didn’t hear it, so that if I happened to run into Victoria Beckham buying bunion slings in a Hollywood CVS I could glance at her archly over my ten-pack of Almond Joys and sniff, “What are you doing here?”
Really, why was this even news? Was there a faint cosmic shift in the fabric of the universe when the jet carrying the Beckhams touched down at LAX? Did Americans pause and raise their heads like meerkats when David’s cleats hit the tarmac?
I for one was wary of this strange move. Particularly when I heard the news that Victoria was going to be filming a reality show about her arrival in the US. How could she not be mocking us with every brittle bone in her birdlike body? But if Posh and Becks were only in it for the scorn, why set up permanent residence here? Was it for the satisfaction of knowing that they were thinner, more athletic and less smiley than 102% of the US population? Were they trying to show Yankee celebrities how you really walk down Park Avenue in 9” heels? Were they missionaries on a pilgrimage to teach lowly Americans about the world-except-for-America-renowned game of Soccer? Or, as I believe non-Americans call it, Foot Game?
Right, the soccer thing. Apparently Becks got a job playing soccer in an American soccer team, because—who knew!—we actually have that here for people over the age of 8. That’s right—unless I’m wrong, David Beckham is currently playing soccer for a league that is not prefaced by the words “Pee Wee”. I’ll bet he’s pretty good. The man plays a mean Foot Game.
At this point it’s been two years since the Beckhams set up camp in a California mansion, and they show no signs of vanishing anytime soon, aside from the signs of vanishing which Victoria displays every time she is photographed in public. It seems they enjoy our charming, old-fashioned way of life. Then there is the fact that their eldest child is named Brooklyn. This signifies that a respect and a perhaps even a fondness for the United States, lurks somewhere within the polished and unsmiling personas of the Beckhams. Deep down, they know they love us.
Jillian Lovejoy Lowery and I take on the Swine Flu in this week’s Perpetual Post. Yeah, we know we’re going to hell. Read her delightful take here.
Smarten Up, Swine Flu!
Swine flu, you are all over the map here! Your public relations team is doing a terrible job. Your image needs some serious work—and you need a clear message. You’ve also got to stick to your talking points and stay on target. This isn’t rocket science, it’s influenza! Work with me here.
You started in Mexico, Swine Flu, and you really got going there, I’ll give you that. You built a strong groundwork and created the momentum to sustain quite a campaign. But your sloppiness began almost immediately thereafter—as evinced by a number of tiny, insignificant one-person outbreaks in far-flung places across the United States and eventually the globe. One confirmed infection in Hong Kong, one in Sweden, four in France—really? That’s the best you can do? You call yourself a pandemic? Not even close Swine Flu, and I’ll tell you your problem: You’re still thinking like an epidemic.
You got a foothold in New York, it’s true—your numbers are strong there, and they’re growing. I’m glad you understand the importance of getting your name out there in well-populated, panicky liberal areas. But you have to remember, those folks are also generally well-educated, and they learn quickly, which is not to your benefit. You should really start branching out to some more rural areas—places where a little suspicion and fear go a long way.
The name change, too—whose idea was that? Right in the middle of your launch into the realm of international recognition and fame—you swap the rock star moniker of “Swine Flu” for the deadly-dull and ultra-forgettable handle “H1N1”?! Really– what were you thinking? What was going through your mind when you decided to play the new-name game? You’re not Prince! You’re not even John Cougar Mellencamp! I’m telling you, switching up a classic, ominous name like Swine Flu for a letter/number combination—it’s crippled the rising careers of even bigger and deadlier viruses in their heydays. I would have fired my agent right then and there for even allowing me to consider the idea.
So here’s what we do, toots. We’ve got to get you back on track. I’m thinking a guest-star appearance or two. Strike down someone famous—but not too likeable; you want to keep public sympathy on your side. I’m thinking Kathy Griffin, or one of the Baldwin brothers. Keep working hard, keep your focus sharp, and you could be back on track in no time. Believe me, H1N1—you’re a real workhorse. And you’re going places.
The following is from a 3-way discourse on the Susan Boyle Phenomenon over at the Perpetual Post:
Let’s face it: Pretty is the new pretty. And the old pretty. And next season’s pretty. Looks are about all we have the attention span for these days—words take too long to listen to; forget about ideas. Because we like pretty, we prefer to get much of our social and cultural stimulation from pretty faces, which is sometimes hard, because pretty mouths don’t always say pretty things. Or smart things, or things that make sense. This is not a tragedy, since at this point, nobody wants to know how you got your sharp wit or your theory of post-modern architecture—they want to know where you got your shoes.
Attractive celebrities, it is ever more commonly believed, are by virtue of their attractiveness able to excel at many different kinds of things. Models design clothing lines. Actors discuss globalization in tabloid interviews. Bono is an Op-Ed contributor for the New York Times. Jenny McCarthy speaks out against vaccinating your children. Tila Tequila wrote a book. Meanwhile, authors scowl, and schedule a professional photo shoot for their next dust jacket, because they have to do what they can to keep up appearances. Appearances are important, because they count, and they are what they seem. If you are attractive, you will likely receive the attention you deserve.
When these attractive people stumble or fail at something new that they’ve tried a hand at, we mock them, sure—but deep down, the very fact of their attractiveness tends to earn them our grudging respect. We are willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Because they are attractive, they deserve to be treated as special.
In turn, these attractive celebrities do their best to remain attractive to us, their public. They get plastic surgery, they diet and exercise and attempt to make their bodies as appealing as possible. They get their hair and makeup done, they put extreme amounts of consideration into picking out their clothes.
Sure, ugly is still there, plodding around behind the scenes, rearing its turtle head into the spotlight occasionally, but we prefer not to think about it. We see enough ugly in our real lives; on the bus, at the gym, in the office. In the mirror. When we open a magazine or turn on the television, we’re ready to see some pretty, please.
When relatively unattractive people venture into these realms of television and magazines, therefore, they have the deck stacked against them from the beginning. This was demonstrated during Susan Boyle’s audition for Britain’s Got Talent. The audience took one look at this dowdy older woman and dismissed her. This is a common reaction to plainness. We lack patience for the unattractive; particularly the unattractive person who has the same hopes of achieving fame and fortune as attractive people do. Relatively unattractive people remind us that sometimes, we are vulnerable and human and unattractive ourselves. We too make mistakes, and we fear that no one will give us a chance either.
When Susan Boyle surprised everyone by being reasonably poised and talented, the most surprising thing about it was how much the audience disliked her before she gave her performance. When you don’t know someone, you can’t hate them—but you can hate the parts of them that remind you of what you hate about yourself. The loathing and disdain directed at Susan Boyle were not really meant for her.
Arts & Culture Editor Jillian Lovejoy Lowery and I squared off about employer googling for this week’s Perpetual Post. You can find it here.
I took on Facebook one last time in this week’s Perpetual Post. See Akie’s response as soon as it’s up on Monday at midnight.
I think I know what it must have felt like for the people who hated television when it was in its infant stages. They probably recognized that this was the direction in which the world was headed, and that this new phenomenon was only going to become more and more popular. But that knowledge didn’t stop them from hating it, and from feeling sad as they watched it become more omnipresent every day.
It’s hard for me to put my finger on exactly what it is I don’t like about Facebook. I think a large part of the problem is that every time I visited the site when I was a member, I got the distinct feeling that I was indulging some sort of guilty pleasure. And not a fun, silly guilty pleasure, like watching a Lifetime made-for-TV movie or eating an entire plate full of hot wings. I love that kind of guilty pleasure, but this felt different. It was a dirty, wrong kind of pleasure, like stepping on a worm on the sidewalk or cutting someone off in traffic.
Not only did it feel like a bad guilty pleasure, but it also felt kind of like walking down a high-school corridor, lined with lockers and filled with frenetic teenagers. Suddenly, you were back in a world in which it was ok to make snap judgments, to snoop around and find dirt on people and then talk about it; to base your opinions of others on superficial criteria. Suddenly, I felt like I was in an adolescent echo chamber, and none of the echoes were particularly worthwhile, and many were simply cries for attention. This may not be everyone’s experience with Facebook, but can you see why I wanted out?
Even if your Facebook friends really are your actual friends, which I think is dubious for many, the types of exchanges the website fosters are the social equivalent of Cheetos; tasty at first, but also dry, artificial, and not particularly nourishing. Don’t think so? Here’s a typical Facebook exchange, re-imagined as an actual face-to-face conversation between three people:
Bob: “I am a fan of Cheese.”
Jill: “I like this.”
Pete: “I have given Bob a pretend Rum and Coke.”
Bob: “On Saturday I am going to this party.”
Is this where technology has brought us? Is this how far we’ve come? I think people probably had more interesting conversations with telegraphs.
Facebook’s utter ubiquity is also a large part of the driving force behind its popularity. After all, how could something be bad or harmful if everyone is using it? You might be wasting hours of your sweet young life on Facebook every day, but so is everyone else, so it must be ok. You might question the usefulness of giving someone a flower that doesn’t exist for them to plant in their virtual Facebook garden, but that’s just what people are doing these days, so it must have some validity.
I am also astounded by the way in which Facebook manages to make us look at data through the wrong end of a telescope. The notion of saving the rainforest is reduced to a vehicle to get people to download applications which enable them to plant more worthless virtual flowers. You join the cause to fight world hunger with the same level of interest and concentration you use while taking a test to find out what kind of Pirate you would be. Things that matter in the real world are reduced to empty, baseless concepts.
On the flip side, trivial information is given the star treatment and insignificant facts are trumpeted to the skies. On Facebook, commenting that you are sleepy, or in the mood for a muffin, or that you partied way too hard last weekend, is expected—and is bound to be recognized and commented on by numerous people. Terse, staccato snippets of conversation rule the day, and all the while, the amount of useful information we are really learning about each other, and our actual closeness to one another, continues to stagnate.
Human beings love drama; they love gossip, they love secrets and allies and conflicts. Facebook provides them with all of those things, and more—but at a price. It sets the stage for a living, breathing soap opera, and in return, it gives our lives the same amount of depth, dignity and meaning as you would find on an episode of General Hospital. Devotees to the site, I’m sure, would like to tell me that I don’t have to be a member of Facebook if I hate it so much, and they’re right. I just wish more people would question exactly why they do choose to be members.
Is Basketball the one with the big round ball you aren’t supposed to kick?
MOLLY SCHOEMANN: I must admit, I was a little worried about filling in a bracket for the National Somethingball Championship Thing. But actually, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be! It only took me a few minutes, and I’m told the fun will last a lifetime, which is about as long as your average college basketball game lasts, as far as I’m concerned. And not a fun lifetime, either. A lifetime spent feeling cold and hungry. A lifetime spent wearing wet pants.
But some people care. This is for those people, even though we probably wouldn’t be friends if we actually met. Here are my extremely well-researched and educated picks for the 2009 NCAA Bracket of Basketball Sport Playing:
Easty Like Sunday Morning
There are a lot of good teams in the East for sure. Many of them are overly tall—but they carry it well, and they know how to dress. I’m expecting big things from Pittsburgh, because folks owe me there. They know who they are and they know what they did. The Tennessee Volunteers are slated to do pretty well if enough of them show up this time. And who’s up for some steamy Longhorn on Gopher action? The fire and ice of Texas vs. Minnesota may not be appropriate for young viewers.
Midwest Shmidwest
The Cardinals are predicted to do a mighty victory dance on the bald noggins of the Morehead St. Eagles. I mean, have you SEEN the look on that Cardinal’s face? He has TEETH. He looks like he could cut a bitch, whereas the wussy Morehead Eagle just kind of struts around like he’s the BMOC. We’ll see about that, Eagle. We’ll just see. Meanwhile, fans have trouble even looking at the Utah “Runnin’ Utes” because they sound like some kind of unfortunate infection. Speaking of which, someone needs to put Arizona in its place, but no one can—it’s too big. Boston College is expected to do their best, so that even if they don’t win, they’ll know deep down inside that they tried. That’s what’s important!
Best Western
Watch out, Purdue Boilermakers! Don’t quit your day jobs. My vote is for the California Golden Bears, because they’re unstoppable at being cuddly. Also, blondes in the animal kingdom also have more fun. Still, I’d like to see the Northern Iowa Panthers go home with something, since they have to go home to Northern Iowa. The CSU Northridge Matadors should get points for chutzpah. Maybe someday they will play the Chicago Bulls. It seems only fair.
Going South
The Stephen F. Austin Lumberjacks are pretty good at cutting trees, but can they cut balls? The jury is still out. The Akron Zips and the Illinois Fightin’ Illini are in a dead heat for worst team name—but if they combine forces and become the Illikron Fightin’ Zips, they have a chance at signing a record deal as a Ska-Core band. As a North Carolina resident, I’ve got a feeling the Tarheels are going to have a great season from overhearing people talking about it in the breakroom at work. The Tarheels have a star player named Ty Lawson. I know this because he is on our state dollar bill.
Jillian and I took on abstinence vs. unwanted babies in this week’s Perpetual Post. Read her take on abstinence here.
MOLLY SCHOEMANN:
Surprise! Accidental pregnancies are the new planned pregnancies! And pregnant is the new successful.
Everybody loves surprises—and what could be more exciting than the surprise of life? Everybody loves life! And everybody LOVES babies. Need proof? Just look around you! Everyone’s got a cute little baby these days. What are you waiting for? A career?!
Nothing helps you find your place in the world quite like a baby. Not sure where you’re going in life? Feeling aimless, worried about the future, and unsure of what you really have to offer anyone? Drift around long enough in dead-end social circles and pursue enough unfulfilling, destructive relationships, and chances are, sooner or later you will either knock someone up, or get knocked up yourself—and, voila! Suddenly, you’re a parent! Instant purpose! Nobody can doubt that you’re important once you’ve had a baby. After all, babies are the future.
And really, what could be more of a blessing than a surprising new baby? Babies bring joy and sunshine into the lives of everyone around them. A baby can be a lot of work, but it can also bring families together, to say things like, “Who is going to take care of this baby?”, and “I guess you better drop out of school.” And who likes school anyway? Nobody cool! That’s right—have a baby, and you can quit school and sleep late every day!
Have trouble making friends or connecting with others? Parents don’t understand you? You better believe your new baby will!
Insecure about your relationship? Concerned that your boyfriend or girlfriend might be thinking of leaving you? Throw a baby in the mix, and you’ve got a recipe for lasting love. Nothing brings two dissimilar people closer or strengthens a tenuous relationship like a sudden influx of serious financial and emotional responsibilities. If your boy or girlfriend comes from a religious background, so much the better! To their families, an unexpected baby is God’s way of saying, “Get married right away.”
Think about it. Babies go with every outfit. And you can dress them up to look like a miniature version of yourself, just like the miniature version of you that they are sure to become when they grow up! Pierce baby’s ears, style baby’s hair, spend the money you earn at your part-time job to dress baby in the latest wee fashions. Clubs won’t let you in without a fake ID? Just show them your baby, and they’ll assume you must be old enough to drink! After all, you have a baby, don’t you?
You must have done something right, to end up with a baby.
I Heard Tell 