I watch - or rather listen - to the news every morning while I'm getting ready for work. One day last week, between stories of the sad state of our economy and the presidential election, something caught my attention: A story about Jesse Campbell from Choteau, Montana.
Jesse is a senior at Choteau High School, and he is the reigning Homecoming King. He scored a landslide win over the other nominees, which included four-sport athletes and some of the most popular boys in the school. The selection of a Homecoming King is a rite of passage. It happens in high schools all across America every fall. But Jesse's mother, Cathy, thought it was an experience that would never materialize for her son. Jesse has Down's Syndrome.
Several of the students who voted for Jesse were interviewed and watching them, I could not help to feel overwhelmed with pride in my fellow humans. These kids did not exude even a hint of condescension. They sincerely wanted Jesse to win. Not because they felt sorry for him, but because they really felt he deserved it. I sat on the end of my bed with tears in my eyes, wondering if as a teenager I could have been as gracious. I sincerely doubt it.
Since I saw that story
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing, Baby
The 2008 Emmy Awards was the typical star-studded affair, with McDreamy looking his absolute McDreamiest, the Desperate Housewives looking anything but desperate and Tom Hanks looking like a ferret crawled away from a near-drowning experience and expired on top of his head.
Seeing him standing there accepting an Emmy for the HBO miniseries John Adams, I was not listening to a word he said, but rather staring at what can only be described as an F5 hairstyle malfunction. Is it one of the most awe-inspiring comb-overs or is it a rug? It doesn't really matter which it is, because WHAT it is, is terrible.
Look, I know it has to be traumatic to lose your hair - especially if it happens at a young age. However, to traumatize those around you by using one of the various 'hair replacement systems' to try and recapture what has been lost, is unforgivable. When you are over 40 and you go to extreme lengths to hide your hair loss, it should be grounds for execution.
Celebrities have a long history of trying to hide the fact that they were losing the battle with Mother Nature. William Shatner, Ted Danson and Burt Reynolds arguably have the 'best' hairpieces money can buy and they still look like they are sporting the pelts of small, four-legged critters atop their domes. Rudy Giuliani finally gave up the fight after years of living under the delusion that combing three strands of hair across his scalp was fooling anyone into thinking that he had a full head of hair. Wayne Newton went the route of the spray on hair (or does he just use dab-on shoe polish?).
The irony of all of this nonsense, is that women prefer bald to denial. Nothing is less sexy than running your hands through a man's hair during a moment of passion and ending up with a furry surprise stuck between your fingers. Bruce Willis, Ed Harris, Michael Jordan, Taye Diggs, Jason Statham. Hot, hot, hot, hot and hot. Every last one of them balder than Britney Spears after a bikini wax.
Rita Wilson, your husband won an Emmy tonight. That probably means he's gonna get lucky, and you're going to wake up tomorrow and think that you crushed a bunny during your romp in the sheets, only to discover that something is missing from dear Tom's head. If you know what 's good for him, you'll whisk it away and give it a proper burial. The world will thank you for it.
P.S. Jeremy Piven, you are not fooling anyone.
Seeing him standing there accepting an Emmy for the HBO miniseries John Adams, I was not listening to a word he said, but rather staring at what can only be described as an F5 hairstyle malfunction. Is it one of the most awe-inspiring comb-overs or is it a rug? It doesn't really matter which it is, because WHAT it is, is terrible.
Look, I know it has to be traumatic to lose your hair - especially if it happens at a young age. However, to traumatize those around you by using one of the various 'hair replacement systems' to try and recapture what has been lost, is unforgivable. When you are over 40 and you go to extreme lengths to hide your hair loss, it should be grounds for execution.
Celebrities have a long history of trying to hide the fact that they were losing the battle with Mother Nature. William Shatner, Ted Danson and Burt Reynolds arguably have the 'best' hairpieces money can buy and they still look like they are sporting the pelts of small, four-legged critters atop their domes. Rudy Giuliani finally gave up the fight after years of living under the delusion that combing three strands of hair across his scalp was fooling anyone into thinking that he had a full head of hair. Wayne Newton went the route of the spray on hair (or does he just use dab-on shoe polish?).
The irony of all of this nonsense, is that women prefer bald to denial. Nothing is less sexy than running your hands through a man's hair during a moment of passion and ending up with a furry surprise stuck between your fingers. Bruce Willis, Ed Harris, Michael Jordan, Taye Diggs, Jason Statham. Hot, hot, hot, hot and hot. Every last one of them balder than Britney Spears after a bikini wax.
Rita Wilson, your husband won an Emmy tonight. That probably means he's gonna get lucky, and you're going to wake up tomorrow and think that you crushed a bunny during your romp in the sheets, only to discover that something is missing from dear Tom's head. If you know what 's good for him, you'll whisk it away and give it a proper burial. The world will thank you for it.
P.S. Jeremy Piven, you are not fooling anyone.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Vampires and Sex Dolls - Embarrassing Myself for the Sake of Art
I was recently dining with some friends on a Saturday night and the conversation inevitably turned to books. "What are you reading?", my friend Linda asked me innocuously. We share the same brain when it comes to books and movies so this question arises during nearly every conversation between us. She noticed my hesitation immediately. "Please tell me it's not an Oprah selection." Them's fightin' words with she and I. In addition to sharing the same taste in media, we share the same disdain (which I freely admit is borne out of jealousy on my part) for any book touched by the Great O's magic wand.
"Nooooooo," I replied not meeting her eyes. "I've just finished "Twilight" and I started "New Moon" last night. Linda's eyes narrowed and she folded her arms across her chest. "I don't know these books," she said in her 'I hear you but I don't entirely believe you' voice, as she scoured my face for any telltale sign that I had succumbed to Ms. Winfrey's influence. "They're not Oprah books," I insisted. "It's a series of books about vampires." Linda's face relaxed a bit. Just a bit. "Vampires, as in Ann Rice-type vampires?" she asked, still not quite believing that vampires alone would have caused my initial hesitation. "Not exactly," I replied somewhat lamely. "More like Stephenie Meyer-type vampires. Ann Rice doesn't write vampires anymore, by the way. She's found Jesus." Linda ignores my attempt to change the subject to Jesus. "I don't know this Stephenie Meyer," she said, her arms still crossed. And so I spilled it.
Linda sat in silence as I layed out the plotline: Teenage girl of above-average intelligence moves to a small town in Washington (where the sun hides more than it shines) to live with her father, the town sheriff, after her mother remarries and decides to follow her new husband, who is a minor league ballplayer, to Florida. Said teenage girl loves the sun, hates the rain, but finds her place rather quickly in her new surroundings. She becomes fascinated with a group of beautiful outcasts at her high school and falls in love with one of them despite learning that he and his gorgeous posse are vampires. Linda's silence continued as I went on to gush over the book's cleverness in managing to dispell Hollywood's vampire myths - not being able to go into the sun, not showing up in photographs or mirrors, etc. All the while I'm talking, I feel embarassed. Sheepish. I'm blathering on about the brilliance of a book about teenage vampires. I leave out that the books were written for teenagers. When I met Linda's gaze again, she was looking a me the way you look at someone with an unfortunate new haircut.
This was just the latest example of my discovering something that I thought was different and clever and while trying to share my find with someone I suddenly hear myself describing it and realize that it's like trying to explain how good a steak tastes to a person who has never had one. I'm humiliating myself to people who hold me in high esteem for something in which I have no vested interest.
I saw the movie, "Lars and the Real Girl" earlier this year. It was one of favorite films of the year. I recommended it to a friend and when he asked me what it was about I told him: An introvert (Lars) in a small town, who goes to extreme lengths not to get close to anyone - including and maybe especially his family - buys a sex doll online and introduces her to his family as his new girlfriend, Bianca, from South America. When the town doctor/psychiatrist tells his family that it's a delusion brought on by an emotional trauma and that they have to go along with it, they, (and the entire town) play along to help their beloved Lars. He has created a whole backstory for Bianca - she can't walk and needs a wheelchair because she's paralyzed and she is embarassed because her english isn't very good (remember, she's from South America) so she only speaks into Lars' ears. The movie is smart, funny and sweet, and the premise sounds utterly ridiculous when spoken aloud (or written about in this blog). My friend teased me mercilessly about it until he watched it for himself and now has the distinct pleasure of humiliating himself while telling his friends about it. I've talked to dozens of people who have read the description of the film on Netflix and have passed it by. They don't know what they're missing.
Now, Alan Ball, who delivered the HBO series 'Six Feet Under' into my living room and heart every Sunday night for years, has a new series called "True Blood". It's about - you guessed it - vampires. I'm two episodes in and I already can't wait for next Sunday night. It's only a matter of time before I'm clearing a room at a cocktail party by waxing poetic about a clairvoyant waitress from Louisiana who is in love with a vampire. Perfect.
"Nooooooo," I replied not meeting her eyes. "I've just finished "Twilight" and I started "New Moon" last night. Linda's eyes narrowed and she folded her arms across her chest. "I don't know these books," she said in her 'I hear you but I don't entirely believe you' voice, as she scoured my face for any telltale sign that I had succumbed to Ms. Winfrey's influence. "They're not Oprah books," I insisted. "It's a series of books about vampires." Linda's face relaxed a bit. Just a bit. "Vampires, as in Ann Rice-type vampires?" she asked, still not quite believing that vampires alone would have caused my initial hesitation. "Not exactly," I replied somewhat lamely. "More like Stephenie Meyer-type vampires. Ann Rice doesn't write vampires anymore, by the way. She's found Jesus." Linda ignores my attempt to change the subject to Jesus. "I don't know this Stephenie Meyer," she said, her arms still crossed. And so I spilled it.
Linda sat in silence as I layed out the plotline: Teenage girl of above-average intelligence moves to a small town in Washington (where the sun hides more than it shines) to live with her father, the town sheriff, after her mother remarries and decides to follow her new husband, who is a minor league ballplayer, to Florida. Said teenage girl loves the sun, hates the rain, but finds her place rather quickly in her new surroundings. She becomes fascinated with a group of beautiful outcasts at her high school and falls in love with one of them despite learning that he and his gorgeous posse are vampires. Linda's silence continued as I went on to gush over the book's cleverness in managing to dispell Hollywood's vampire myths - not being able to go into the sun, not showing up in photographs or mirrors, etc. All the while I'm talking, I feel embarassed. Sheepish. I'm blathering on about the brilliance of a book about teenage vampires. I leave out that the books were written for teenagers. When I met Linda's gaze again, she was looking a me the way you look at someone with an unfortunate new haircut.
This was just the latest example of my discovering something that I thought was different and clever and while trying to share my find with someone I suddenly hear myself describing it and realize that it's like trying to explain how good a steak tastes to a person who has never had one. I'm humiliating myself to people who hold me in high esteem for something in which I have no vested interest.
I saw the movie, "Lars and the Real Girl" earlier this year. It was one of favorite films of the year. I recommended it to a friend and when he asked me what it was about I told him: An introvert (Lars) in a small town, who goes to extreme lengths not to get close to anyone - including and maybe especially his family - buys a sex doll online and introduces her to his family as his new girlfriend, Bianca, from South America. When the town doctor/psychiatrist tells his family that it's a delusion brought on by an emotional trauma and that they have to go along with it, they, (and the entire town) play along to help their beloved Lars. He has created a whole backstory for Bianca - she can't walk and needs a wheelchair because she's paralyzed and she is embarassed because her english isn't very good (remember, she's from South America) so she only speaks into Lars' ears. The movie is smart, funny and sweet, and the premise sounds utterly ridiculous when spoken aloud (or written about in this blog). My friend teased me mercilessly about it until he watched it for himself and now has the distinct pleasure of humiliating himself while telling his friends about it. I've talked to dozens of people who have read the description of the film on Netflix and have passed it by. They don't know what they're missing.
Now, Alan Ball, who delivered the HBO series 'Six Feet Under' into my living room and heart every Sunday night for years, has a new series called "True Blood". It's about - you guessed it - vampires. I'm two episodes in and I already can't wait for next Sunday night. It's only a matter of time before I'm clearing a room at a cocktail party by waxing poetic about a clairvoyant waitress from Louisiana who is in love with a vampire. Perfect.
Why I Don't Like Sarah Palin
Let me first start by saying that I have not yet decided who I will vote for in the November general election. I'm a registered Republican, though that little 'R' on my voter registration does not preclude me from using my brain to decide whose chad to punch. (I may be from Florida, but a chad has never been left hanging by this girl!)
Second, I don't necessarily need to like someone to vote for them. Case in point: I voted for George W. Bush. Twice. Do I like the guy? No. Did I think he would do a better job than Al Gore or John Kerry at the time? Absofuckinglutely. Did I make a bad decision? Perhaps, but that's not the point. Bad decision or not, I don't need to like someone to vote for him - or her.
My reason for disliking Sarah Palin has nothing to do with her inexperience. It has nothing to do with her positions on abortion (against it - even when rape or incest occurs), sex education (abstinence!), or foreign policy (she can see Russia from her house - thank you SNL!). My dislike for her does not stem from whether she did or did not try to have certain books removed from the Wasilla public library (she says no, the librarian she summarily fired says yes) or because she's forcing her pregnant teenage daughter into a shotgun marriage to a self-proclaimed Alaskan redneck (Todd Palin, grow a pair and stand up for your daughter, please). Nor does it arise out of the fact that she opposes same-sex marriage (a loveless opposite-sex marriage is God's plan, but a loving same-sex marriage is an abomination?) and supported a referendum for an amendment to the Alaska constitution to deny state health benefits to same-sex couples. And, I really don't care whether she waffled on her decision about the 'Bridge to Nowhere' (I'll likely never have to drive from Ketchikan to Gravina Island).
Admittedly, those things don't make me love her. But they don't necessarily make me dislike her either. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. What makes her intolerable to me is her voice. All of you Seinfeldphiles out there remember the episode where the sound of Mary Hart's voice on TV, sent Kramer into convulsions. Well, same scenario except Mary Hart = Sarah Palin and Kramer = me. She starts talking and I immediately want to start tearing apart my throw pillows and stuffing the cotton batting into my ears to make it stop. That Minnnesotan-North Dakotan-Idahoan-Alaskan amalgamated accent, has caused me to wear out the 'Mute' button on my TV remote and has forced me to figure out how to use the 'Close Captioning' feature.
It's not just the accent. The nasally tone and the clipped annunciations that emanate from her crimsony-lipsticked mouth make my gums bleed. I don't know if I can stand four or more years of that voice. If I vote the McCain/Palin ticket, I know that I'm going to run the risk of having to watch the news shows with english subtitles for the foreseeable future. I would rather watch 27 hours of the "Head On - Apply directly to your forehead" commercial on a continuous loop while getting a root canal, than listen to Ms. Palin address the nation.
Bless her heart, Sarah can't help it that her voice is more annoying than Melanie Griffith in a room full of chihuahuas. There are a lot of things she can change, but her voice isn't one of them. If the McCain/Palin ticket doesn't win the pennant, Sarah can always audition if the Coen brothers decide to make a sequel to 'Fargo' (her character would get my vote for the woodchipper), but if this duo does manage to take it to the (white) house, I'm going to need some new throw pillows.
Second, I don't necessarily need to like someone to vote for them. Case in point: I voted for George W. Bush. Twice. Do I like the guy? No. Did I think he would do a better job than Al Gore or John Kerry at the time? Absofuckinglutely. Did I make a bad decision? Perhaps, but that's not the point. Bad decision or not, I don't need to like someone to vote for him - or her.
My reason for disliking Sarah Palin has nothing to do with her inexperience. It has nothing to do with her positions on abortion (against it - even when rape or incest occurs), sex education (abstinence!), or foreign policy (she can see Russia from her house - thank you SNL!). My dislike for her does not stem from whether she did or did not try to have certain books removed from the Wasilla public library (she says no, the librarian she summarily fired says yes) or because she's forcing her pregnant teenage daughter into a shotgun marriage to a self-proclaimed Alaskan redneck (Todd Palin, grow a pair and stand up for your daughter, please). Nor does it arise out of the fact that she opposes same-sex marriage (a loveless opposite-sex marriage is God's plan, but a loving same-sex marriage is an abomination?) and supported a referendum for an amendment to the Alaska constitution to deny state health benefits to same-sex couples. And, I really don't care whether she waffled on her decision about the 'Bridge to Nowhere' (I'll likely never have to drive from Ketchikan to Gravina Island).
Admittedly, those things don't make me love her. But they don't necessarily make me dislike her either. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. What makes her intolerable to me is her voice. All of you Seinfeldphiles out there remember the episode where the sound of Mary Hart's voice on TV, sent Kramer into convulsions. Well, same scenario except Mary Hart = Sarah Palin and Kramer = me. She starts talking and I immediately want to start tearing apart my throw pillows and stuffing the cotton batting into my ears to make it stop. That Minnnesotan-North Dakotan-Idahoan-Alaskan amalgamated accent, has caused me to wear out the 'Mute' button on my TV remote and has forced me to figure out how to use the 'Close Captioning' feature.
It's not just the accent. The nasally tone and the clipped annunciations that emanate from her crimsony-lipsticked mouth make my gums bleed. I don't know if I can stand four or more years of that voice. If I vote the McCain/Palin ticket, I know that I'm going to run the risk of having to watch the news shows with english subtitles for the foreseeable future. I would rather watch 27 hours of the "Head On - Apply directly to your forehead" commercial on a continuous loop while getting a root canal, than listen to Ms. Palin address the nation.
Bless her heart, Sarah can't help it that her voice is more annoying than Melanie Griffith in a room full of chihuahuas. There are a lot of things she can change, but her voice isn't one of them. If the McCain/Palin ticket doesn't win the pennant, Sarah can always audition if the Coen brothers decide to make a sequel to 'Fargo' (her character would get my vote for the woodchipper), but if this duo does manage to take it to the (white) house, I'm going to need some new throw pillows.
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