Writer Gene Marks recently published a blog post to Forbes.com titled, "If I Were a Poor Black Kid". The article is about what Gene Marks would do to change his situation if he was a poor black kid. Mr. Marks apparently decided to write the article after taking a moment to think about his kids and how they have more advantages than poor black kids in West Philadelphia. This is logical. I often think about what Ryan Gosling is doing and that usually prompts me to determine what I think he should be doing. (Me.)
Oh, guess what? Gene Marks is not a poor black kid. He is actually a middle aged white man.
I wonder if he was drinking a nice, hot cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend when he wrote this article. Perhaps he’d just had a few Kashi Go Lean waffles with just a spritz of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. I know that’s what I was doing when I settled into read his opinion of that which he knows nothing about.
Gene admits up front that he is not a poor black kid, which I already knew when I caught site of his easy-like-Sunday-morning picture. Gene looks like your Dad’s friend or the only male employee in the Human Resources department who occasionally has a socially awkward conversation with you in the break room. Harmless, friendly and somehow overtaken by a force that he feels bestowed him with the power to determine what poor black kids need to do.
Gene thinks they need to learn how to write code. I don’t know why; perhaps because people who can do those types of things make good money and money is apparently the key to shedding the label of “poor black kid.” Gene also says that if he were a poor black kid, he would strive to get the best grades possible because grades are the key to opportunity and opportunity is they key to success. Or learning how to write code is they key to opportunity...or success. I don't know.
Technology seems to be his main angle. And don't bother bringing up tales of limited access to technology. Gene would like us to know that he knows a few school teachers and those school teachers have told him that even the poorest schools have or can afford cheap computers and internet access nowadays. Incidentally, I don't invest in the stock market but I know some people who do, so when you're ready for that financial advice, you give me a call.
Gene goes on to list all the resources he would tap into if he were a poor black kid, like Google Scholar, Academic Earth and something called Project Gutenberg, which I can only assume is a task force designed to get Steve Gutenberg back into films as quickly as possible.
Then Gene lets us in on a little secret: private schools have scholarships. so. If you're a poor black parent who's spent the last few years strategizing about how to get your poor black kid into Exeter, worry no more. They have Poor Black Kid scholarships. What are you poor blck families waiting for?!
Overall, Gene Marks does exactly what you’d expect a white guy from the suburbs to do: he sweeps all the shit under the rug. “Poor black kids” becomes a one-dimensional category that seemingly has no reason for being poor and also no additional factors that might be preventing them from downloading Evernote. His “you can do it, kids” tone only proves that he has no fucking idea what the fuck he is talking about. None. Zero.
Now. Do I think being poor and black means you can’t succeed? Absolutely not. But do I think Gene’s paint-by-numbers advice makes any sense? No. I imagine Gene Marks has been to many cocktail parties and ended up in quiet discussions about how poor people of color really just need to stop complaining and make something of themselves. This isn’t new; conservatives have been saying this shit for years. Newt Gingrich just told America that he thinks poor kids should be required to get jobs so they learn some skills. Trust me—every white middle aged asshole in America thinks they know what’s best for poor black kids. Gene Marks is just another asshole.
But you know what? You make my job so easy. I don’t have to do or say anything; you do it all for me. And for that, I say thank you.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
And you will know my name is the lord when I pee all over your waiting room
I’ve had my fair share of health issues: deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary emboli, diabetes, or as Wilford Brimley would say, dia-beet-us. I have more scar tissue on my arms than I have veins you can get anything out of. I am a seasoned, leathery doctor’s office cowboy.
So when I told my doctor about some weird things happening with The Baby Maker, I wasn’t worried. Ok, I was a little bit concerned. But bring on the tests. It’s nothing I haven’t braved before. I shall take this on with the strength of 1,000 warriors.
So she had me schedule an ultrasound. The kind lady at the scheduling desk set it all up for me and then said, “Now, before your appointment, you have to drink 32 ounces of water and you can’t go to the bathroom. Your bladder needs to be full for the ultrasound.”
I think I was in a rush that day, so I was like, “Yeah, yeah, water, don’t pee, thanks a bunch.” I forgot all about it, until they called me the day before to remind me.
“Now don’t forget; you need to drink 32 ounces of water 45 minutes prior to your appointment and you cannot use the bathroom.” It wasn’t until that phone call that it dawned on me that this might be difficult. I mean, I really like to pee when my bladder is full. Nonsense! I have come through greater challenges than this.
One hour before my appointment, I drank one 16 ounce bottle of water. As I as filling up the bottle again, I realized I already had to pee. I was mildly irritated at first but then I was hit with a wave of furious terror. Oh my God…I can’t pee. I can’t pee. What the fuck am I going to do?! I stood in my kitchen, holding the 16 ounces of water I still had to consume, spiraling downward into anxiety when it hit me: this has happened before.
When I was a kid, I would get bored in church. I would do anything to get up and move around. Mostly I would go tap dance on the stone floor in the lobby. I had those adorable patent leather shoes that clicked when I walked, which made me feel fancy. No longer able to endure my squirming, my mother would let me loose to do what all small brown children should do: tap dance. When that didn’t work, I’d resort to claiming I needed to go to the bathroom. I was still small, so my mother had to take me to make sure I didn’t get kidnapped. (There was a band of church-going kidnappers on the loose.) I’d go so far as to sit down on the toilet, my white tights around my ankles, knowing full well I didn’t have to pee. My mother would get mad and lecture me, but I could kill 5-10 minutes this way and any amount of time I had away from all the boring was ok by me.
One Sunday, my mother had had enough. She told me, “The next time you say you have to go potty and you really don’t, I’m gonna spank your butt.” I’m gonna spank your butt was a terrifying threat to a 4 year old. It’s like if someone were to say to me, I’m gonna audit your tax return today. Ohhh. I don’t want that to happen.
My mother tells the rest of the story like this:
“We were in the car, driving home from church, and you were quietly whimpering in the back seat. I asked you what was wrong and you said, ‘I have to go potty.’ So when we got home, I took you to the bathroom and you just sat there and cried, saying you couldn’t go.”
So they took me to the emergency room. Turns out, I had been so worried about getting a spanking that my little bladder muscles had a death grip on my urine. I have no idea how they solved this problem but for the last 31 years, when I gotta go, I get real anxious about it. I once got stuck in New York City airport traffic the day before Christmas and almost pissed in the shuttle van. There was a small child sitting next to me and I fully planned to blame it on him.
As I drove to the doctor’s office, my bladder uncomfortably full, my anxiety got worse and worse. Every bump I went over, every time I applied the brakes, 32 ounces of water sloshed around inside me and I thought I might cry. I parked and got out of the car, shifting my bladder’s contents to a new, even more horrible position. By the time I’d arrived at the radiology department, I was about ready to call it quits.
“Hiihaveanappointmentforanultrasound.” I stood in front of the receptionist, bouncing.
She smiled at me. “Your name?”
“Dresdenjones.”
“What was that?”
Panting now. “Dresden…Jones.”
She typed my name into her keyboard and I swear, with every click, I had to pee worse.
“Ok, you’re all checked in. You can have a seat.”
“Ok.” Pause. “I really have to pee.” I don't know; I thought maybe I'd tell her and she'd laugh and say, "Oh that was just a suggestion. Go to the bathroom, crazy!"
But she didn't, and she had the nerve to smile at me. “I know. But you can’t.”
Son of a bitch! These fuckers aren’t kidding! I have to pee! I’m not allowed to pee!
Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me, “GO TO THE BATHROOM YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FULL YOUR BLADDER IS?!?!”
I started pacing. A nurse walked out of the back and called someone else’s name. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh sweet, loving Buddha.
Every time another person in the waiting room moved or spoke, it was like a wool sweater on a sunburn. Two little children kept asking their mom, “Can we have McDonalds after this?” A starry-eyed couple whispered and giggled. A man who looked like my social studies teacher in 9th grade asked the receptionist what floor mental health was on. I tried sitting down only to discover that applied more piercing pressure to my bladder. It was suddenly 400 degrees in the waiting room, so I took off my sweater and continued to pace. Meanwhile, my body was still screaming at me.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED TO USE THE BATHROOM WHEN YOUR BLADDER IS FULL! THAT IS WHAT WE DO! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY CHRIST, GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!”
I marched up to the receptionist desk. “Um, excuse me. Yeah, hi. I have to pee really badly. Like really, unbelievably, like I have never had to pee this badly in my life.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll go tell them.”
Thank you! Christ on a cracker, I told you I had to pee when I got here 7 minutes ago; why didn’t you tell them then?! While she was gone, I decided to distract myself by Googling, “How to hold it when you have to go to the bathroom” on my phone. This did not return useful results, unless I happened to be holding my urine for sexual purposes. Yes. People do that. According to Wikipedia.
Happy Smiley Stupidface returned and said, “Two minutes.”
Two minutes?? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t have two seconds, you friendly asshole! I decided that I wasn’t going to make it and I’d better tell someone. I texted Joe, “I am going to pee all over this waiting room.” I dropped to my knees and began delivering Samuel L. Jackson’s speech from Pulp Fiction.
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children.”
“Dresden Jones?”
“YES!”
I was rushed back to a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll do this first ultrasound quickly so you can go to the bathroom.”
Bless you, my child. Bless you.
There’s some jelly on my lower abdomen, she’s rolling her little thing around, and she says, “Wow! Your bladder is really full!”
Really???? NO SHIT, sweetheart. How’s about I throw that computer monitor at you? How about that??
Soon it was all over and I was set free to go to the bathroom and pee like I have never peed before. Everything else faded away; it was just me and the toilet. We basked in the glorious sun, flanked on both sides by whimsical Disney creatures. I became one with the cool, white porcelain; we spoke the same ancient language. As my ordeal came to an end, I heard the faint sound of Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah.
So when I told my doctor about some weird things happening with The Baby Maker, I wasn’t worried. Ok, I was a little bit concerned. But bring on the tests. It’s nothing I haven’t braved before. I shall take this on with the strength of 1,000 warriors.
So she had me schedule an ultrasound. The kind lady at the scheduling desk set it all up for me and then said, “Now, before your appointment, you have to drink 32 ounces of water and you can’t go to the bathroom. Your bladder needs to be full for the ultrasound.”
I think I was in a rush that day, so I was like, “Yeah, yeah, water, don’t pee, thanks a bunch.” I forgot all about it, until they called me the day before to remind me.
“Now don’t forget; you need to drink 32 ounces of water 45 minutes prior to your appointment and you cannot use the bathroom.” It wasn’t until that phone call that it dawned on me that this might be difficult. I mean, I really like to pee when my bladder is full. Nonsense! I have come through greater challenges than this.
One hour before my appointment, I drank one 16 ounce bottle of water. As I as filling up the bottle again, I realized I already had to pee. I was mildly irritated at first but then I was hit with a wave of furious terror. Oh my God…I can’t pee. I can’t pee. What the fuck am I going to do?! I stood in my kitchen, holding the 16 ounces of water I still had to consume, spiraling downward into anxiety when it hit me: this has happened before.
When I was a kid, I would get bored in church. I would do anything to get up and move around. Mostly I would go tap dance on the stone floor in the lobby. I had those adorable patent leather shoes that clicked when I walked, which made me feel fancy. No longer able to endure my squirming, my mother would let me loose to do what all small brown children should do: tap dance. When that didn’t work, I’d resort to claiming I needed to go to the bathroom. I was still small, so my mother had to take me to make sure I didn’t get kidnapped. (There was a band of church-going kidnappers on the loose.) I’d go so far as to sit down on the toilet, my white tights around my ankles, knowing full well I didn’t have to pee. My mother would get mad and lecture me, but I could kill 5-10 minutes this way and any amount of time I had away from all the boring was ok by me.
One Sunday, my mother had had enough. She told me, “The next time you say you have to go potty and you really don’t, I’m gonna spank your butt.” I’m gonna spank your butt was a terrifying threat to a 4 year old. It’s like if someone were to say to me, I’m gonna audit your tax return today. Ohhh. I don’t want that to happen.
My mother tells the rest of the story like this:
“We were in the car, driving home from church, and you were quietly whimpering in the back seat. I asked you what was wrong and you said, ‘I have to go potty.’ So when we got home, I took you to the bathroom and you just sat there and cried, saying you couldn’t go.”
So they took me to the emergency room. Turns out, I had been so worried about getting a spanking that my little bladder muscles had a death grip on my urine. I have no idea how they solved this problem but for the last 31 years, when I gotta go, I get real anxious about it. I once got stuck in New York City airport traffic the day before Christmas and almost pissed in the shuttle van. There was a small child sitting next to me and I fully planned to blame it on him.
As I drove to the doctor’s office, my bladder uncomfortably full, my anxiety got worse and worse. Every bump I went over, every time I applied the brakes, 32 ounces of water sloshed around inside me and I thought I might cry. I parked and got out of the car, shifting my bladder’s contents to a new, even more horrible position. By the time I’d arrived at the radiology department, I was about ready to call it quits.
“Hiihaveanappointmentforanultrasound.” I stood in front of the receptionist, bouncing.
She smiled at me. “Your name?”
“Dresdenjones.”
“What was that?”
Panting now. “Dresden…Jones.”
She typed my name into her keyboard and I swear, with every click, I had to pee worse.
“Ok, you’re all checked in. You can have a seat.”
“Ok.” Pause. “I really have to pee.” I don't know; I thought maybe I'd tell her and she'd laugh and say, "Oh that was just a suggestion. Go to the bathroom, crazy!"
But she didn't, and she had the nerve to smile at me. “I know. But you can’t.”
Son of a bitch! These fuckers aren’t kidding! I have to pee! I’m not allowed to pee!
Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me, “GO TO THE BATHROOM YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FULL YOUR BLADDER IS?!?!”
I started pacing. A nurse walked out of the back and called someone else’s name. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh sweet, loving Buddha.
Every time another person in the waiting room moved or spoke, it was like a wool sweater on a sunburn. Two little children kept asking their mom, “Can we have McDonalds after this?” A starry-eyed couple whispered and giggled. A man who looked like my social studies teacher in 9th grade asked the receptionist what floor mental health was on. I tried sitting down only to discover that applied more piercing pressure to my bladder. It was suddenly 400 degrees in the waiting room, so I took off my sweater and continued to pace. Meanwhile, my body was still screaming at me.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED TO USE THE BATHROOM WHEN YOUR BLADDER IS FULL! THAT IS WHAT WE DO! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY CHRIST, GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!”
I marched up to the receptionist desk. “Um, excuse me. Yeah, hi. I have to pee really badly. Like really, unbelievably, like I have never had to pee this badly in my life.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll go tell them.”
Thank you! Christ on a cracker, I told you I had to pee when I got here 7 minutes ago; why didn’t you tell them then?! While she was gone, I decided to distract myself by Googling, “How to hold it when you have to go to the bathroom” on my phone. This did not return useful results, unless I happened to be holding my urine for sexual purposes. Yes. People do that. According to Wikipedia.
Happy Smiley Stupidface returned and said, “Two minutes.”
Two minutes?? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t have two seconds, you friendly asshole! I decided that I wasn’t going to make it and I’d better tell someone. I texted Joe, “I am going to pee all over this waiting room.” I dropped to my knees and began delivering Samuel L. Jackson’s speech from Pulp Fiction.
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children.”
“Dresden Jones?”
“YES!”
I was rushed back to a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll do this first ultrasound quickly so you can go to the bathroom.”
Bless you, my child. Bless you.
There’s some jelly on my lower abdomen, she’s rolling her little thing around, and she says, “Wow! Your bladder is really full!”
Really???? NO SHIT, sweetheart. How’s about I throw that computer monitor at you? How about that??
Soon it was all over and I was set free to go to the bathroom and pee like I have never peed before. Everything else faded away; it was just me and the toilet. We basked in the glorious sun, flanked on both sides by whimsical Disney creatures. I became one with the cool, white porcelain; we spoke the same ancient language. As my ordeal came to an end, I heard the faint sound of Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Clown Car Full of Assholes: A Manifesto
I'm no politico (which I can only assume is Italian for "douchebag") but I can't help having an opinion on the current candidates for the Republican presidential nomination. Between the vague but catchy numerical plans to fix our economy and the endless debates, how can one not have an opinion? I am, after all, an opinionated woman. Again, my qualifications to determine the merit of one's political prowess are only slightly stronger than Donald Trump's. But I need to get this out because my television must be growing tired of me yelling, "Is this a fucking joke" at it.
And so, in no particular order, I opine on the motley crue currently vying to lead America (sorry Motley Crue!).
Herman Cain: I know very little about this man. My father worked with him decades ago; he was a franchisee for Burger King and my father did some contract consulting for Burger King. Now, I cannot judge him based on his behavior in that context. After all, no one can be expected to conduct himself rationally in a flame broiled environment.
Here's what I do know: I hate Godfather's Pizza. When I was a kid, there was a Godfather's Pizza near my house. Whenever I was forced to eat there, I was overwhelmed by sadness. Who wouldn't be sad while choking down the shittiest pizza in the entire world? I really don't know anything about his political qualifications. But if he plans to hold this country to the same sub-standards that he uses for pizza, he ain't gettin' my vote. Plus I am automatically suspect of any black man who wants to be a part of the Tea Party. I bet he skis, too.
Mitt Romney: Everyone is making a big deal about this guy. He's Mormon. He's boring. He looks as if he's made of shiny, taut plastic. He must spend a small fortune on pomade. Blah blah blah. No one seems to be bothered by the two things that seriously concern me about this guy.
He's a nervous laugher. We've all known these people; they smile and laugh at inappropriate times. It's a nervous habit. If he were just a normal guy not running for president, this wouldn't bother me. But I don't want my president to respond to the question, "How do you plan to address the the fact that an overwhelming number of US citizens cannot afford health care?" with a giggle.
I'd also like to know how we plan to defend ourselves against the fact that our president's name is Mitt. That alone leaves us open to any number of attacks. If a guy named Mitt told me he had a solution to the jobless rate, I would tell him to call me when the shuttle lands. However, if a guy named Mitt offered to pay for the party keg, that would feel just right.
Rick Perry: Rick Perry is angry. As his numbers have slipped, he has become more and more hostile. This should be a red flag, considering he will encounter any number of frustrating situations during his presidency. Urgency is one thing. Baby tantrum rage is quite another.
But my main issue with Rick Perry is his wife. I appreciate that wives and husbands of people running for office are going to defend their spouse. And I certainly don't mean to imply that Anita Thigpen Perry should stand motionless and silent next to her husband. But please....stop trying to garner sympathy for your husband because of how he's been attacked by the media and the other candidates. He's running for president. If he was just a guy going to Wal-Mart and the other shoppers suddenly began pointing out all his flaws, well, that would be sad. And weird. But like I told Britney Spears: if you want everyone to stop calling you trashy, stop going into gas station bathrooms barefoot.
Michele Bachmann: I'm a Minnesotan, which means I am very familiar with Michele, or, as I like to call her, Beelzebub. I actually have sympathy for old Beelz. Being a beard is hard. I played that role on a number of awkward occasions at various weddings and family reunions. But for God's sake, I didn't marry it! Rookie mistake, sweetie. Rookie mistake.
Recently, Michele (one "L" and that stands for "Lucifer", FYI) started shopping her latest bill, which would force women getting abortions to see an ultrasound picture of the fetus and hear the heartbeat before the procedure. You know what? I'm willing to sign off on it. But only if we can also create audio of what it does to someone's heart, mind and soul every time you and your squad of assholes condemn them for being who they are. That's a loud, ugly sound, Beelzebub, and God ain't nowhere in it. Also, I vote for an auditory study of what's happening in your husband's mind. I can't say for sure but I'm betting it's real danceable and has a heavy baseline.
Newt Gingrich: Seriously? I'm getting sleepy; what little energy I have left can't be wasted on this tool.
Rick Santorum: Someone recently said to me, "Your name reminds people of suffering." It's true; I was named after a city that was bombed to shreds in WWII. But at least my name doesn't remind people of this. But you have to give it to a guy who keeps on keepin' on even after his family name has been reduced to poop and lube. Many could not have come back from that. It looks like Rick won't be able to, either.
Ron Paul: Ron Paul wrote a book called The Revolution: A Manifesto. My ears perk up and bells and whistles go off when I hear certain words and phrases, like, "The more people you recruit, the more money you can make"; "vegan"; and "manifesto." Know who else has written a manifesto? Anders Behring Breivik, the guy who killed all those folks in Norway this past summer. Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. The Unibomber. Clearly a manifesto is not something a sane person writes. Therefore, I do not believe Ron Paul to be playing with a full deck of cards.
There is nothing about any of this that is not delightful. I've heard a lot of people say that they are disappointed in Obama; that he has been soft on certain things; that he hasn't followed through on some of the things he promised during his campaign. He certainly hasn't done a flawless job and he's made a lot of mistakes. But long ago, when people were running their mouths on CNN, MSNBC, Fox "News", etc a mere 20 days after Obama began his term, about how he wasn't doing what he should be doing, I offered this: anyone who had taken office after GWB was basically being handed a giant pile of shit. Just a tin plate piled high with dung. Two wars, an economy in the toilet, more people than ever without affordable, quality health care, etc, etc, etc.
But this was no average Tupperware container packed with turds. These turds had been mixed with thousands of tiny shards of broken glass and we expected Obama to hand pick every single shard of glass out of a pile of deuces without a) cutting himself and b) getting any shit underneath his nails. These were the only measures of success.
But even if Obama had spent the last 3 years mooning the press and responding to every question with a cry of, "By the power of Greyskull: I have the power!" he would still be a more acceptable option compared to the clown car full of assholes the Republicans are putting forth as their best and brightest. The may as well have set a chicken on a podium at a press conference.
And so, in no particular order, I opine on the motley crue currently vying to lead America (sorry Motley Crue!).
Herman Cain: I know very little about this man. My father worked with him decades ago; he was a franchisee for Burger King and my father did some contract consulting for Burger King. Now, I cannot judge him based on his behavior in that context. After all, no one can be expected to conduct himself rationally in a flame broiled environment.
Here's what I do know: I hate Godfather's Pizza. When I was a kid, there was a Godfather's Pizza near my house. Whenever I was forced to eat there, I was overwhelmed by sadness. Who wouldn't be sad while choking down the shittiest pizza in the entire world? I really don't know anything about his political qualifications. But if he plans to hold this country to the same sub-standards that he uses for pizza, he ain't gettin' my vote. Plus I am automatically suspect of any black man who wants to be a part of the Tea Party. I bet he skis, too.
Mitt Romney: Everyone is making a big deal about this guy. He's Mormon. He's boring. He looks as if he's made of shiny, taut plastic. He must spend a small fortune on pomade. Blah blah blah. No one seems to be bothered by the two things that seriously concern me about this guy.
He's a nervous laugher. We've all known these people; they smile and laugh at inappropriate times. It's a nervous habit. If he were just a normal guy not running for president, this wouldn't bother me. But I don't want my president to respond to the question, "How do you plan to address the the fact that an overwhelming number of US citizens cannot afford health care?" with a giggle.
I'd also like to know how we plan to defend ourselves against the fact that our president's name is Mitt. That alone leaves us open to any number of attacks. If a guy named Mitt told me he had a solution to the jobless rate, I would tell him to call me when the shuttle lands. However, if a guy named Mitt offered to pay for the party keg, that would feel just right.
Rick Perry: Rick Perry is angry. As his numbers have slipped, he has become more and more hostile. This should be a red flag, considering he will encounter any number of frustrating situations during his presidency. Urgency is one thing. Baby tantrum rage is quite another.
But my main issue with Rick Perry is his wife. I appreciate that wives and husbands of people running for office are going to defend their spouse. And I certainly don't mean to imply that Anita Thigpen Perry should stand motionless and silent next to her husband. But please....stop trying to garner sympathy for your husband because of how he's been attacked by the media and the other candidates. He's running for president. If he was just a guy going to Wal-Mart and the other shoppers suddenly began pointing out all his flaws, well, that would be sad. And weird. But like I told Britney Spears: if you want everyone to stop calling you trashy, stop going into gas station bathrooms barefoot.
Michele Bachmann: I'm a Minnesotan, which means I am very familiar with Michele, or, as I like to call her, Beelzebub. I actually have sympathy for old Beelz. Being a beard is hard. I played that role on a number of awkward occasions at various weddings and family reunions. But for God's sake, I didn't marry it! Rookie mistake, sweetie. Rookie mistake.
Recently, Michele (one "L" and that stands for "Lucifer", FYI) started shopping her latest bill, which would force women getting abortions to see an ultrasound picture of the fetus and hear the heartbeat before the procedure. You know what? I'm willing to sign off on it. But only if we can also create audio of what it does to someone's heart, mind and soul every time you and your squad of assholes condemn them for being who they are. That's a loud, ugly sound, Beelzebub, and God ain't nowhere in it. Also, I vote for an auditory study of what's happening in your husband's mind. I can't say for sure but I'm betting it's real danceable and has a heavy baseline.
Newt Gingrich: Seriously? I'm getting sleepy; what little energy I have left can't be wasted on this tool.
Rick Santorum: Someone recently said to me, "Your name reminds people of suffering." It's true; I was named after a city that was bombed to shreds in WWII. But at least my name doesn't remind people of this. But you have to give it to a guy who keeps on keepin' on even after his family name has been reduced to poop and lube. Many could not have come back from that. It looks like Rick won't be able to, either.
Ron Paul: Ron Paul wrote a book called The Revolution: A Manifesto. My ears perk up and bells and whistles go off when I hear certain words and phrases, like, "The more people you recruit, the more money you can make"; "vegan"; and "manifesto." Know who else has written a manifesto? Anders Behring Breivik, the guy who killed all those folks in Norway this past summer. Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. The Unibomber. Clearly a manifesto is not something a sane person writes. Therefore, I do not believe Ron Paul to be playing with a full deck of cards.
There is nothing about any of this that is not delightful. I've heard a lot of people say that they are disappointed in Obama; that he has been soft on certain things; that he hasn't followed through on some of the things he promised during his campaign. He certainly hasn't done a flawless job and he's made a lot of mistakes. But long ago, when people were running their mouths on CNN, MSNBC, Fox "News", etc a mere 20 days after Obama began his term, about how he wasn't doing what he should be doing, I offered this: anyone who had taken office after GWB was basically being handed a giant pile of shit. Just a tin plate piled high with dung. Two wars, an economy in the toilet, more people than ever without affordable, quality health care, etc, etc, etc.
But this was no average Tupperware container packed with turds. These turds had been mixed with thousands of tiny shards of broken glass and we expected Obama to hand pick every single shard of glass out of a pile of deuces without a) cutting himself and b) getting any shit underneath his nails. These were the only measures of success.
But even if Obama had spent the last 3 years mooning the press and responding to every question with a cry of, "By the power of Greyskull: I have the power!" he would still be a more acceptable option compared to the clown car full of assholes the Republicans are putting forth as their best and brightest. The may as well have set a chicken on a podium at a press conference.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Don't stop to pee in Coeur d'Alene
The 45-60 minutes it takes one to drive through the Idaho panhandle should be executed with efficiency, a full tank of gas and an empty bladder. Do not be fooled by the stunning beauty of these mountain roads; the rule is, haul ass. If you lose your mind and stop the car, you will be surrounded by insane bigots and scarificed to Richard Butler, president of the Aryan Nation, which was headquartered in Hayden Lake, Idaho (a mere 8 miles off I-90 in the panhandle).
Now, I didn't come up with this on my own. Other people warned me of the certain death I would face unless I drove like hell. In 1994 I had to pee in Coeur d'Alene and got a taste of what they were talking about.
But I made that same trip, from Minnesota to Seattle, about ten days after 9/11. The experience was completely different. There was a sense of camaraderie; a gentleness of spirit, like wounds were healing. How pleasant.
Unfortunately it did not last. And for some, it was not pleasant at all. Yes, we were all brothers and sisters, unless we happened to be Muslim or of Middle Eastern descent. Those communities were terrorized in the days, weeks, months and years following 9/11.
Today, I know a lot of people are remembering the lives lost that day. They are quick to recall where they were, how they felt, what they did next, etc. But today, I'm remembering how far we have NOT come.
I'm angry today. I'm angry that so many people died. I'm angry that so many people will be forever deeply scarred by the things they witnessed and the terror they felt that day.
But I'm really angry that we seemed to have learned nothing. There are countless opinions about whether or not we're any safer from attacks; about the strength and preparedness of our military; about our ability to respond quickly and appropriately should this ever happen again. But we continue, seemingly unchecked, to treat each other like garbage, and to throw blame in all the wrong fucking directions.
The biggest tragedy of all, in my opinion, is that we didn't learn a goddamned thing from September 11, 2001. Cultural change is difficult, to say the least. We appear to have a very high learning curve. I wonder what it will take to change us. Or if we can change at all.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Everything is going to be ok
Hi Steph.
It's barely 6am on September 2, 2011, and I am awake. Which, on a normal Friday, would be fine. But I don't have to work today. I should be asleep, dreaming of puppies and rainbows. I never dream of such pleasant things but hey...it could happen.
Five years ago today, your father called to tell me you'd passed. I knew it was coming but that didn't make it any easier. I had to go to this asshole's birthday dinner and sit there, trying to make sense of the fact that people were still doing things like having birthday dinners when the world as I knew it had dramatically shifted. Of course, I drank my ass off. I wandered the streets of Uptown, blindly shitfaced, sobbing. I was so angry. Angry that you died, angry that I couldn't seem to handle it. Eventually, I passed out and spent the next day in bed, nursing a hangover.
I'm sure that's what you would have wanted.
You were so good, Stephanie. So funny, so smart. Such a delicate looking woman who was tough as shit. And I was such a fucking baby, using your death as an excuse to continue to act like a child, continue destroying my life. Life! I had life and you no longer did and there I was, pissing it away.
So many times over the past five years, when I've been in a state of hopelessness, deeply depressed and unable to find my way out...I've thought of you. I thought of you and I knew instantly that this is not what you would have wanted for me. I know you're watching over me, dude. I'm sure of it. More sure than I have ever been of anything.
The way you handled illness with such stunning grace and acceptance floored me. You never seemed angry or sad. I'm sure you were from time to time. But I remember being in the bathroom with you at The Red Dragon. We were there with friends and I was happy to have a few minutes alone with you. You stood looking in the mirror, fixing your hair, and you were the most calm I had ever seen you. Your enormous eyes were bright and a small, satisfied smile played on your lips.
You were at peace.
I think of that moment all the time. That incredible place of stillness in your heart and mind. I knew looking at your face in that moment that all you felt was love. That's how I imagine you are now. Probably without the mirror, and good fucking God, I pray you're not trapped in the bathroom at The Red Dragon, which is a fate worse then any hell I can imagine.
I know you're all around the people you love. And for me, you bring peace, grace, unconditional love and the very real feeling that everything is going to be ok.
I love you.
It's barely 6am on September 2, 2011, and I am awake. Which, on a normal Friday, would be fine. But I don't have to work today. I should be asleep, dreaming of puppies and rainbows. I never dream of such pleasant things but hey...it could happen.
Five years ago today, your father called to tell me you'd passed. I knew it was coming but that didn't make it any easier. I had to go to this asshole's birthday dinner and sit there, trying to make sense of the fact that people were still doing things like having birthday dinners when the world as I knew it had dramatically shifted. Of course, I drank my ass off. I wandered the streets of Uptown, blindly shitfaced, sobbing. I was so angry. Angry that you died, angry that I couldn't seem to handle it. Eventually, I passed out and spent the next day in bed, nursing a hangover.
I'm sure that's what you would have wanted.
You were so good, Stephanie. So funny, so smart. Such a delicate looking woman who was tough as shit. And I was such a fucking baby, using your death as an excuse to continue to act like a child, continue destroying my life. Life! I had life and you no longer did and there I was, pissing it away.
So many times over the past five years, when I've been in a state of hopelessness, deeply depressed and unable to find my way out...I've thought of you. I thought of you and I knew instantly that this is not what you would have wanted for me. I know you're watching over me, dude. I'm sure of it. More sure than I have ever been of anything.
The way you handled illness with such stunning grace and acceptance floored me. You never seemed angry or sad. I'm sure you were from time to time. But I remember being in the bathroom with you at The Red Dragon. We were there with friends and I was happy to have a few minutes alone with you. You stood looking in the mirror, fixing your hair, and you were the most calm I had ever seen you. Your enormous eyes were bright and a small, satisfied smile played on your lips.
You were at peace.
I think of that moment all the time. That incredible place of stillness in your heart and mind. I knew looking at your face in that moment that all you felt was love. That's how I imagine you are now. Probably without the mirror, and good fucking God, I pray you're not trapped in the bathroom at The Red Dragon, which is a fate worse then any hell I can imagine.
I know you're all around the people you love. And for me, you bring peace, grace, unconditional love and the very real feeling that everything is going to be ok.
I love you.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Sweet Valley High Ten Years Later: Like Eating a Bolonga Sandwich When You're 25
I’ve decided that occasionally, I am going to review ridiculous things. Like products that I buy off late night television and direct-to-video horror films. First up: Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
I’d love to say that, as a child, I lost myself in the likes of Wuthering Heights and Pride & Prejudice. But that would be a big, fat lie. Instead, I got swept away in gossipy, vastly inappropriate junk food books; namely, the Sweet Valley High series.
I don’t know how it started. I was on my way with Judy Blume classics, like Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Blubber and Deenie. And then, one day, I picked up a copy of Sweet Valley High and fell in love with it. It’s easy to understand why. These books are, on average, 150 pages, which meant you could read one in an afternoon. They were about nothing important; just filled with schlocka that allowed you to escape your crappy Midwestern life and indulge in the antics of the Wakefield sisters.
Give me a break. I was a fat nerdy kid in Minnesota. Why wouldn’t I be impressed with the likes of Sweet Valley, a magical place in Southern California filled with Fiat convertibles, boyfriends with motorcycles and parents who were seemingly never there to stop their children from being giant assholes. Who wouldn’t want to live there, if only for an afternoon?
Just in case you’re a terrorist and therefore unfamiliar with the Sweet Valley High series, let me give you a high-level overview: Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield are 16 year old twin sisters. Each twin is vastly different: Elizabeth is sweet, studious, responsible and ambitious; Jessica is scheming, petty, gossipy and hot-to-trot. They have friends named Enid, Lila, Winston and Bruce. Elizabeth has a boyfriend named Todd and Jessica dates everyone. The original series was written in the 80s, so things like wild parties, drinking, drugs and sex were off limits. If they wrote the series now, Jessica would likely be at the free clinic on a weekly basis and Elizabeth would be vying for an anchor position at Fox News.
Francine Pascal is always listed as the author of all Sweet Valley High books, as well as all the books in all the spin-off series: Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley University and The Unicorn Club. Yes, The Unicorn Club. I have no idea what this was about. I should mention that I have never read any of the spin-off series.
In truth, Francine Pascal is the head writer of a team of ghost writers, all of whom stick to a certain predetermined Sweet Valley formula for each book. In my mind, I picture an older, glamorous woman, a la Lauren Bacall, wearing a Chanel suit, sitting at the head of a giant table, barking commands at weary, defeated young writers who are happy to have a job but less-than-thrilled to be writing about the high school shenanigans of a couple of Aryan Nation look-alikes. I also imagine she has a little dog in her lap and always wears pearls.
I digress. The topic at hand is my review of Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later, a book released in early 2011 that catches up with Elizabeth, Jessica and the gang at age 28. You may be wondering, “Why in God’s name did you read that?” Well, technically, I didn’t. I listened to it. I’m a sucker for free trials and Audibles.com offered me two free book downloads to try their service. Digital books are fantastic on long road trips. I don’t plan on taking any long road trips any time soon but…it could happen. SVC is so far the only book I’ve downloaded.
I knew it would be bad. No…horrendously bad. Like deciding to have a bologna and cheese sandwich in your 20s because you loved them when you were 8. You take a bite and immediately ask yourself why you aren’t eating a nice maple ham or smoked turkey from Lunds. What did you ever find appealing about creepy suspect parts of a pig smushed together into a log and then sliced into floppy, moist pink circles? And then you throw the sandwich away and go out for sushi.
Truthfully, I have been intrigued by this book since I read a review of it in Entertainment Weekly. The reviewer warned me that it was baaaaad…but my curiosity was still there. So one Audibles download later, I was in the car, listening to Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
The nice thing about listening to books is the warm, soothing sound of the professional voice reading them to you. January LaVoy, who is apparently on One Life to Live or All My Children or something, did an excellent job of voicing each character uniquely, including the men. She should also be commended for not stopping in the middle of taping and saying, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Or maybe she did; that’s the power of sound editing.
It is present day and Elizabeth Wakefield is living in New York City, writing for a publication called Stage Survey, which she constantly describes as “a Zagat-type guide to off-Broadway shows.” Immediately, we see that our normally gentle, loving Liz is troubled. Why is she troubled? Where is Todd, her basketball player boyfriend from high school? Where is Jessica?! How could she have left the marshmallow filled streets of sunny Sweet Valley for the cold, bleak hardness of Manhattan?
Because Todd left her for Jessica. What? Daaaaaaamn. That’s right; Todd Wilkins and Jessica Wakfield live together a town house in Sweet Valley, agonizing over how they’ve destroyed poor Elizabeth’s life. There is lots of crying and moaning and writhing about what they’ve done. So much so that I have no idea why they’re still together.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, seems to have a pretty amazing life: she’s a working journalist in New York City, which is what she always wanted to be. She has a one-bedroom apartment. One bedroom. In Manhattan. Considering that Show Survey is a freebie that homeless people wipe their bums with, I’d say Ned and Alice are footing the bill for their daughter’s high-falootin’ one bedroom Upper East Side digs. She even has a doorman and an elevator. Who needs Todd?!
The book centers around Jessica and Todd’s impending wedding and whether or not Elizabeth will forgive them and be Jessica’s maid of honor. I’m going to guess NO because who in the hell would do that? “Ok, I forgive you.” “Oh good! Will you be in the wedding when I marry your former boyfriend, who I started sleeping with five years ago behind your back?” “Go fuck yourself.”
The book provides us with flashbacks that uncover how Jessica and Todd’s betrayal came to fruition. Apparently, during their time at Sweet Valley University, Elizabeth was sick one evening and begged Jessica to go with Todd to a college party, which he refused to attend alone. I’m sorry, but what is this guy’s problem? Are you 5? Can you not go to a party without your girlfriend? Anyway, Jessica begrudgingly agrees, even though she and Todd cannot stand each other. For no reason I can determine, they end up sleeping together. Sure, there’s some sexual tension in the air and they’ve had a few dozen cocktails. So logic would step in here and say, “Ok, they had a drunken fling one night. It happens. Moving on.” But no; they begin a secret affair that mostly takes place in Todd’s car. Gross.
Then, while on vacation in Paris, Jessica meets and marries a dude named Reagan. Reagan is loaded and hot. He showers Jessica with jewelry, handbags, clothing, glamorous trips and a yacht, and all she has to do is look pretty and provide the occasional blow job. This is not enough for her, so she leaves Reagan and moves in with Elizabeth and Todd. She could have moved in with her parents down the street, but because Jessica Wakefield is apparently an antisocial sociopath, she moves in with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend, who she was buggering not long ago.
Reagan shows up in Sweet Valley and picks up on the fact that there is sexual tension between Todd and Jessica that has its own zip code, a fact Elizabeth seems to miss entirely. Perhaps it was all the grief surrounding the death of Winston Eggbert, who, in his 20s made a billion dollars in the “dot com boom” and became a super asshole who died alone in his McMansion. Reagan blows the lid off Toddgate and Elizabeth flees to New York.
8 months later, she is convinced to return to Sweet Valley for the 80th birthday of her “grandmommy.” Because she is a planner, Elizabeth brings a hot Irish bartender named Liam with her in an attempt to show Todd that Jessica is still the whore she was in high school. Liam is all over Jessica and Todd gets mad and a big old fight breaks out at Grandmommy’s birthday celebration at The Sweet Valley Golf Club. Liz returns to New York but not before blaming Liam for the whole mess, which makes zero sense.
Todd accuses Jessica of flirting and won’t speak to her, so she does what anyone in this situation would do: she leaves him. One fight and she’s gone. She shows up at Elizabeth’s in New York, thoroughly confusing the doorman, who has apparently never heard of identical twins. There is sobbing and embracing and all is forgiven. The end.
The fringe characters make an appearance throughout the book. Lila Fowler, Jessica’s snotty, rich bestie in high school, has married Ken Matthews, SVH’s star quarterback who is now a professional football player. They are separated due to Lila’s need to share her snatch with the neighborhood. Everyone thinks Lila and Steven Wakefield, the twins’ older brother, are doin’ it but surprise! Steven Wakefield is secretly GAY, which his wife, Cara Walker, is not aware of. Jessica busts Steven and his boyfriend Aaron and decides to tell Cara that Steven is a fan of the skin flute, further proving that she is a complete and total psycho. No redeeming qualities. None whatsoever.
Enid Rollins, Elizabeth’s former best friend, is a gynecologist who is dating a younger, hot guy who works at the mall. This causes people to mock her behind her back but I think it sounds awesome. I’d say that, out of everyone, she’s got the best deal. Caroline Pierce, Sweet Valley’s resident gossip, is up to her old tricks, despite being nearly bald after a battle with cancer. In one fantastic moment, Jessica snaps at Caroline, “You’re sick!” and then realizes that she really is sick. Seriously, I’m expecting Jessica to start murdering and dissecting small animals any time now.
And finally, Bruce Patman, the swanky “It” boy who drove a Porche all through high school with a license plate that read “1BRUCE1” has become Elizabeth’s best friend. She sat with him at the hospital while his father clung to life after an accident that killed his mother. And now, he realizes he loves her. Bruce ends up slipping her the hot beef injection and then accompanies her to Jessica and Todd’s wedding. Call me crazy but I always thought Bruce was gay. His name is Bruce and he drives a Porche. Missed opportunity, Francine.
So here’s why it sucks:
1. Jessica is so unlikable, you’re practically praying that her ex-husband Reagan murders her and tosses her over the side of his yacht, Dexter-style. She was always despicable but she seems to have reached new, ultraviolet levels of awful. She does things like outing her brother and his boyfriend, stealing her sister’s one true love, and being a total bitch to a woman with cancer and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her because Elizabeth won’t take her phone calls. She’s lucky Elizabeth and Steven don’t perform Nazi-era medical experiments on her without anesthesia.
2. Todd is sooooooooo lame. Why any two women would fight over this guy is totally beyond me. He’s closed off, super jealous, has no personality and there isn’t even a passage about his amazing sexual prowess or anything that would explain to me WHY he’s still a part of this story. He’s like a piece of furniture through most of the book. He does nothing except fulfill a perverted fantasy of fucking two chicks that look exactly alike.
3. Steven Wakefield’s Journey to Gaytown doesn’t even have a bisexual pit-stop. He’s married to Cara Walker and then runs into Aaron Dallas one day and BAM. They go back to Aaron’s place and Steven plays pitcher to his catcher. Whichever ghost writer did Steven’s storyline has apparently never even sat next to a gay man on a bus. It goes something like this: “Steven always had a lot of male friends. He also had several girlfriends and currently has a wife. The idea that he might be attracted to men has never, for one nano second, crossed his mind. Once, he looked at a fellow basketball player’s balls and sack in the locker room but felt nothing remarkable. Then he plowed Aaron Dallas. Aaron Dallas is an interior designer, which is a really popular job amongst gay men, I heard.” Yep, that’s about all we get regarding Steven’s sudden affinity for buttholes.
4. Elizabeth is clearly an alcoholic. Every move she makes that has any amount of balls only happens when she’s had 4 or 5 drinks. The rest of the time, she moves through her life like a zombie, completely gutted over her sister’s betrayal. She leaves old food on the kitchen table, eats chicken that’s been in her fridge for a week and blames everyone else for her misery. Also, she sleeps with randoms and cries after every orgasm. She cries after every orgasm. I’m not making this up. Someone else did.
5. All old rich people are completely insane and Francine Pascal is no exception. Apparently, in a fit of unleashed crazy, she commanded her team of writers to use the word “additionally” as many times and they could. I imagine she was proofing pages of copy and let loose howls of rage, ripping the pages to shreds, screaming, “MORE ‘ADDITIONALLY' GODDAMMIT! WHEN I SAY TO USE THE WORD ADDITIONALLY TO EXCESS, I FUCKING MEAN IT! YOU SONS OF BITCHES! BUY COPPER! BUY COPPER!”
In conclusion, this book is terrible. You should read something meaningful instead of reading this book. However, it is sort of fun, in the same way ding-dong-ditch is sort of fun. Additionally, I imagine in a few weeks time it’ll be found on the bargain table for about 50 cents. Then you should buy it.
I’d love to say that, as a child, I lost myself in the likes of Wuthering Heights and Pride & Prejudice. But that would be a big, fat lie. Instead, I got swept away in gossipy, vastly inappropriate junk food books; namely, the Sweet Valley High series.
I don’t know how it started. I was on my way with Judy Blume classics, like Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Blubber and Deenie. And then, one day, I picked up a copy of Sweet Valley High and fell in love with it. It’s easy to understand why. These books are, on average, 150 pages, which meant you could read one in an afternoon. They were about nothing important; just filled with schlocka that allowed you to escape your crappy Midwestern life and indulge in the antics of the Wakefield sisters.
Give me a break. I was a fat nerdy kid in Minnesota. Why wouldn’t I be impressed with the likes of Sweet Valley, a magical place in Southern California filled with Fiat convertibles, boyfriends with motorcycles and parents who were seemingly never there to stop their children from being giant assholes. Who wouldn’t want to live there, if only for an afternoon?
Just in case you’re a terrorist and therefore unfamiliar with the Sweet Valley High series, let me give you a high-level overview: Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield are 16 year old twin sisters. Each twin is vastly different: Elizabeth is sweet, studious, responsible and ambitious; Jessica is scheming, petty, gossipy and hot-to-trot. They have friends named Enid, Lila, Winston and Bruce. Elizabeth has a boyfriend named Todd and Jessica dates everyone. The original series was written in the 80s, so things like wild parties, drinking, drugs and sex were off limits. If they wrote the series now, Jessica would likely be at the free clinic on a weekly basis and Elizabeth would be vying for an anchor position at Fox News.
Francine Pascal is always listed as the author of all Sweet Valley High books, as well as all the books in all the spin-off series: Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley University and The Unicorn Club. Yes, The Unicorn Club. I have no idea what this was about. I should mention that I have never read any of the spin-off series.
In truth, Francine Pascal is the head writer of a team of ghost writers, all of whom stick to a certain predetermined Sweet Valley formula for each book. In my mind, I picture an older, glamorous woman, a la Lauren Bacall, wearing a Chanel suit, sitting at the head of a giant table, barking commands at weary, defeated young writers who are happy to have a job but less-than-thrilled to be writing about the high school shenanigans of a couple of Aryan Nation look-alikes. I also imagine she has a little dog in her lap and always wears pearls.
I digress. The topic at hand is my review of Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later, a book released in early 2011 that catches up with Elizabeth, Jessica and the gang at age 28. You may be wondering, “Why in God’s name did you read that?” Well, technically, I didn’t. I listened to it. I’m a sucker for free trials and Audibles.com offered me two free book downloads to try their service. Digital books are fantastic on long road trips. I don’t plan on taking any long road trips any time soon but…it could happen. SVC is so far the only book I’ve downloaded.
I knew it would be bad. No…horrendously bad. Like deciding to have a bologna and cheese sandwich in your 20s because you loved them when you were 8. You take a bite and immediately ask yourself why you aren’t eating a nice maple ham or smoked turkey from Lunds. What did you ever find appealing about creepy suspect parts of a pig smushed together into a log and then sliced into floppy, moist pink circles? And then you throw the sandwich away and go out for sushi.
Truthfully, I have been intrigued by this book since I read a review of it in Entertainment Weekly. The reviewer warned me that it was baaaaad…but my curiosity was still there. So one Audibles download later, I was in the car, listening to Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
The nice thing about listening to books is the warm, soothing sound of the professional voice reading them to you. January LaVoy, who is apparently on One Life to Live or All My Children or something, did an excellent job of voicing each character uniquely, including the men. She should also be commended for not stopping in the middle of taping and saying, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Or maybe she did; that’s the power of sound editing.
It is present day and Elizabeth Wakefield is living in New York City, writing for a publication called Stage Survey, which she constantly describes as “a Zagat-type guide to off-Broadway shows.” Immediately, we see that our normally gentle, loving Liz is troubled. Why is she troubled? Where is Todd, her basketball player boyfriend from high school? Where is Jessica?! How could she have left the marshmallow filled streets of sunny Sweet Valley for the cold, bleak hardness of Manhattan?
Because Todd left her for Jessica. What? Daaaaaaamn. That’s right; Todd Wilkins and Jessica Wakfield live together a town house in Sweet Valley, agonizing over how they’ve destroyed poor Elizabeth’s life. There is lots of crying and moaning and writhing about what they’ve done. So much so that I have no idea why they’re still together.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, seems to have a pretty amazing life: she’s a working journalist in New York City, which is what she always wanted to be. She has a one-bedroom apartment. One bedroom. In Manhattan. Considering that Show Survey is a freebie that homeless people wipe their bums with, I’d say Ned and Alice are footing the bill for their daughter’s high-falootin’ one bedroom Upper East Side digs. She even has a doorman and an elevator. Who needs Todd?!
The book centers around Jessica and Todd’s impending wedding and whether or not Elizabeth will forgive them and be Jessica’s maid of honor. I’m going to guess NO because who in the hell would do that? “Ok, I forgive you.” “Oh good! Will you be in the wedding when I marry your former boyfriend, who I started sleeping with five years ago behind your back?” “Go fuck yourself.”
The book provides us with flashbacks that uncover how Jessica and Todd’s betrayal came to fruition. Apparently, during their time at Sweet Valley University, Elizabeth was sick one evening and begged Jessica to go with Todd to a college party, which he refused to attend alone. I’m sorry, but what is this guy’s problem? Are you 5? Can you not go to a party without your girlfriend? Anyway, Jessica begrudgingly agrees, even though she and Todd cannot stand each other. For no reason I can determine, they end up sleeping together. Sure, there’s some sexual tension in the air and they’ve had a few dozen cocktails. So logic would step in here and say, “Ok, they had a drunken fling one night. It happens. Moving on.” But no; they begin a secret affair that mostly takes place in Todd’s car. Gross.
Then, while on vacation in Paris, Jessica meets and marries a dude named Reagan. Reagan is loaded and hot. He showers Jessica with jewelry, handbags, clothing, glamorous trips and a yacht, and all she has to do is look pretty and provide the occasional blow job. This is not enough for her, so she leaves Reagan and moves in with Elizabeth and Todd. She could have moved in with her parents down the street, but because Jessica Wakefield is apparently an antisocial sociopath, she moves in with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend, who she was buggering not long ago.
Reagan shows up in Sweet Valley and picks up on the fact that there is sexual tension between Todd and Jessica that has its own zip code, a fact Elizabeth seems to miss entirely. Perhaps it was all the grief surrounding the death of Winston Eggbert, who, in his 20s made a billion dollars in the “dot com boom” and became a super asshole who died alone in his McMansion. Reagan blows the lid off Toddgate and Elizabeth flees to New York.
8 months later, she is convinced to return to Sweet Valley for the 80th birthday of her “grandmommy.” Because she is a planner, Elizabeth brings a hot Irish bartender named Liam with her in an attempt to show Todd that Jessica is still the whore she was in high school. Liam is all over Jessica and Todd gets mad and a big old fight breaks out at Grandmommy’s birthday celebration at The Sweet Valley Golf Club. Liz returns to New York but not before blaming Liam for the whole mess, which makes zero sense.
Todd accuses Jessica of flirting and won’t speak to her, so she does what anyone in this situation would do: she leaves him. One fight and she’s gone. She shows up at Elizabeth’s in New York, thoroughly confusing the doorman, who has apparently never heard of identical twins. There is sobbing and embracing and all is forgiven. The end.
The fringe characters make an appearance throughout the book. Lila Fowler, Jessica’s snotty, rich bestie in high school, has married Ken Matthews, SVH’s star quarterback who is now a professional football player. They are separated due to Lila’s need to share her snatch with the neighborhood. Everyone thinks Lila and Steven Wakefield, the twins’ older brother, are doin’ it but surprise! Steven Wakefield is secretly GAY, which his wife, Cara Walker, is not aware of. Jessica busts Steven and his boyfriend Aaron and decides to tell Cara that Steven is a fan of the skin flute, further proving that she is a complete and total psycho. No redeeming qualities. None whatsoever.
Enid Rollins, Elizabeth’s former best friend, is a gynecologist who is dating a younger, hot guy who works at the mall. This causes people to mock her behind her back but I think it sounds awesome. I’d say that, out of everyone, she’s got the best deal. Caroline Pierce, Sweet Valley’s resident gossip, is up to her old tricks, despite being nearly bald after a battle with cancer. In one fantastic moment, Jessica snaps at Caroline, “You’re sick!” and then realizes that she really is sick. Seriously, I’m expecting Jessica to start murdering and dissecting small animals any time now.
And finally, Bruce Patman, the swanky “It” boy who drove a Porche all through high school with a license plate that read “1BRUCE1” has become Elizabeth’s best friend. She sat with him at the hospital while his father clung to life after an accident that killed his mother. And now, he realizes he loves her. Bruce ends up slipping her the hot beef injection and then accompanies her to Jessica and Todd’s wedding. Call me crazy but I always thought Bruce was gay. His name is Bruce and he drives a Porche. Missed opportunity, Francine.
So here’s why it sucks:
1. Jessica is so unlikable, you’re practically praying that her ex-husband Reagan murders her and tosses her over the side of his yacht, Dexter-style. She was always despicable but she seems to have reached new, ultraviolet levels of awful. She does things like outing her brother and his boyfriend, stealing her sister’s one true love, and being a total bitch to a woman with cancer and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her because Elizabeth won’t take her phone calls. She’s lucky Elizabeth and Steven don’t perform Nazi-era medical experiments on her without anesthesia.
2. Todd is sooooooooo lame. Why any two women would fight over this guy is totally beyond me. He’s closed off, super jealous, has no personality and there isn’t even a passage about his amazing sexual prowess or anything that would explain to me WHY he’s still a part of this story. He’s like a piece of furniture through most of the book. He does nothing except fulfill a perverted fantasy of fucking two chicks that look exactly alike.
3. Steven Wakefield’s Journey to Gaytown doesn’t even have a bisexual pit-stop. He’s married to Cara Walker and then runs into Aaron Dallas one day and BAM. They go back to Aaron’s place and Steven plays pitcher to his catcher. Whichever ghost writer did Steven’s storyline has apparently never even sat next to a gay man on a bus. It goes something like this: “Steven always had a lot of male friends. He also had several girlfriends and currently has a wife. The idea that he might be attracted to men has never, for one nano second, crossed his mind. Once, he looked at a fellow basketball player’s balls and sack in the locker room but felt nothing remarkable. Then he plowed Aaron Dallas. Aaron Dallas is an interior designer, which is a really popular job amongst gay men, I heard.” Yep, that’s about all we get regarding Steven’s sudden affinity for buttholes.
4. Elizabeth is clearly an alcoholic. Every move she makes that has any amount of balls only happens when she’s had 4 or 5 drinks. The rest of the time, she moves through her life like a zombie, completely gutted over her sister’s betrayal. She leaves old food on the kitchen table, eats chicken that’s been in her fridge for a week and blames everyone else for her misery. Also, she sleeps with randoms and cries after every orgasm. She cries after every orgasm. I’m not making this up. Someone else did.
5. All old rich people are completely insane and Francine Pascal is no exception. Apparently, in a fit of unleashed crazy, she commanded her team of writers to use the word “additionally” as many times and they could. I imagine she was proofing pages of copy and let loose howls of rage, ripping the pages to shreds, screaming, “MORE ‘ADDITIONALLY' GODDAMMIT! WHEN I SAY TO USE THE WORD ADDITIONALLY TO EXCESS, I FUCKING MEAN IT! YOU SONS OF BITCHES! BUY COPPER! BUY COPPER!”
In conclusion, this book is terrible. You should read something meaningful instead of reading this book. However, it is sort of fun, in the same way ding-dong-ditch is sort of fun. Additionally, I imagine in a few weeks time it’ll be found on the bargain table for about 50 cents. Then you should buy it.
Monday, August 8, 2011
We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day
When I was a kid, I was a burgeoning alcoholic, desperate for attention. I could never have enough. I used to throw myself down the stairs so my mother would rush to my side and lavish me with concern, love and unconditional devotion.
And that is why I am nearly blind at age 35.
Not the stairs. Please; I was a kid, which means I was practically made of rubber and other bouncy material. An ass-over-tea kettle tumble down the stairs was a Saturday afternoon. No, my blindness came from my insatiable need for attention.
Here's how it works.
Remember all the tests you had to do when you were in elementary school? Blood pressure, hearing and vision. We all filed into the multipurpose room (which was used for a multitude of purposes) and made our way through the stations. You'd put the headphones on and raise the hand that corresponded with the ear in which you heard the beep. You'd have your blood pressure taken by a sadistic school nurse you were pretty sure was trying to cut off your arm using only her blood pressure cuff. You'd cover one eye and read the smallest line on the chart.
Incidentally, do they still do this? What was this all about, anyway? Were we a generation of children whose parents didn't take us to the doctor? My parents used to drop volumes of the encyclopedia on the kitchen floor to see if I was deaf because I talked so fucking loud. They also probably figured I would tell them if I couldn't see.
One year on We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day, I decided that my parents needed to show me a little bit more concern, dammit. I covered one eye and read the top line on the eye chart. The teacher manning this particular station looked at me with concern.
"Is that the smallest line you can read, Dresden?"
"Yes," I replied, with wide brown eyed innocence. She wrote something in my chart.
A few weeks later, I left school early with my mother for a real vision test with a doctor. My little legs swung off the edge of the creepy chair they make you sit in and the doctor talked to me like you'd talk to any 8 year old...who was an idiot.
"Ok, now, Dresden. What we're going to do is cover up your left eye with this little thingamajig here. When your left eye is covered, I want you to look at the chart out there--you see that chart on the wall? The one with all the letters. Ok, I want you to look at that chart and read the smallest letters you can see. Are you ready? Ok, now, I'm going to cover your eye. I want you to read the smallest letters you can see."
"K H O R."
It was the top line, the line with the biggest letters. Even in the darkened room, I could see the concerned look that passed between my mother and the doctor. He did the same thing with my right eye and this time, I read the line directly under the top line. You know, so they didn't think I was blind. Then the doctor put some drops in my eyes and gave me a pair of disposable sunglasses because those are eye exploding drops and if you look directly at the sun after they give them to you, you'll turn to dust in an eyesplosion.
Then one day, it happened. I went to get glasses. This was a big fucking deal. I couldn't see, so my parents were very concerned, which meant I got glasses. Naturally, like any good 8 year old girl, I picked out the pink plastic frames. As anyone who has gotten glasses for the first time knows, a new prescription is like putting two random round bottoms of drinking glasses over each eye. It's what I imagined dropping acid would be like: circusy and unbalanced.
Eventually, Dresden Getting Glasses wasn't a big deal and I was just another fat nerd. Then my sister--the bitch--had the nerve to have seriously crooked teeth and got braces. I begged my parents for braces but they said I didn't need them. Braces were even better than glasses; every time my sister got her braces tightened, she'd lay on the couch moaning and my mother would let her eat ice cream and NO ONE PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE.
Now, AT 35, I'm fucking blind. I can't see shit. Without my glasses or contacts, anyone could easily take me prisoner. Justin Beiber could be standing right in front of my face telling me he's George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic and I'd be like, "Well...if you say so." Sometimes I wake up in the morning and don't put my glasses on right away and try to do something. I usually just end up knocking over everything in the room before I think, "Shit, where are my glasses?" I've taken my contacts out at night before knowing the exact location of my glasses and then flown into a full-blown panic because it's really hard to look for something when you can't see.
And all because I needed some attention. I should have stuck to throwing myself down the stairs.
For the next two weeks, I have to wear my glasses because I'm going into see Dr. Skywalker, who will determine if he can shave some layers off my eyeballs with his light saber and restore my sight. Even though I'm terrified of the process, I know I'll be happy when I can see. Or I'll be totally blind because he burned my retinas and drilled a laser hole in my iris. But then maybe they can do an eye transplant and I'll get the eyes of a serial killer and spend the rest of my life helping the police find the bodies of his victims. That would be cool.
And that is why I am nearly blind at age 35.
Not the stairs. Please; I was a kid, which means I was practically made of rubber and other bouncy material. An ass-over-tea kettle tumble down the stairs was a Saturday afternoon. No, my blindness came from my insatiable need for attention.
Here's how it works.
Remember all the tests you had to do when you were in elementary school? Blood pressure, hearing and vision. We all filed into the multipurpose room (which was used for a multitude of purposes) and made our way through the stations. You'd put the headphones on and raise the hand that corresponded with the ear in which you heard the beep. You'd have your blood pressure taken by a sadistic school nurse you were pretty sure was trying to cut off your arm using only her blood pressure cuff. You'd cover one eye and read the smallest line on the chart.
Incidentally, do they still do this? What was this all about, anyway? Were we a generation of children whose parents didn't take us to the doctor? My parents used to drop volumes of the encyclopedia on the kitchen floor to see if I was deaf because I talked so fucking loud. They also probably figured I would tell them if I couldn't see.
One year on We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day, I decided that my parents needed to show me a little bit more concern, dammit. I covered one eye and read the top line on the eye chart. The teacher manning this particular station looked at me with concern.
"Is that the smallest line you can read, Dresden?"
"Yes," I replied, with wide brown eyed innocence. She wrote something in my chart.
A few weeks later, I left school early with my mother for a real vision test with a doctor. My little legs swung off the edge of the creepy chair they make you sit in and the doctor talked to me like you'd talk to any 8 year old...who was an idiot.
"Ok, now, Dresden. What we're going to do is cover up your left eye with this little thingamajig here. When your left eye is covered, I want you to look at the chart out there--you see that chart on the wall? The one with all the letters. Ok, I want you to look at that chart and read the smallest letters you can see. Are you ready? Ok, now, I'm going to cover your eye. I want you to read the smallest letters you can see."
"K H O R."
It was the top line, the line with the biggest letters. Even in the darkened room, I could see the concerned look that passed between my mother and the doctor. He did the same thing with my right eye and this time, I read the line directly under the top line. You know, so they didn't think I was blind. Then the doctor put some drops in my eyes and gave me a pair of disposable sunglasses because those are eye exploding drops and if you look directly at the sun after they give them to you, you'll turn to dust in an eyesplosion.
Then one day, it happened. I went to get glasses. This was a big fucking deal. I couldn't see, so my parents were very concerned, which meant I got glasses. Naturally, like any good 8 year old girl, I picked out the pink plastic frames. As anyone who has gotten glasses for the first time knows, a new prescription is like putting two random round bottoms of drinking glasses over each eye. It's what I imagined dropping acid would be like: circusy and unbalanced.
Eventually, Dresden Getting Glasses wasn't a big deal and I was just another fat nerd. Then my sister--the bitch--had the nerve to have seriously crooked teeth and got braces. I begged my parents for braces but they said I didn't need them. Braces were even better than glasses; every time my sister got her braces tightened, she'd lay on the couch moaning and my mother would let her eat ice cream and NO ONE PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE.
Now, AT 35, I'm fucking blind. I can't see shit. Without my glasses or contacts, anyone could easily take me prisoner. Justin Beiber could be standing right in front of my face telling me he's George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic and I'd be like, "Well...if you say so." Sometimes I wake up in the morning and don't put my glasses on right away and try to do something. I usually just end up knocking over everything in the room before I think, "Shit, where are my glasses?" I've taken my contacts out at night before knowing the exact location of my glasses and then flown into a full-blown panic because it's really hard to look for something when you can't see.
And all because I needed some attention. I should have stuck to throwing myself down the stairs.
For the next two weeks, I have to wear my glasses because I'm going into see Dr. Skywalker, who will determine if he can shave some layers off my eyeballs with his light saber and restore my sight. Even though I'm terrified of the process, I know I'll be happy when I can see. Or I'll be totally blind because he burned my retinas and drilled a laser hole in my iris. But then maybe they can do an eye transplant and I'll get the eyes of a serial killer and spend the rest of my life helping the police find the bodies of his victims. That would be cool.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)