When an event is advertised as free and open to the public in New York City, the one thing you can guarantee is that entry is not necessarily guaranteed. Keeping that tidbit in mind when I RSVP'd to a free concert, I arrived at the venue almost two hours early so that I could land a safe spot in the middle of the line, which was already at new Iphone-like proportion. To lessen the agony of the enduring wait, I came equipped with comfortable shoes, an updated Hangman app and a full flask of whiskey. After sending about twenty-five poor stickmen to the gallows (thank Bejeezus, I passed up the Russian Roulette app), I noticed that I'd barely progressed in the line.
Meanwhile, a second queue that suddenly formed parallel to mine was whipping by like that line in the supermarket with the good cashier that I NEVER choose because I have an inherent attraction to lines with quarrelsome old people demanding rain checks. I immediately thought that something was amiss because these people definitely were not here half a flask ago and they were being admitted before me. I leaned over to a guy in the fast line and inquired about the difference between two. "This line is for VIPs," he boasted loud enough for me and about sixty other people, who hadn't asked him anything, to hear. Minutes later he was whisked inside by some bitch line goddess with an ALMIGHTY list, from which my name was absent. I asked. Twice. And both times I was cast back to the general admission line to stew in my inferiority and of course, hate.
VIP. I don't understand the logic behind having a hierarchy at a free concert. Allowing "special" people to enter before the rest of us, who are equally too cheap or broke to pay for a real concert, seems like hoity-toity line cutting. Will they get to use their exclusive neon yellow wristbands to skip handicaps in the bathroom too?
Despite the fact that I have been a fan of this group since they were grassroots, I'm still not good enough to get first dibs at their free concert. Meanwhile, the best friend to the cousin of the assistant to the stage manager, who thinks this band was discovered by a late night talk show host, can breeze right in because he is a "Very Important Person." That's merely a measure of association rather than importance. They should be called SAPs (Somewhat Associated People).
The term VIP has made "important" synonymous with obnoxious. Importance used to conjure up images of top secret manila envelopes stamped in red ink, and serious men in dark suits with briefcases. Perhaps in the olden days, only members of the FBI, CIA and MIB were afforded the privilege of exclusive seating and complimentary champagne. They would certainly be worthy of such perks because they spent their days completing important assignments for the greater good of society. Likewise, this proper title of VIP should also be extended to doctors, educators and the Dalai Lamas of the world. VIP would go down a lot smoother for me if I was snubbed for Mother Teresa instead of Snooki- or worse, a friend of Snooki's. Granted, I probably wouldn't be deemed worthy enough for the general admission line at a Mother Teresa/Dr. Oz soiree, but I would understand.
After inhaling another hour of back wind from the smokers ahead of me, a baby-shit green band was bestowed upon my wrist and I was finally let into the venue. Much to my surprise, I was able to secure a seemingly primo spot front stage center. If I was VIP, I would definitely want to stand here. Then it occurred to me that they must be someplace better- like actually on stage with the performers. If so, I'd seriously contemplate leaving because I didn't NOT pay to see them. I scanned the area and noticed a slightly elevated platform behind me. As if the metaphorical heightened status of VIP wasn't obvious enough- they had to be physically elevated to drive home the point. No one in VIP was doing anything particularly fun (or important), but it seemed so just because of the segregated space and free Dos Equis.
Pushing aside disturbing, yet appealing images of what could happen if a can of tear gas was tossed into the VIP section, I decided not to let those wannabes ruin my good time. Besides, I was so close to the stage that if I wanted, I could practically reach out and touch the lead's pant leg, making my concert going experience way more intimate than the VIPs'. Just as I was about to make peace with my second class citenzenship, I noticed a few people brazenly gliding past me. Shoving at a crowded concert is to be expected, but there was something about the way these folks said, "Pardon me," while avoiding eye contact and asserting themselves with the confidence that people must excuse them, that made me leery. I assumed they were trying to home in on my prime real estate until I realized their ultimate destination was beyond me, towards the gate that partitioned the stage from the public- another VIP area.
I watched as each person was either granted or denied access depending on how long they stood their ground with security. It looked like they had to explain themselves before being let behind the gates, which would actually be a great idea. VIPs should have to pass a test or display extensive knowledge about the main event before being rewarded. That way one could regulate and be held responsible for the level of his or her own importance. Unfortunately, these "VIPs" were playing the association card as well. I could tell by the way they'd arbitrarily point to someone already on the good side the gate, who would in turn either have enough clout to demand security to let their guest in; or shrug like, "Sorry bro, barely made it in myself." Being the least important of your marginally important peers and having to share the very same experience with them all of two feet away must be really disappointing. Having to watch them bathe in the luxury of significance while you're drowning in a pathetic pool of plebeians.
Somehow I managed to enjoy the concert, although it was hard to concentrate with those flashy VIPs behind and to the far right of me vying for my attention with their singing, dancing and finger pointing at us, undistinguished general admissioners. Maybe the latter was my imagination, but I felt taunted. The VIP area should have been tucked away behind a curtain or a brick wall, so that I wouldn't have to be exposed to the inequities of the New York social scene. If VIP is so exclusive, they should keep it top secret instead of brazenly wagging it in the face of the masses. That unnecessary flossing could be the catalyst for a crazy VIP revolution (#occupytheboomboomroom).
The VIPs were finally brought back down to earth (or wherever subordinate place I resided) immediately after the last song when we were all herded out of the venue together as equals. Hey, even Cinderella couldn't keep her fairy dust past midnight. En route to the subway, a friend called to invite me to a party for the launch of some new something or other. Unaware of my previous ordeal, she tried baiting me with terms like "exclusive" and "VIP" as if they were "lollipop" and "balloon" to a kid going to the dentist. I initially declined, but she assured me that I was definitely on the list, there was no line and alcohol was gratis for everyone in attendance. As the old saying goes, "if something sounds too good to be true...," you just have to go and confirm for yourself.
Later on as I sipped libations from the open bar while swaying to an intimate performance by a popular rapper, it dawned on me that I might be a hypocrite. VIP is awesome. And this VIP was somewhat justified since there was no general admission populace made to feel inferior by my status. We were all VIP- just like white Eddie Murphy on the party bus after the Black guy left. However, I must remain loyal to the first ninety percent of this post and my hate. I still firmly believe VIP is usually wrongly appointed and it contributes to unfair social segregation. But it does wonders for the esteem; so, much like everything else that's wrong, I'd suggest enjoying VIP responsibly.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Week of the Living Fashionistos
New York Fashion Week is finally over and I'd like nothing more than to fast forward to year 3010 when everyone will be wearing identical aluminum jumpsuits, and couture will have been relegated to art museum relics. Personally, I think Fashion Week should be renamed "Hell Week" because it turns New York into a petty high school caste system- where designers are the shot calling mean girls; models are the envied cheerleaders; and the rest of the public are wannabe posers trying to get in whatever size zero garment they can fit in.
I wouldn't hate Fashion Week if it was reserved to only those in the industry. But the desire to be in vogue and "hot in the streets" invades the air like bedazzled bed bugs and "POOF"- I'm subway surfing in four inch heels just so I can look like one of them. Although I consider Fashion Week to be the soft and pink equivalent to the Super Bowl, I can't fully appreciate it because I hate pretentiousness, I'm poor and frankly too frustrated to think about next spring's wardrobe when I'm still trying to score a pair of OTK boots from two seasons ago.
There was one peculiar trend during Fashion Week that irked me more than the introduction of the words "jeggings" and "treggings." A new population of fashion conscious males were burgeoning. I'm not referring the masters of the fashion universe- gay men; nor, the 2003 phenom- the metrosexual. These guys are different... I think.
While attending a pre-Fashion Week happy hour at a hotel bar aptly named "Fashion 26" (think it's "Turkey 26" in November?), I spied an okay looking guy spying me. Grateful for any attention in my tragic yet sensible H&M and Old Navy ensemblE, I checked my right and left sides to confirm I was his intended target, and then I smiled at him. He came over, introduced himself and we made the obligatory New York small talk about where we work, who we know and whether we live in Manhattan (Harlem counts) or an "acceptable" part Brooklyn. Just as I was about to deem him straight enough to exchange numbers, bodily fluids and vows, he derailed the conversation with the following rapid-fire succession of questions:
"Are you going to Fashion Night Out? Did you make it to the J.Crew off season sample sale? Will I see you at any of the shows?"
"No," I uttered once to all three questions.
The notion of a seemingly hetero male with no known affiliation to fashion being so concerned with Fashion Week's activities was suspect. I deduced he was using fashion as a pickup tool. You know, like how "Sportsnistas" feign interest in trivial baseball stats and Guinness Stout in order to impress guys?
If that was the case, I could have been flattered that he went through the trouble of memorizing the Fashion Week itinerary and risking blisters by foregoing socks in hard bottomed shoes just to get at moi. However, I found him to be a perplexing turnoff - kind of like those "Toddlers in Tiaras." It's cute yet repulsive. A guy who can distinguish Gucci from Pucci, and fully grasp the obsession with finding the perfect black pump sounds like the missing link necessary for everlasting harmony in male/female relationships; but in reality it's plain queer.
I rather enjoy duping my beaus into believing my closet full of chain store apparel is couture. One of the benefits of having a fashionably challenged boyfriend is that he doesn't care if my dress is a twelve dollar, poly-rayon blend, so long as it can be easily removed. Speaking of, aren't women already stressed out enough about what we look like underneath our clothes? Push-up bra - Check; Spanx - Check; Asymmetrical bodycon dress with apropos bootie - Boy, please.
While I do find fancy dandies aesthetically pleasing, I don't need competition in the looks department with my man. No offense to my past boyfriends, but I am used to being the head turner in a relationship. I couldn't fathom going to a wedding with a date who upstages me, while I'm surreptitiously trying to upstage the bride.
Dating a "Mr. Fancy Pants" would cause more anxiety for me than Snooki in a Kaplan course. It shouldn't take me more than three seconds to sum up and analyze a dude's outfit. And I definitely shouldn't be tempted to take a second glance- or worst yet, try to replicate it. Don't get me wrong, I have no interest in dating some schlub who thinks oversized sweatpants and a football jersey qualifies as casual sportswear. He would garner attention for all the wrong reasons. A man who can pull it together with the basics will suffice. My ideal fashion-mate would probably be a swaggerific Mister Rogers in a pair of Chuck Taylors.
I ended up passing on "Mr. Fashion 26." Chances are he was not a superficial, label-whore who had his tailor on speed dial. Perhaps his sense of style was intrinsic and he just couldn't help but know the exact right way to roll up his trousers without looking like Urkel. Either way, my hate coupled with false preconceptions and lack of a designer wardrobe would have eventually led to the demise of our relationship. Although when news broke about the super success of the Target Missoni line, I couldn't help but wonder if that could have been us.
I wouldn't hate Fashion Week if it was reserved to only those in the industry. But the desire to be in vogue and "hot in the streets" invades the air like bedazzled bed bugs and "POOF"- I'm subway surfing in four inch heels just so I can look like one of them. Although I consider Fashion Week to be the soft and pink equivalent to the Super Bowl, I can't fully appreciate it because I hate pretentiousness, I'm poor and frankly too frustrated to think about next spring's wardrobe when I'm still trying to score a pair of OTK boots from two seasons ago.
There was one peculiar trend during Fashion Week that irked me more than the introduction of the words "jeggings" and "treggings." A new population of fashion conscious males were burgeoning. I'm not referring the masters of the fashion universe- gay men; nor, the 2003 phenom- the metrosexual. These guys are different... I think.
While attending a pre-Fashion Week happy hour at a hotel bar aptly named "Fashion 26" (think it's "Turkey 26" in November?), I spied an okay looking guy spying me. Grateful for any attention in my tragic yet sensible H&M and Old Navy ensemblE, I checked my right and left sides to confirm I was his intended target, and then I smiled at him. He came over, introduced himself and we made the obligatory New York small talk about where we work, who we know and whether we live in Manhattan (Harlem counts) or an "acceptable" part Brooklyn. Just as I was about to deem him straight enough to exchange numbers, bodily fluids and vows, he derailed the conversation with the following rapid-fire succession of questions:
"Are you going to Fashion Night Out? Did you make it to the J.Crew off season sample sale? Will I see you at any of the shows?"
"No," I uttered once to all three questions.
The notion of a seemingly hetero male with no known affiliation to fashion being so concerned with Fashion Week's activities was suspect. I deduced he was using fashion as a pickup tool. You know, like how "Sportsnistas" feign interest in trivial baseball stats and Guinness Stout in order to impress guys?
If that was the case, I could have been flattered that he went through the trouble of memorizing the Fashion Week itinerary and risking blisters by foregoing socks in hard bottomed shoes just to get at moi. However, I found him to be a perplexing turnoff - kind of like those "Toddlers in Tiaras." It's cute yet repulsive. A guy who can distinguish Gucci from Pucci, and fully grasp the obsession with finding the perfect black pump sounds like the missing link necessary for everlasting harmony in male/female relationships; but in reality it's plain queer.
I rather enjoy duping my beaus into believing my closet full of chain store apparel is couture. One of the benefits of having a fashionably challenged boyfriend is that he doesn't care if my dress is a twelve dollar, poly-rayon blend, so long as it can be easily removed. Speaking of, aren't women already stressed out enough about what we look like underneath our clothes? Push-up bra - Check; Spanx - Check; Asymmetrical bodycon dress with apropos bootie - Boy, please.
While I do find fancy dandies aesthetically pleasing, I don't need competition in the looks department with my man. No offense to my past boyfriends, but I am used to being the head turner in a relationship. I couldn't fathom going to a wedding with a date who upstages me, while I'm surreptitiously trying to upstage the bride.
Dating a "Mr. Fancy Pants" would cause more anxiety for me than Snooki in a Kaplan course. It shouldn't take me more than three seconds to sum up and analyze a dude's outfit. And I definitely shouldn't be tempted to take a second glance- or worst yet, try to replicate it. Don't get me wrong, I have no interest in dating some schlub who thinks oversized sweatpants and a football jersey qualifies as casual sportswear. He would garner attention for all the wrong reasons. A man who can pull it together with the basics will suffice. My ideal fashion-mate would probably be a swaggerific Mister Rogers in a pair of Chuck Taylors.
I ended up passing on "Mr. Fashion 26." Chances are he was not a superficial, label-whore who had his tailor on speed dial. Perhaps his sense of style was intrinsic and he just couldn't help but know the exact right way to roll up his trousers without looking like Urkel. Either way, my hate coupled with false preconceptions and lack of a designer wardrobe would have eventually led to the demise of our relationship. Although when news broke about the super success of the Target Missoni line, I couldn't help but wonder if that could have been us.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Sportsnistas
In the quest to cancel my membership with "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Solo," I decided to step up my dating game to land my future "Mr. Hater." My original plan of unexpectedly landing Mr. Right (or Idris Elba) during my commute to work on the 1 train was failing miserably. It's so hard to produce an effective "come hither" stare when you're sandwiched between someone with halitosis and another with probable bed bugs. I desperately needed a new approach - or at least location. Last month I figured I'd hit the dating Powerball when my favorite bars were suddenly infiltrated by World Cup groupies, most of whom were presumably men. All I had to do was strategically place myself at the right place at the right time, like a Kardashian, and wait for the man tsunami to strike.
Manhunt Day 1 - Netherlands vs. Spain: I considered venturing to the bar solo, but didn't want to look too obvious; so I invited my girl, Kim along since she's a major "Sportsnista." She's the kind of chick who actually attends Super Bowl parties for the game instead of for the buffalo wings, fun commercials and hot guys. I can't stand girls like that because secretly I know their trivial sports enthusiasm is just another tactic to get men. We've all read the same hackneyed Cosmo dating articles that encourage women to up their sports knowledge to increase their compatibility with guys. More power to the sisters who choose to invest countless hours watching men pummel each other and toss balls around a court just so they can share an less than affectionate chest bump with their crush when their team scores. Personally, I think sports should be to men what shoe shopping is to women - an experience that requires 100% focus and best shared with the same sex.
Clad in a loose, "FIFA" tee-shirt and jean cutoffs, Kim greeted me at the bar with an incredulous "You're into soccer?" Me, wearing a similar outfit, but two sizes smaller (my body's two sizes larger), quipped, "Duh, it's only the most talked about sport every four years."
Kim shot me an unconvinced look before ordering her Guinness Stout, the Gatorade for spectators. But I didn't care that she doubted me because I'd only met her last year. How does she know that I wasn't here watching the matches in 2006? Ok, I wasn't. But she was treating me like I thought the World Cup was an international drinking game.
"Who are you rootin' for?" asked a baritone voice behind me. "Score," announced my inside commentator when I turned to see that sexy sound drifting from an equally attractive looking set of lips. I smiled while trying to inconspicuously decipher the abstract little flag symbols that represented the competing teams on the flat screens. Damn, why wasn't the U.S. playing? Apparently, I was equally terrible in both sports and geography, so I reached back into my kindergarten color lessons and stammered, "Uh, I like the orange team."
Before sexy dude could respond to my Forest Gump-like answer, Kim intercepted with her team choice, clearly the right one, since he approved with a clink of his disgusting Guinness to hers. Three Stoli Raspberry and Sprites later, the score was one-zip in both Spain and Kim's favor. I felt like a third wheel on a date with her and Senor Sexy Voice, who'd connected over their love for bad beer and boring sports.
The Sportsnista routine was clearly effective, but just not for me. First of all, I could not stay engaged in a sport where it took nearly an hour to score a point - especially while under the influence. There were barely any closeups of the players, so I couldn't tell who was cute. Soccer isn't a very complicated sport to follow, so playing the clueless sports observer by feigning ignorance with banal questions like, "What's that thing he did with the ball," did not garner a desirable response. Most guys just smirked at me sympathetically, like one does when a mentally challenged person says something cute, and answered, "You mean, kicking?" Pathetic.
I'm not sure which team took home the win that night, but I was the ultimate loser returning to my lonely apartment with no new digits and the echo of the vuvuzela in my head. Kim ended up dating "Mr. Sexy Voice" for a while until he dumped her when she refused to cover herself in orange and blue body paint to show her allegiance to the Mets during the Subway Series. Just kidding. He actually ended up cheating on her with another chick he met at a bar during the Playoffs. Guess those Sportsnistas should work on maintaining team loyalty.
Manhunt Day 1 - Netherlands vs. Spain: I considered venturing to the bar solo, but didn't want to look too obvious; so I invited my girl, Kim along since she's a major "Sportsnista." She's the kind of chick who actually attends Super Bowl parties for the game instead of for the buffalo wings, fun commercials and hot guys. I can't stand girls like that because secretly I know their trivial sports enthusiasm is just another tactic to get men. We've all read the same hackneyed Cosmo dating articles that encourage women to up their sports knowledge to increase their compatibility with guys. More power to the sisters who choose to invest countless hours watching men pummel each other and toss balls around a court just so they can share an less than affectionate chest bump with their crush when their team scores. Personally, I think sports should be to men what shoe shopping is to women - an experience that requires 100% focus and best shared with the same sex.
Clad in a loose, "FIFA" tee-shirt and jean cutoffs, Kim greeted me at the bar with an incredulous "You're into soccer?" Me, wearing a similar outfit, but two sizes smaller (my body's two sizes larger), quipped, "Duh, it's only the most talked about sport every four years."
Kim shot me an unconvinced look before ordering her Guinness Stout, the Gatorade for spectators. But I didn't care that she doubted me because I'd only met her last year. How does she know that I wasn't here watching the matches in 2006? Ok, I wasn't. But she was treating me like I thought the World Cup was an international drinking game.
"Who are you rootin' for?" asked a baritone voice behind me. "Score," announced my inside commentator when I turned to see that sexy sound drifting from an equally attractive looking set of lips. I smiled while trying to inconspicuously decipher the abstract little flag symbols that represented the competing teams on the flat screens. Damn, why wasn't the U.S. playing? Apparently, I was equally terrible in both sports and geography, so I reached back into my kindergarten color lessons and stammered, "Uh, I like the orange team."
Before sexy dude could respond to my Forest Gump-like answer, Kim intercepted with her team choice, clearly the right one, since he approved with a clink of his disgusting Guinness to hers. Three Stoli Raspberry and Sprites later, the score was one-zip in both Spain and Kim's favor. I felt like a third wheel on a date with her and Senor Sexy Voice, who'd connected over their love for bad beer and boring sports.
The Sportsnista routine was clearly effective, but just not for me. First of all, I could not stay engaged in a sport where it took nearly an hour to score a point - especially while under the influence. There were barely any closeups of the players, so I couldn't tell who was cute. Soccer isn't a very complicated sport to follow, so playing the clueless sports observer by feigning ignorance with banal questions like, "What's that thing he did with the ball," did not garner a desirable response. Most guys just smirked at me sympathetically, like one does when a mentally challenged person says something cute, and answered, "You mean, kicking?" Pathetic.
I'm not sure which team took home the win that night, but I was the ultimate loser returning to my lonely apartment with no new digits and the echo of the vuvuzela in my head. Kim ended up dating "Mr. Sexy Voice" for a while until he dumped her when she refused to cover herself in orange and blue body paint to show her allegiance to the Mets during the Subway Series. Just kidding. He actually ended up cheating on her with another chick he met at a bar during the Playoffs. Guess those Sportsnistas should work on maintaining team loyalty.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Modelland Should be Two Words
I received some disturbing news today that roused up the ole' HATE. Tyra Banks has a book. No, Tyra is not going to be on the cover of another book (magazine). Miz Banks is authoring a book called Modelland. It sounds like a cross between Zoolander and Planet of the Apes, but I'll never know because I refuse to read it. Beautiful people can't be satisfied with merely taking over our magazines, movies and televisions; now they're infiltrating our brains with tales crafted in their over inflated airheads. Exqueeze me- there are real writers out here dying to profit from their adorable little anecdotes about jealousy and rage.
I understood Tyra's need for a post-modeling hustle after she lost a battle to Popeye's chicken and blew up to a whopping 125 pounds; thus producing the reality TV tour de force, "America's Next Top Model." I even supported Tyra when ANTM got staler than Magic Johnson theater popcorn and she launched her own talk show, in which she's nothing more than a fashionable and judgmental version of Jenny Jones. ('memba Jenny Jones?) But now she's going too far.
Tyra Banks has clearly proven that she is capable of being more than just a pretty face. But really, why does everybody have to be a triple, double decker threat nowadays? She was born with the rare ability to smile with her eyes while strutting in six inch stilettos - all on an empty stomach. That's as commendable a talent as any- and it made her a millionaire. Why couldn't she stop there? Because she's greedy and surrounded by enablers. I'm pretty confident she has nothing profound to write about because if she did possess the elusive combination of outstanding beauty and brains, then she would've already figured out a way to somehow conquer the world- or at least Obama.
Obviously, a powerhouse celebrity such as Tyra Banks is an easy target for my Hate. Yeah, I could insult her seeming lack of intelligence enough to fill up this entire blog but ultimately, only six people will read this as opposed to the millions who will buy her book. Kudos to Tyra. She's just cashing in on the game. Should I really be hating on her or the society of dimwits who will drop twenty-five bucks on something called Modelland? The fact that she compounded the word is just plain irritating.
In the spirit of Modelland, I've comprised the following list of successful books written by people who probably think Moby Dick is either the prequel to Free Willy or a porno.
1) Going Rogue: An American Life by Sarah Palin
Aside from considering life in Alaska to be the epitome of American, Palin's autobiography lost a few sales to a parody book released the same day entitled, Going Rouge: An American Nightmare, by Richard Kim and Betsy Reed. The similar titles confused her fans, who probably didn't know the definitions of ROGUE or ROUGE in the first place.
2) The Twighlight Saga by Stephanie Meyer
I initially refused to read these books because it was written for tweens and I'm a grown-up. But then I really got upset when my eyes bled after suffering through the silly movies starring those brooding, sickly looking teenagers, who are somehow sex symbols. Is this an acceptable follow-up to Bram Stoker, Anne Rice and Octavia Butler?
3) Untitled, but working title, Unwrapped: My Life Before and After Lil Wayne by Antonia "Toya" Carter
Just pass me the OxyContin and Patron because I'm going to need it before I blow up the publishing house that green lit the pearls of wisdom from the mouth of Lil' Wayne's baby's mutha. And no, BET books is not the responsible party; although I do blame BET for giving this girl a platform for her countrified voice to be heard. I will also include Neffe's book, My Happiness is My Sanity and Nene's Never Make the Same Mistake Twice in this section. Basically, reality stars should stick to acting "real" or whatever it is they do.
Please feel free to add your worst favorite books in the comments below.
I understood Tyra's need for a post-modeling hustle after she lost a battle to Popeye's chicken and blew up to a whopping 125 pounds; thus producing the reality TV tour de force, "America's Next Top Model." I even supported Tyra when ANTM got staler than Magic Johnson theater popcorn and she launched her own talk show, in which she's nothing more than a fashionable and judgmental version of Jenny Jones. ('memba Jenny Jones?) But now she's going too far.
Tyra Banks has clearly proven that she is capable of being more than just a pretty face. But really, why does everybody have to be a triple, double decker threat nowadays? She was born with the rare ability to smile with her eyes while strutting in six inch stilettos - all on an empty stomach. That's as commendable a talent as any- and it made her a millionaire. Why couldn't she stop there? Because she's greedy and surrounded by enablers. I'm pretty confident she has nothing profound to write about because if she did possess the elusive combination of outstanding beauty and brains, then she would've already figured out a way to somehow conquer the world- or at least Obama.
Obviously, a powerhouse celebrity such as Tyra Banks is an easy target for my Hate. Yeah, I could insult her seeming lack of intelligence enough to fill up this entire blog but ultimately, only six people will read this as opposed to the millions who will buy her book. Kudos to Tyra. She's just cashing in on the game. Should I really be hating on her or the society of dimwits who will drop twenty-five bucks on something called Modelland? The fact that she compounded the word is just plain irritating.
In the spirit of Modelland, I've comprised the following list of successful books written by people who probably think Moby Dick is either the prequel to Free Willy or a porno.
1) Going Rogue: An American Life by Sarah Palin
Aside from considering life in Alaska to be the epitome of American, Palin's autobiography lost a few sales to a parody book released the same day entitled, Going Rouge: An American Nightmare, by Richard Kim and Betsy Reed. The similar titles confused her fans, who probably didn't know the definitions of ROGUE or ROUGE in the first place.
2) The Twighlight Saga by Stephanie Meyer
I initially refused to read these books because it was written for tweens and I'm a grown-up. But then I really got upset when my eyes bled after suffering through the silly movies starring those brooding, sickly looking teenagers, who are somehow sex symbols. Is this an acceptable follow-up to Bram Stoker, Anne Rice and Octavia Butler?
3) Untitled, but working title, Unwrapped: My Life Before and After Lil Wayne by Antonia "Toya" Carter
Just pass me the OxyContin and Patron because I'm going to need it before I blow up the publishing house that green lit the pearls of wisdom from the mouth of Lil' Wayne's baby's mutha. And no, BET books is not the responsible party; although I do blame BET for giving this girl a platform for her countrified voice to be heard. I will also include Neffe's book, My Happiness is My Sanity and Nene's Never Make the Same Mistake Twice in this section. Basically, reality stars should stick to acting "real" or whatever it is they do.
Please feel free to add your worst favorite books in the comments below.
Friday, May 7, 2010
With Friends Like Me
I can't stand women who disrespect the sisterhood in favor of solely BFF'ing guys (who secretly want to sleep with them); or gays (who secretly want to be them). You know those girls who contemptuously boast about banning female friends because they think girls are jealous, catty, gossip mongers? And, while I may have been both an accomplice and victim of the occasional stabbed back, I will forever attest to the glory of girlfriends.
Over the years I've built and maintained solid relationships with some great gals- all of whom are either pretty or talented or successful or engaged, or even worst - all of the above. Obviously, it behooves me to surround myself with such positive women. Birds of a feather flock together, right? The problem is, more often than not I feel like a pigeon flocking with peacocks. Turns out, the awesomeness that initially attracts me to these ladies inevitably starts tugging at my hate strings. Could it be that I am the girlfriend responsible for the platonic pal pandemic I so despise?
Don't get me wrong. I am a damn good friend. When my obnoxiously overpaid homegirl, Penny, overdrafted her checking account, I didn't think twice about wiring thirty bucks, which I desperately needed for my two week lunch supply of Hot Pockets, to get her out of the red. Yeah, I furtively texted, "Penny gotta do better" to another mutual friend when commenting on her reckless spending habits. But did that really outweigh my display of generosity?
When Sandra's boyfriend of five years broke off their engagement, I shared her misery and weight gain by indulging in a three day cheeseburger and whiskey binge with her. Does it matter that while she was spewing tears and tales of a love lost I was doing mental cartwheels because I was tired of trolling the bars for men solo?
I was the first girlfriend on the scene when Lisette gave birth to her baby boy. On top of that, my thirty year old, possibly-barren-self has never missed a Yo Gabba Gabba birthday party since. Big deal if I occasionally joke that the kid looks like the Black Benjamin Button.
I dutifully play my BFF position by smiling, clapping and break dancing for my friends' success- and 89 percent of the time I am sincere. However, I fear that one day, through some strange telepathic or text-reading incident, my girls will discover me secretly gloating at their mishaps and drop me faster than the U.S. fell from from the World Cup (OH SNAP). That situation would not be ideal for me since I have no boyfriend and have never met a guy who could fill my girls' shoes- not even Aisha's size eleven boats. There I go again. But c'mon, she's super creative and Naomi Campbell's doppleganger, so her big feet are much deserved.
My subconscious hating on my friends is a direct reflection of my own shortcomings. There are moments when I feel like a fat guy dating a supermodel anxiously wondering how and why I'm in this relationship, and when it's going to end. "They like me?!" They really like me?!" Despite my sometimes not so friendly displays of friendship, I really like them too, and am truly grateful for having these phenomenal women in my life. To all of the Anti- Girlfriendites - may you someday find friends like mine to help you appreciate the true value of a good girlfriend.
Over the years I've built and maintained solid relationships with some great gals- all of whom are either pretty or talented or successful or engaged, or even worst - all of the above. Obviously, it behooves me to surround myself with such positive women. Birds of a feather flock together, right? The problem is, more often than not I feel like a pigeon flocking with peacocks. Turns out, the awesomeness that initially attracts me to these ladies inevitably starts tugging at my hate strings. Could it be that I am the girlfriend responsible for the platonic pal pandemic I so despise?
Don't get me wrong. I am a damn good friend. When my obnoxiously overpaid homegirl, Penny, overdrafted her checking account, I didn't think twice about wiring thirty bucks, which I desperately needed for my two week lunch supply of Hot Pockets, to get her out of the red. Yeah, I furtively texted, "Penny gotta do better" to another mutual friend when commenting on her reckless spending habits. But did that really outweigh my display of generosity?
When Sandra's boyfriend of five years broke off their engagement, I shared her misery and weight gain by indulging in a three day cheeseburger and whiskey binge with her. Does it matter that while she was spewing tears and tales of a love lost I was doing mental cartwheels because I was tired of trolling the bars for men solo?
I was the first girlfriend on the scene when Lisette gave birth to her baby boy. On top of that, my thirty year old, possibly-barren-self has never missed a Yo Gabba Gabba birthday party since. Big deal if I occasionally joke that the kid looks like the Black Benjamin Button.
I dutifully play my BFF position by smiling, clapping and break dancing for my friends' success- and 89 percent of the time I am sincere. However, I fear that one day, through some strange telepathic or text-reading incident, my girls will discover me secretly gloating at their mishaps and drop me faster than the U.S. fell from from the World Cup (OH SNAP). That situation would not be ideal for me since I have no boyfriend and have never met a guy who could fill my girls' shoes- not even Aisha's size eleven boats. There I go again. But c'mon, she's super creative and Naomi Campbell's doppleganger, so her big feet are much deserved.
My subconscious hating on my friends is a direct reflection of my own shortcomings. There are moments when I feel like a fat guy dating a supermodel anxiously wondering how and why I'm in this relationship, and when it's going to end. "They like me?!" They really like me?!" Despite my sometimes not so friendly displays of friendship, I really like them too, and am truly grateful for having these phenomenal women in my life. To all of the Anti- Girlfriendites - may you someday find friends like mine to help you appreciate the true value of a good girlfriend.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Wise Old Fool
"Heeeeeey Beeeeeee," buzzed Nancy, my twenty-something year old cohort, as she bustled into my office holding her hands behind her back like a perp from Cops. "Guess what I got?!"
Not in the mood for surprises or fortuitous news for anyone other than myself, I cheerily quipped, "Herpes!"
Nancy, humorless and/or deaf, proceeded to swing the sleek, black, Marc Jacobs shopping bag that was hiding behind her rotund derriere (which I hope morphs into a sack of ricotta once she hits thirty) and gently placed it on top of my inbox. The cheesy grin on her face begged me to guess its contents, and after seeing the bag, I was somewhat curious. But, I wouldn't dare give her a smidgen of satisfaction; so I responded with a disinterested shrug.
Nancy, still oblivious to my nonchalance or the mountain of unpaid invoices in front of me, proceeded with her intrusion upon my workday and reached into the bag to showoff whatever was in there to taunt me. She then pulled out a slinky, black romper by the straps and dangled it in front of me like it was some kind of invisible, couture marionette. No longer able to play it cool, I immediately reached for the silk garment but my thirty year old pounce was no match for Nancy's agile reflexes as she quickly snatched the item away from my desperate grasp.
"I just wanna seeeee," I pleaded.
"You see with your eyes- not your hands," she fired back. I was momentarily taken aback- not by her sass, but by that fifth grade line she'd dug up. Touche'.
I explained to her that I just wanted to see if it was really Marc Jacobs to which she took supreme offense.
"Ugh, why wouldn't it be?" Nancy snapped while pointing to the newest addition to my inbox. "You see the bag," she continued as if making a valid point.
Big effing deal, I carry my frozen Lean Cuisines to work every day in a Dean and Deluca tote.
In all honesty I did not doubt the authenticity of Nancy's outfit. She wouldn't touch a knockoff with a ten foot Visa. Forever 21's poly-acrylic blends are like Kryptonite to her. I just wanted to feel and hold the designer darling I'd been mentally masturbating to ever since Shopbop.com listed it as the "Must Have Item" of the summer. I thought back to that very same email blast and remembered the reason I didn't have the "must have" was because I didn't have $268 to splurge on what was basically a grown-up onesie.
While Nancy was in the midst of telling me the sordid details about how she came upon the romper, how great it looked when she tried it on, and where she plans to wear her piece de resistance, the Hate was busy stewing up ways for me to drop a big, fat, smelly deuce on her gloat-fest. The best I could come up with (aside from violently screaming, "I hate you, you spoiled brat," while taking a pair of scissors to the romper) was to try to make her feel like a selfish idiot by chastising her for squandering money on a material item designed by a cokehead given the current economic climate, and the poor naked Haitian children who are in dire need of rompers.
I bombarded Nancy with so much pseudo-moralistic, goody-goody, psychobabble that even Sarah Palin would consider me a formidable running mate. When I was done with my diatribe, Nancy felt bad enough to run out of my office with her head hung low, but not exactly sorry enough to return the jumper, or give it to someone more deserving.
After Nancy fled the scene I reflected on why I resorted to such tactics to make her feel bad. Trust, if I owned that jumper, EVERYBODY would know because I'd wear it every Thursday or Friday (my cute days), and find excuses to prance back and forth to the copier just to show it off. Nancy is single, hard working and pretty fiscally responsible, so she should feel entitled to splurge on the occasional frock. Meanwhile, the only reason I can't afford such luxuries is because I'm drowning in a sea of debt with merely one pair of Gucci pumps and a failing liver to show for it. I had a Marc Jacobs skirt once, but in my careless haste to buy it, I got the wrong size and ended up passing it on to a friend in need...of fashion. Poor, little, rich Nancy shouldn't be scolded by an old hater just because she's getting it right in her twenties.
To add insult to my already injured ego, I actually found a short, black romper this past weekend at a chain store in Jersey. It was on sale for a paltry $24.99. And instead of commending myself on my thrifty threads, I'm dreading the fateful summer day when Nancy, in her fine silk, and I, in a flammable, cotton-poly-rayon blend, will inevitably cross paths on our way to the copier.
Not in the mood for surprises or fortuitous news for anyone other than myself, I cheerily quipped, "Herpes!"
Nancy, humorless and/or deaf, proceeded to swing the sleek, black, Marc Jacobs shopping bag that was hiding behind her rotund derriere (which I hope morphs into a sack of ricotta once she hits thirty) and gently placed it on top of my inbox. The cheesy grin on her face begged me to guess its contents, and after seeing the bag, I was somewhat curious. But, I wouldn't dare give her a smidgen of satisfaction; so I responded with a disinterested shrug.
Nancy, still oblivious to my nonchalance or the mountain of unpaid invoices in front of me, proceeded with her intrusion upon my workday and reached into the bag to showoff whatever was in there to taunt me. She then pulled out a slinky, black romper by the straps and dangled it in front of me like it was some kind of invisible, couture marionette. No longer able to play it cool, I immediately reached for the silk garment but my thirty year old pounce was no match for Nancy's agile reflexes as she quickly snatched the item away from my desperate grasp.
"I just wanna seeeee," I pleaded.
"You see with your eyes- not your hands," she fired back. I was momentarily taken aback- not by her sass, but by that fifth grade line she'd dug up. Touche'.
I explained to her that I just wanted to see if it was really Marc Jacobs to which she took supreme offense.
"Ugh, why wouldn't it be?" Nancy snapped while pointing to the newest addition to my inbox. "You see the bag," she continued as if making a valid point.
Big effing deal, I carry my frozen Lean Cuisines to work every day in a Dean and Deluca tote.
In all honesty I did not doubt the authenticity of Nancy's outfit. She wouldn't touch a knockoff with a ten foot Visa. Forever 21's poly-acrylic blends are like Kryptonite to her. I just wanted to feel and hold the designer darling I'd been mentally masturbating to ever since Shopbop.com listed it as the "Must Have Item" of the summer. I thought back to that very same email blast and remembered the reason I didn't have the "must have" was because I didn't have $268 to splurge on what was basically a grown-up onesie.
While Nancy was in the midst of telling me the sordid details about how she came upon the romper, how great it looked when she tried it on, and where she plans to wear her piece de resistance, the Hate was busy stewing up ways for me to drop a big, fat, smelly deuce on her gloat-fest. The best I could come up with (aside from violently screaming, "I hate you, you spoiled brat," while taking a pair of scissors to the romper) was to try to make her feel like a selfish idiot by chastising her for squandering money on a material item designed by a cokehead given the current economic climate, and the poor naked Haitian children who are in dire need of rompers.
I bombarded Nancy with so much pseudo-moralistic, goody-goody, psychobabble that even Sarah Palin would consider me a formidable running mate. When I was done with my diatribe, Nancy felt bad enough to run out of my office with her head hung low, but not exactly sorry enough to return the jumper, or give it to someone more deserving.
After Nancy fled the scene I reflected on why I resorted to such tactics to make her feel bad. Trust, if I owned that jumper, EVERYBODY would know because I'd wear it every Thursday or Friday (my cute days), and find excuses to prance back and forth to the copier just to show it off. Nancy is single, hard working and pretty fiscally responsible, so she should feel entitled to splurge on the occasional frock. Meanwhile, the only reason I can't afford such luxuries is because I'm drowning in a sea of debt with merely one pair of Gucci pumps and a failing liver to show for it. I had a Marc Jacobs skirt once, but in my careless haste to buy it, I got the wrong size and ended up passing it on to a friend in need...of fashion. Poor, little, rich Nancy shouldn't be scolded by an old hater just because she's getting it right in her twenties.
To add insult to my already injured ego, I actually found a short, black romper this past weekend at a chain store in Jersey. It was on sale for a paltry $24.99. And instead of commending myself on my thrifty threads, I'm dreading the fateful summer day when Nancy, in her fine silk, and I, in a flammable, cotton-poly-rayon blend, will inevitably cross paths on our way to the copier.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Checks and Balances
I came down with another case of the "Hates" this past weekend at a friend's birthday party. Being a native New Yorker, who happens to work in an industry where attractiveness surpasses Godliness, I've grown accustomed to seeing unfair amounts of good-looking people congregating in one spot. Usually, I can manage my inherent hate towards the "beautiful" people by mercilessly picking them apart in my head. For example, about half of the good looking people only appear to be because they're wearing nice clothes, hair or makeup. I just imagine them bald and butt naked- and voila- they're usually reduced to average looking or below. If someone is genuinely good looking without excessive accoutrements, I can usually find some flaw like acne or gnarly teeth that will knock their rating down to about a six or seven, where I happen to dwell with my pretty face and flat booty. It's not nice for me to think this way, but I feel like if there's any truth to the notion of balance in the universe, then there has to be a system of checks and balances to keep beautiful people's egos from running amuck.
This system worked pretty well for me until I arrived at dude's party. I strutted in feeling like an eight in my new purple suede, pumps until I sat down and spotted a cluster of tall, fashionably dressed mannequins hoisted up by the bar. It wasn't until one of them seductively raked her hands through her lush, black mane that I realized they were fellow party-goers and not part of the decor. For a moment, I was completely stunned by them just like the ranks of wide-eyed men who were also transfixed by these fabulous creatures, except I didn't have steam shooting out of my ears, my tongue was still firmly in my mouth and there was no cartoon bubble with the words, "hubba hubba" hovering over me. I quickly snapped out of my trance. It would be a challenge, but I was sure I could break them down and check their gravity-defying asses. These girls didn't have any obvious flaws, and the dim lighting made it all the more difficult for me to notice any minor imperfections, so I had to move in closer for the kill. I reluctantly made my way over to the bar, which was not a good move for me because I'd inevitably look like a nappy, hunchback troll next to these Barbies. But I knew there had to be something wrong with them- and it was my duty to spot it and shut them down (in my head).
Awesome shoes were stuffed with great gams that were topped with rotund behinds that were swathed in chic spandex dresses which displayed tasteful amounts of superb cleavage attached to elongated necks and BAM- I spied dark under eye circles on one of the faces. But it sort of complimented her immaculate smokey eye make up, so it didn't count. My search continued and I noticed that the Breck hair was actually a weave, but that wasn't a good enough strike because it was a pretty decent one and who doesn't have fake hair? If I were to point out these flaws out to anybody else, they'd just reply with a, "So what, hater!" Or worse, they'd call attention to my flaws and I'd dwindle into a puddle of tears in purple suede shoes. I could care less if these hot chicks were dumb or uneducated because that stuff is totally overrated and worthless in a party setting.
I gave up and silently cursed the universe for creating girls like that and placing them in my presence. Why would you do that, Universe?! Just to piss all over my self-esteem? I thought I was so cute when I left my apartment and I was now immediately reduced to feeling like I did when I was eleven years old and my gym teacher, Mr. Malove, announced that I weighed a whopping 185 pounds within earshot of my adolescent crush Edwin Graham. I ordered a drink to calm myself and keep a serious hate attack from ensuing. As I sipped my wine, I fantasized about the girls possibly having halitosis or better yet- crotch rot. Nothing that good on the outside could be any good on the inside. But I'd never know. I tried to push them out of my mind for the remainder of the party but they caused a scene every time they sauntered by, parting the sea of partygoers like Moses' staff with hips and ass. Later in the evening I found myself chatting with a male friend who brazenly tried his luck with one of ladies by inquiring about her post-party plans. She casually replied that she was headed to hang out at a rather swanky hotel and somehow alluded that it was too rich for his blood. Defeated, my friend turned back to me and sulked, "Who hangs out at a hotel at 2 A.M.?" I grinned and said a silent, "Thank you," to the Universe for making them Whores.
This system worked pretty well for me until I arrived at dude's party. I strutted in feeling like an eight in my new purple suede, pumps until I sat down and spotted a cluster of tall, fashionably dressed mannequins hoisted up by the bar. It wasn't until one of them seductively raked her hands through her lush, black mane that I realized they were fellow party-goers and not part of the decor. For a moment, I was completely stunned by them just like the ranks of wide-eyed men who were also transfixed by these fabulous creatures, except I didn't have steam shooting out of my ears, my tongue was still firmly in my mouth and there was no cartoon bubble with the words, "hubba hubba" hovering over me. I quickly snapped out of my trance. It would be a challenge, but I was sure I could break them down and check their gravity-defying asses. These girls didn't have any obvious flaws, and the dim lighting made it all the more difficult for me to notice any minor imperfections, so I had to move in closer for the kill. I reluctantly made my way over to the bar, which was not a good move for me because I'd inevitably look like a nappy, hunchback troll next to these Barbies. But I knew there had to be something wrong with them- and it was my duty to spot it and shut them down (in my head).
Awesome shoes were stuffed with great gams that were topped with rotund behinds that were swathed in chic spandex dresses which displayed tasteful amounts of superb cleavage attached to elongated necks and BAM- I spied dark under eye circles on one of the faces. But it sort of complimented her immaculate smokey eye make up, so it didn't count. My search continued and I noticed that the Breck hair was actually a weave, but that wasn't a good enough strike because it was a pretty decent one and who doesn't have fake hair? If I were to point out these flaws out to anybody else, they'd just reply with a, "So what, hater!" Or worse, they'd call attention to my flaws and I'd dwindle into a puddle of tears in purple suede shoes. I could care less if these hot chicks were dumb or uneducated because that stuff is totally overrated and worthless in a party setting.
I gave up and silently cursed the universe for creating girls like that and placing them in my presence. Why would you do that, Universe?! Just to piss all over my self-esteem? I thought I was so cute when I left my apartment and I was now immediately reduced to feeling like I did when I was eleven years old and my gym teacher, Mr. Malove, announced that I weighed a whopping 185 pounds within earshot of my adolescent crush Edwin Graham. I ordered a drink to calm myself and keep a serious hate attack from ensuing. As I sipped my wine, I fantasized about the girls possibly having halitosis or better yet- crotch rot. Nothing that good on the outside could be any good on the inside. But I'd never know. I tried to push them out of my mind for the remainder of the party but they caused a scene every time they sauntered by, parting the sea of partygoers like Moses' staff with hips and ass. Later in the evening I found myself chatting with a male friend who brazenly tried his luck with one of ladies by inquiring about her post-party plans. She casually replied that she was headed to hang out at a rather swanky hotel and somehow alluded that it was too rich for his blood. Defeated, my friend turned back to me and sulked, "Who hangs out at a hotel at 2 A.M.?" I grinned and said a silent, "Thank you," to the Universe for making them Whores.
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