I know a lot of people have their opinion on celebrity and what it means. How important is it?
God, i wish I could be them.
No, actually you probably don't.
I was brought up on the movies. Barbara Stanwyck, Clark Gable, Judy Garland, Cyd Charisse, Joan Fontaine, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Mickey Rooney, John Wayne, Rock Hudson, Doris Day, Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn...and then as I got older a new cadre of celebs filled my life, Jane Fonda, Sally Field, Robert Redford, Julie Andrews (who, to my amazement and grand joy, become a quasi bud later on in my life), Elizabeth Taylor, Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis, Janet Leigh (Psycho, the best), Lee Remick, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacClain, Natalie Wood...
The Oscar telecast was a ritual. Homemade french fries, grease drained on ripped-open paper bags, lots of salt, and lots of star gazing. My mother had been a National Enquirer, Photoplay, and Star reader from the very beginning so I got the real scoop on all the Hollywood movie stars as they paraded up to get their award or tried to hide their disappointment as the camera caught them not getting their award.
"Elizabeth Taylor is such a whore."
"Rock Hudson is a he-she you know."
"They say Barbara Stanwyck sleeps with both men and women." Did that make her a she/he/she?
Always observing that celebrity. Always envious of it in a way. Wishing for it. Who knew that I would enjoy my own form of celebrity back in the 80's and then more recently, when at Target.
I don't know how many remember a little magazine show called PM Magazine..it started right at the time as Entertainment Tonight. PM was more a regional show, each major market had its own PM Magazine and ET was National. As you can see, by the one that survived, which was the better strategy.
Nonetheless, from 1980 to 1984, I was part of a two man team called The Movie Goers, and we would review movies once a week. One movie, once a week. Because both my partner and I were deeply embedded in improvisational theater at the time, we would also produce a themed segment around the movie...a little, four minute sketch.
During the course of the show we were exposed to celebrity in a couple of different ways, our own and being in the company of others.
We had done the show for a few months, when I began noticing changed behavior in those around me. Maggie was a baby then, and we'd be out eating or shopping, whatever, and I would notice people staring, and whispering, and yes, pointing. Jan and I would ask each other, 'Do you think they recognize me from t.v.?" After about six months on the show, past the point when I wasn't asking any longer if they recognized me, people got a bit bolder. Total strangers. "Aren't you a movie goer?" Yes, I am." "You guys are great." "Hey , thanks." "Is this your little girl, hey honey, look it that..a little mini-movie goer. Isn't she adorable? Can I hold her?"
No fucking way. Of course, I didn't say that, but we would find ourselves more then once, whisking Maggie away before some rheumy stranger could grab her up, just because he or she felt they had the right to because they thought they knew me because they had seen me on t.v.
This gave me a pretty good base for appropriate behavior for when I found myself on the other side of the fence and dealing with real celebrity in my role at Target or when interviewing various stars for the movies we critiqued on PM.
After a couple years on PM, these perfect strangers practically became family. They were entitled to know everything about you, they were perfectly rational about what their perceptions were of you, and felt no compunction in interrupting a dinner, rolling down a car window ("HEY! HEY MOVIE-GOER? YEAH, ME! ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW! YEAH, HEY ARE YOU ONE OF THE MOVIE-GOERS?"), or swooping down on one of your kids like a long-lost Aunt or Uncle with, "She's adorable. Wonder if she'll take after her movie-goer daddy? Do you have any more. How often do you and your wife have sex?"
Not really, but I know it was the next question.
Keep in mind, a regional show, couple hundred thousand viewers, big fish in a very small pond. At the time, I couldn't imagine if that were reversed.
Once in awhile a movie review would take us to New York or L.A. for a press junket, where we got to experience the other side of the coin.
The first movie we pressed for was a little Tom Hanks ditty called Splash. Brian Grazier produced, Little Opie directed (Ron Howard). They would string each of the reporters into a hotel suite, each being occupied by one of the stars. In the case of Tom Hanks he was with Ron Howard (he was just coming off of Bosom Buddies and was a newbie) Daryl Hannah was with Brian Grazier (I think she might have been fucking him...just my opinion), and John Candy was, well, with himself. As we went into Hanks room you could see the deer in the headlights look and the deepest need to be liked (you like me, you really, really like me), and I resolved right then to not make myself too familiar, or to pretend like we were long lost buddies or that his first born should be mine.
It actually was a very civil conversation, short but civil. I talked more about Bosom Buddies, which Jan and I loved, which I shared with him. He seemed to relax, especially when I brought up the fact that he's now becoming 'known' and how had that affected his personal life, blah, blah, blah. He was very honest, forthright, and human. Ron Howard, the same. He said very little, but here are these two guys, just prior to developing a personal world-wide platform of recognition and status, and they just wanted to let us little nobodies know how scary it was.
John Candy was hysterical. Off the grid funny and couldn't have given a shit about us.
Moving on to Target, again, both sides of the coin, one side, me in front of the camera, spewing out key messages to Matt, Katie, Mayor Bloomberg, the New York Times or Wall Street Journal, or sidling up with Pink and Sela Ward (huge crush) to promote a concert and pop up store supporting Breast Cancer Awareness month, or George Clooney, helping us to promote the LA Film Festival (now FIND...Film Independent blah blah) with a Target Award Show for outstanding Independent Film Maker. Yep, I said George Clooney. It's amazing how one can rationalize when one needs to. If you're giving out an award for outstanding work in independent film and George Clooney is available, then George Clooney becomes the best fucking independent filmmaker in the world. Hey, the year after we gave it to Charleze Theron. Go figure.
But the Celebrity Wet Dream of all celebrity wet dreams has to be the Night Before event. It takes place the night before the Academy Awards, which means that just about every star in the world is in Beverly Hills that night. Dreamworks and Katzenberg and Variety put it on and its for the Television and Motion Picture Fund. There are very few sponsors and no press is allowed (except Variety of course). The first year a colleague and I went really by accident. We had gotten the tickets through our media agency and even they weren't going to go with us but ended up being there, which was a good thing, because we ended up being a sponsor through my tenure at Target, just because of our experience that first night.
Because there is no press, it would be harder to name a celebrity who wasn't there, then the one's who were. We sat at the bar and one by one they'd walk by: Steven Speilberg, Clint Eastwood, Jamie Foxx, Oprah Winfrey, Sally Field, Tom Hanks (20 years after Splash and there I am with TH...once we sponsored the event and I met him more personally, I recalled the press junket for Splash. We had a laugh or two over that), Jack Black, Jude Law, Goldie Hawn, Alec Baldwin, Will Smith, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston (in fact, all the Friends), the list, as they say, went on and on.
And we weren't just gawkers either. Like I said, very few sponsors, but the ones that were there gave shit away and whether you were Faye Dunaway or Harvey Weinstein, we all stood in line and waited for our free stuff. Nike gave out free shoes, you picked the color, the style and gave them your size and you were given your shoes at the end of the night. The stars went crazy for those shoes.
As we became sponsors and had our own cabana in which to shill the latest Target Designer and their goods, it became a contest as to whose stuff was the best and whose line was the longest, with Hollywood's biggest names. We usually won. Isaac Mizrahi pajama's, six different styles to choose from, men and women's. Thomas O'Brien. Cocktail glasses and various party favors. All stuffed into a big old, custom-designed bag to carry it all home.
With Target its all about branding, so the cooler the branded bag and the graft that went in it, the bigger mentions in variety and ancillary press we got out of it, as well as being cemented all the more in the hearts and minds of the stars. Target's version of reputation management by a network of top-line celebrity influencers.
Also, as sponsors, we were able to enjoy a pre-party cocktail party hosted by the committee heads where we rubbed shoulders with the likes of Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Will Smith, Jimmy Smits, Tom Hanks, Rita Wilson...again, the list goes on and on. The stars would circulate the room, driven by their publicists to where each sponsor was pre-stationed with it's celeb's of CEO's and top executives (or whomever could connive an invitation within the corporation), so pictures could be taken. Celebrity wet dream with a happy ending!
The first time Janet, my wife, came to the event, she more or less ended up in the periphery of the photo taking. She was with the 'working' guy, so we would have our pictures taken later, or not at all, since our relationship with the celebs was more organic and friendly (we weren't considered the suits) and we had to maneuver the publicists, and eventually, the stars to our execs, so, in essence the Target worker bees and the celebs were both 'working' the room.
However, the piece de resistance, was watching and listening as I saw Brad Pitt approaching Jan, who, trying to be invisible, as is her want, hovered near the patio doors, slamming liquor.
He walked up to her, reached out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Brad Pitt." She hesitated and said, "I know who you are." Then she reached out her hand, took his and said, "Hi, I'm Jan Remington." and without a pause he said, "And now I know who you are."
Think that's what celebrity really boils down to, no matter which side of the coin you're on and no matter what kind of celebrity you own, (keep in mind, to your five year old, you're the biggest celebrity in the room) and that's to know who each other is.
Just knowing each other's name sometime qualifies both participants to enjoy some moment of celebrity.
But don't stop there. That's how we really become stars.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Misery likes company
I was in New York all Thanksgiving Week. A very busy week for Thanks and Giving, the holiday campaign for St.Jude Children's Research Hospital. Jan was able to come in the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. We were having Thanksgiving lunch with the patients and their families and then Thanksgiving with Maggie and Dennis and Jake and Dennis's family.
Just a little context for a moment of epiphany, delivered by a crazy person no less.
Day after Thanksgiving. Friday. Jan and I sleep in, get our shit together and head out of the apartment around 11:00 a.m. for late breakfast.
We walk up the stairs to the sidewalk, make a left to head to Montague Street, and this dread-locked black dude, little wild in the eye, little wacko in his whole vibe, walks towards us and I immediately put on my "I belong here. You are not going to enter my world" look.
I can already hear him muttering and I know he's talking at us. Now Jan is not aware of this at all. It's almost like this dude has got some kind of special signal that's just playing in my head. For my ears only.
And I really can't hear or understand what he's saying, but as he rushes by us I can pick out words like 'you misearable...' 'dontchya...' 'what the fuck'. But before I can even register whether I should be offended or afraid or..anything, he's gone and I convince myself it was all in my head, he wasn't talking to or at me, but was merely a typical New York street dude with a lot to say to no one in particular.
Cut to:
Next day, Saturday, night really..feeling kind of lousy, so I ditch out of maggie's before anyone else so I can get home get some sleep since I have to be up early. I'm walking down Henry Street towards the apartment and this same guy is walking down a side street toward me. Now I don't really recognize the man, but as he get close to me he says, to me, and this time there's no mistaking he's talking to me, "Still as miserable as ever, huh?" Then he walks by on down the street.
I kinda laugh, more like choke, and exclaim something and then realize he wasn't waiting for an answer. He was just making an observation. Apparently, the second one in two days.
I think back to the earlier encounter. He was talking to me. And he did seem angry. Angry, because I was being perceived as being 'miserable'.
And I had to think, what does my face say to any Joe blow on the street? That I'm miserable? That I'm unhappy? Not that I should walk around with a silly, half ass grin on my puss, but for a slightly whacko stranger to observe enough within the span of seconds, at least enough to make a very verbal judgement about me, did give me pause.
Oh sure, there was part of me that wanted to run after the guy and say, 'Fuck you man. Who the fuck do you think you are to call me miserable? You don't look like you live the life of a glass half full kind of existence yourself, man."
But then I realized maybe he was right. I wasn't particularly sad or miserable or malcontent on either of the two occassions we ran into each other, but there must have been something on my face that elicited the same response, thirty-six hours apart?
Or maybe he was just crazy. Either way I find myself now, very randomly, checking myself out. What's my face doing? Am I smiling? Am I frowning? Are my shoulders tense? Am I scowling?
The last time I did this little internal exercise that manifested itself by my face and body language acting out the various emotions on my face and body, I was in the subway. And then it struck me. I had become one of those street dudes. Just for that moment. All it would take is for me to ask the person sitting next to me, "Am I smiling? Do I look happy?" for me to be zero degree's of separation from my dread-locked brother on Henry Street.
Keep smiling!
Just a little context for a moment of epiphany, delivered by a crazy person no less.
Day after Thanksgiving. Friday. Jan and I sleep in, get our shit together and head out of the apartment around 11:00 a.m. for late breakfast.
We walk up the stairs to the sidewalk, make a left to head to Montague Street, and this dread-locked black dude, little wild in the eye, little wacko in his whole vibe, walks towards us and I immediately put on my "I belong here. You are not going to enter my world" look.
I can already hear him muttering and I know he's talking at us. Now Jan is not aware of this at all. It's almost like this dude has got some kind of special signal that's just playing in my head. For my ears only.
And I really can't hear or understand what he's saying, but as he rushes by us I can pick out words like 'you misearable...' 'dontchya...' 'what the fuck'. But before I can even register whether I should be offended or afraid or..anything, he's gone and I convince myself it was all in my head, he wasn't talking to or at me, but was merely a typical New York street dude with a lot to say to no one in particular.
Cut to:
Next day, Saturday, night really..feeling kind of lousy, so I ditch out of maggie's before anyone else so I can get home get some sleep since I have to be up early. I'm walking down Henry Street towards the apartment and this same guy is walking down a side street toward me. Now I don't really recognize the man, but as he get close to me he says, to me, and this time there's no mistaking he's talking to me, "Still as miserable as ever, huh?" Then he walks by on down the street.
I kinda laugh, more like choke, and exclaim something and then realize he wasn't waiting for an answer. He was just making an observation. Apparently, the second one in two days.
I think back to the earlier encounter. He was talking to me. And he did seem angry. Angry, because I was being perceived as being 'miserable'.
And I had to think, what does my face say to any Joe blow on the street? That I'm miserable? That I'm unhappy? Not that I should walk around with a silly, half ass grin on my puss, but for a slightly whacko stranger to observe enough within the span of seconds, at least enough to make a very verbal judgement about me, did give me pause.
Oh sure, there was part of me that wanted to run after the guy and say, 'Fuck you man. Who the fuck do you think you are to call me miserable? You don't look like you live the life of a glass half full kind of existence yourself, man."
But then I realized maybe he was right. I wasn't particularly sad or miserable or malcontent on either of the two occassions we ran into each other, but there must have been something on my face that elicited the same response, thirty-six hours apart?
Or maybe he was just crazy. Either way I find myself now, very randomly, checking myself out. What's my face doing? Am I smiling? Am I frowning? Are my shoulders tense? Am I scowling?
The last time I did this little internal exercise that manifested itself by my face and body language acting out the various emotions on my face and body, I was in the subway. And then it struck me. I had become one of those street dudes. Just for that moment. All it would take is for me to ask the person sitting next to me, "Am I smiling? Do I look happy?" for me to be zero degree's of separation from my dread-locked brother on Henry Street.
Keep smiling!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Atlantic Terminal Brooklyn Target -part 2
It's the same culture. Red and Khaki. It's the same store. Atlantic Terminal. Brooklyn. Different story, same week-end. It's still Christmas but this time it's my daughter Maggie who had the the story to tell.
This one's all about the thin line between real and fake. Between real silver that costs an arm and a leg, and fake silver that cost Target prices, practically nothing. It's really about the Target brand, Expect More. Pay Less. They even do a sketch about it on SNL ( a really bad one), but it does capture the mania, the hysteria of the Brooklyn store. They don't expect so much there, they just want to pay less and they want to make as much noise about it as possible.
Lines!
Fast.Fun.Friendly. It has a few dictates. One, the Rule of Two.
If there are ever any more then two people in line, they're supposed to open a new line so that the guest doesn't have to waste their time by waiting in line. I picture the Brooklyn Target store and I just giggle at the thought.
Lines.
I use the term very, very loosely. I have this image, that if everyone, seething and screaming and struggling to find a line at the Brooklyn store weren't wearing clothes, then we'd be straight out of a scene of Caligula. But because we are clothed and not having sex, instead of being in a movie we're just in the cluster fuck of all cluster fucks, waiting in line at the Brooklyn Target store at Christmas time yet.
Those who have read the previous blog on 'Jennifer' now will know why everyone was so desperate to try and pay for their goods at the Electronics counter, that is, until they met Jennifer.
And what's so funny, if it weren't so pathetic is the Red and khaki army think they're helping by trying to organize everyone.
One day I saw them corralling guests like cattle in a pen, right between the Isaac racks and the shopping cart escalator. Really, we were herded and then one by one, depending on our own personal brand and by brand I mean race, (white people were definitely not shown preference, and hey, isn't it about time?) we were allowed to leave the pen and go stand in line at one of the registers.
And then I realized what they were doing, as I finally escaped the pen and queued up behind a Brooklyn guest who truly had the biggest ass I've ever seen. They were abiding by the rule of two. Each line, had its requisite two and a half guests. However, cue mooing, I glanced over my shoulder and saw this invisible corral holding back throngs of guests, wild-eyed, spitting and spewing to be released to a line, any line, controlled by a very smug Red and Khaki army. Rule of two, Brooklyn style.
But that's not the story. This story is Maggie's. She's was purchasing some plastic silverware for a party or the like. Target has this pretty cool plastic silverware (I'm sure all the Marts have it, but we don't, can't, won't shop at those places. That's bad!)
She didn't have the corral experience but she had just come down the escalator. Some Target stores have two floors and those stores have an escalator with a runway next to them for your shopping cart. A shopping cart escalator. And people in Brooklyn think this is an amusement ride. Like the man who's cart was so full that as he rode up the escalator next to his loot he had to practically lay over the cart full of goods just so they wouldn't fall back and crush everyone. And then we have both been witness to the cart escalator stopping dead.
Picture it. Betty Bag a Donuts. Brooklyn style. Fifteen hundred children, fourteen hundred and ninty two screaming, the rest just drooling snot from some orafice. And...the escalator stops. Not the people escalator. The cart escalator. The woman with the kids, keeps riding up while her cart load stays in stasis half way between the first and second floor. They get to the top, everyone does, and they huddle at the exit point of where the carts are supposed to be delivered to them, and they stare like pod-people. No one does anything.
The man who was draped over his cart-full is slowly ripped away from his goods as he keeps going and the cart does not. A whole layer goes skidding to the frozen track. He keeps going. Becomes a pod person at the top of the escalator. This mini-throng of guests are soon joined by Red Shirts and Khaki pants and skirts. To help? Nope. Just to stand there with lugubrious expressions of dismay. We've abandoned more carts on that escalator, Maggie and me. We've never joined the pod people. I have wanted to slap the face of the of the Red and Khaki's and scream, "For Gods Sakes! Do something. You're a Target team member for the Christ Sake!"
Anyway, back to the faux silver plastic wear. Maggie takes her fake prize to the checkout counter and her cashier, Lakeesha, is singing. I don't mean just humming and waiting for the next guest to step up. I mean singing, out loud and very proud of herself. She's singing Alicia Key's, "No One."
She eyes Maggie. "I just want you close. Where you can stay forever. You and me together through the days and nights." Maggie looks around. Is she coming on to me? And then realizes, nope, she's not singing to anyone in particular but is very aware that everyone can hear her.
" I don't worry cause everything's gonna be alright. NO ONE! NO OOOOOONE. Can get in the way of what I'm feeling." Really loud now. " NO ONE. NO ONE. CAN GET IN THE WAY I FEEL FOR YOU...FOR YOUUUUUUU."
As Maggie gets there, Lakeesha points somewhere behind Maggie.
"You see my baby's daddee?" Maggie looks behind her. There is a guy at the next check out, or is it the guy corraling carts? "Thas my baby's dadeeee. He's so cute!" Neither of the two Maggie spotted were even close to cute, but Baby Mama sure did think one of em was.
Then Lakeesha sees the plastic silverware made to look like real silver. She looks at Maggie in happy surprise. "Look at these! Are these...shit..these aren't real! They're plastic...been MADE to look real!"
Maggie nods, smiling. Sweet Jesus!
Lakeesha continues in wonderment and speed rapping, "I'm gonna git my momma these for Christmas! She'll be like, 'baby, you gots me real silverware!' and I'll be like, 'no momma, I gots you plastic silverware thats made to look real."
She turns to the cashier on the other side of potential Baby Daddy.
"Sure as shit looks real donit? Yep, that's whats I'm gonna do. Get my momma some real fake silverware for Christmas." Then to anyone who would listen. "These made to look real." Then to Maggie. "Sure's hope you din't take the last ones."
NOWHERE. NOWHERE. NOWHERE. LIKE THE ATLANTIC TERMINAL BROOKLYN STORE. (sung to the tune of No One)
This one's all about the thin line between real and fake. Between real silver that costs an arm and a leg, and fake silver that cost Target prices, practically nothing. It's really about the Target brand, Expect More. Pay Less. They even do a sketch about it on SNL ( a really bad one), but it does capture the mania, the hysteria of the Brooklyn store. They don't expect so much there, they just want to pay less and they want to make as much noise about it as possible.
Lines!
Fast.Fun.Friendly. It has a few dictates. One, the Rule of Two.
If there are ever any more then two people in line, they're supposed to open a new line so that the guest doesn't have to waste their time by waiting in line. I picture the Brooklyn Target store and I just giggle at the thought.
Lines.
I use the term very, very loosely. I have this image, that if everyone, seething and screaming and struggling to find a line at the Brooklyn store weren't wearing clothes, then we'd be straight out of a scene of Caligula. But because we are clothed and not having sex, instead of being in a movie we're just in the cluster fuck of all cluster fucks, waiting in line at the Brooklyn Target store at Christmas time yet.
Those who have read the previous blog on 'Jennifer' now will know why everyone was so desperate to try and pay for their goods at the Electronics counter, that is, until they met Jennifer.
And what's so funny, if it weren't so pathetic is the Red and khaki army think they're helping by trying to organize everyone.
One day I saw them corralling guests like cattle in a pen, right between the Isaac racks and the shopping cart escalator. Really, we were herded and then one by one, depending on our own personal brand and by brand I mean race, (white people were definitely not shown preference, and hey, isn't it about time?) we were allowed to leave the pen and go stand in line at one of the registers.
And then I realized what they were doing, as I finally escaped the pen and queued up behind a Brooklyn guest who truly had the biggest ass I've ever seen. They were abiding by the rule of two. Each line, had its requisite two and a half guests. However, cue mooing, I glanced over my shoulder and saw this invisible corral holding back throngs of guests, wild-eyed, spitting and spewing to be released to a line, any line, controlled by a very smug Red and Khaki army. Rule of two, Brooklyn style.
But that's not the story. This story is Maggie's. She's was purchasing some plastic silverware for a party or the like. Target has this pretty cool plastic silverware (I'm sure all the Marts have it, but we don't, can't, won't shop at those places. That's bad!)
She didn't have the corral experience but she had just come down the escalator. Some Target stores have two floors and those stores have an escalator with a runway next to them for your shopping cart. A shopping cart escalator. And people in Brooklyn think this is an amusement ride. Like the man who's cart was so full that as he rode up the escalator next to his loot he had to practically lay over the cart full of goods just so they wouldn't fall back and crush everyone. And then we have both been witness to the cart escalator stopping dead.
Picture it. Betty Bag a Donuts. Brooklyn style. Fifteen hundred children, fourteen hundred and ninty two screaming, the rest just drooling snot from some orafice. And...the escalator stops. Not the people escalator. The cart escalator. The woman with the kids, keeps riding up while her cart load stays in stasis half way between the first and second floor. They get to the top, everyone does, and they huddle at the exit point of where the carts are supposed to be delivered to them, and they stare like pod-people. No one does anything.
The man who was draped over his cart-full is slowly ripped away from his goods as he keeps going and the cart does not. A whole layer goes skidding to the frozen track. He keeps going. Becomes a pod person at the top of the escalator. This mini-throng of guests are soon joined by Red Shirts and Khaki pants and skirts. To help? Nope. Just to stand there with lugubrious expressions of dismay. We've abandoned more carts on that escalator, Maggie and me. We've never joined the pod people. I have wanted to slap the face of the of the Red and Khaki's and scream, "For Gods Sakes! Do something. You're a Target team member for the Christ Sake!"
Anyway, back to the faux silver plastic wear. Maggie takes her fake prize to the checkout counter and her cashier, Lakeesha, is singing. I don't mean just humming and waiting for the next guest to step up. I mean singing, out loud and very proud of herself. She's singing Alicia Key's, "No One."
She eyes Maggie. "I just want you close. Where you can stay forever. You and me together through the days and nights." Maggie looks around. Is she coming on to me? And then realizes, nope, she's not singing to anyone in particular but is very aware that everyone can hear her.
" I don't worry cause everything's gonna be alright. NO ONE! NO OOOOOONE. Can get in the way of what I'm feeling." Really loud now. " NO ONE. NO ONE. CAN GET IN THE WAY I FEEL FOR YOU...FOR YOUUUUUUU."
As Maggie gets there, Lakeesha points somewhere behind Maggie.
"You see my baby's daddee?" Maggie looks behind her. There is a guy at the next check out, or is it the guy corraling carts? "Thas my baby's dadeeee. He's so cute!" Neither of the two Maggie spotted were even close to cute, but Baby Mama sure did think one of em was.
Then Lakeesha sees the plastic silverware made to look like real silver. She looks at Maggie in happy surprise. "Look at these! Are these...shit..these aren't real! They're plastic...been MADE to look real!"
Maggie nods, smiling. Sweet Jesus!
Lakeesha continues in wonderment and speed rapping, "I'm gonna git my momma these for Christmas! She'll be like, 'baby, you gots me real silverware!' and I'll be like, 'no momma, I gots you plastic silverware thats made to look real."
She turns to the cashier on the other side of potential Baby Daddy.
"Sure as shit looks real donit? Yep, that's whats I'm gonna do. Get my momma some real fake silverware for Christmas." Then to anyone who would listen. "These made to look real." Then to Maggie. "Sure's hope you din't take the last ones."
NOWHERE. NOWHERE. NOWHERE. LIKE THE ATLANTIC TERMINAL BROOKLYN STORE. (sung to the tune of No One)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Twelve Things You Don't Know About Men
1. We pee in the shower, usually and often. The drain, however, must be in perfect working order, because, if not, it grosses us out too.
2. We notice good looking guys. Not a gay thing (if you're straight). Just an envy thing.
3. We're obsessed with our hair. Gotta keep it as long as possible. Or shave it.
4. We would like, just once, for someone to buy us flowers on Valentine's Day.
5. Some of us sit down to pee. Ten years ago I thought it was an abomination. Now it just takes a load off. Much cleaner. Time to think.
6. It bothers us that hair starts growing out of every orifice around the age of forty; mostly the ears, on the tip of the nose,the nostrils and the back. Once you start tweezing and pulling and cutting, you're trapped. It's true. It grows back bigger, blacker and more.
7. We are more vain then women.
8. The only reason women think we hold our looks longer (you do don't you?) is because we don't, as a rule, wear make-up. We're always like this, not so much contrast. Not that there's a big contrast when you take your make-up off. Oh, never mind!
9. Size does matter.
10. Men, as a rule, are expert spitters, horkers and gobbers. We can get the most up, aim it the best, and never hit anyone else with our backwash. That is, if you're a real man.
11. 85% of all men cannot piss if they haven't started yet when another guy walks up to the urinal next to them, nor can they if they are the one walking up next to another guy at a urinal. Pee anxiety. The open troughs at stadiums are the worst.
12. We have fantasy's just like you, we just act on them more.
2. We notice good looking guys. Not a gay thing (if you're straight). Just an envy thing.
3. We're obsessed with our hair. Gotta keep it as long as possible. Or shave it.
4. We would like, just once, for someone to buy us flowers on Valentine's Day.
5. Some of us sit down to pee. Ten years ago I thought it was an abomination. Now it just takes a load off. Much cleaner. Time to think.
6. It bothers us that hair starts growing out of every orifice around the age of forty; mostly the ears, on the tip of the nose,the nostrils and the back. Once you start tweezing and pulling and cutting, you're trapped. It's true. It grows back bigger, blacker and more.
7. We are more vain then women.
8. The only reason women think we hold our looks longer (you do don't you?) is because we don't, as a rule, wear make-up. We're always like this, not so much contrast. Not that there's a big contrast when you take your make-up off. Oh, never mind!
9. Size does matter.
10. Men, as a rule, are expert spitters, horkers and gobbers. We can get the most up, aim it the best, and never hit anyone else with our backwash. That is, if you're a real man.
11. 85% of all men cannot piss if they haven't started yet when another guy walks up to the urinal next to them, nor can they if they are the one walking up next to another guy at a urinal. Pee anxiety. The open troughs at stadiums are the worst.
12. We have fantasy's just like you, we just act on them more.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
It's Time to Strap One On
I said not to long ago that we shouldn't be dismissive, that we shouldn't ignore what's going on in other people's lives..(what was that line that Glen Close, as the uber-permed, whacked out psycho said in Fatal Attraction, "I WON'T BE IGNORED"). So, o.k., she took it to the extreme.
So, I have seriously been trying to step outside of my own presence, just a bit, and am trying to be aware of what's going on with others; not in a humane, like I'm all that, bullshit kind of way, just more dipping my toe into the ethos and pathos of others realities.
And, I'm sorry but people, people, people, it is time to grow a pair, because what I've seen for the most part has been a lot of bitching, and whining, and malingering, and me, me, me-isms.
And amongst all this caterwauling, I look and listen to a good friend who is writing about her experience with a very personal, wrenching, life-altering experience that she and her family are dealing with, no not dealing, they are mastering with daily ritualized hope and fear and fight and stamina, and, oh yes, with a couple of good old fashion, fuck you's in there.
Or I watch kids on Thanksgiving Day who are fighting for their lives against cancer, who I am blessed and honored to even share the day and this meal of Thankfulness with, and they're all about seeing who can eat the most shrimp cocktail, those who have an appetite, or who can decorate the most gorgeous, inedible cookie you can imagine. It's all 'out there', nothing is hidden or cloaked in self-denial or self-pity. They're just kids, who are with their families, making waste of an excellent brunch line, and having a blast.
And then you have the other side of the coin.
When we let vanity take control. Or, even worse, hubris. When we think that we have all the answers and don't care to look outside our own personal experience, because, donchyaknow, we already have all the answers.
And usually the answer is derived from many of us just talking to ourselves. Blah! Blah! Blah! Just really white noise in our heads, but how self-important and know it all we can be.
It's bad enough when you control others to say what you need to hear to affirm your own reality, but when you start talking to yourself, with full conviction that what you're hearing yourself say is the truth, 100%, no exceptions, then that is the highest, really, lowest form of Hubris.
Until you've walked in the shoes of that sick kid, or a family dealing with a life-threatening situation, or at least kept yourself open to the maelstrom that surrounds those 'others' who are engaged in daily struggles of survival, you don't, you shouldn't, sweat the small stuff.
Bad hair days pale in comparison to 'no hair days'. The Freshman 20, or middle age pooch can't stand up to not eating for weeks on end because you're too sick. To thread or pluck? Doesn't make much difference when there's nothing to thread or pluck? And wasting one's breath to gossip and snipe or tear down? Please! Not when, just putting one foot in front of the other, is a mini-triumph.
So, I say, crack open that door of observation, of recognition of others trials and tribulations and by doing that minimalize and trivialize our own seemingly important frets and furies. It's probably not all that bad. Or as you've heard a million times before, someone always has it worse.
Strap one on. It's time.
So, I have seriously been trying to step outside of my own presence, just a bit, and am trying to be aware of what's going on with others; not in a humane, like I'm all that, bullshit kind of way, just more dipping my toe into the ethos and pathos of others realities.
And, I'm sorry but people, people, people, it is time to grow a pair, because what I've seen for the most part has been a lot of bitching, and whining, and malingering, and me, me, me-isms.
And amongst all this caterwauling, I look and listen to a good friend who is writing about her experience with a very personal, wrenching, life-altering experience that she and her family are dealing with, no not dealing, they are mastering with daily ritualized hope and fear and fight and stamina, and, oh yes, with a couple of good old fashion, fuck you's in there.
Or I watch kids on Thanksgiving Day who are fighting for their lives against cancer, who I am blessed and honored to even share the day and this meal of Thankfulness with, and they're all about seeing who can eat the most shrimp cocktail, those who have an appetite, or who can decorate the most gorgeous, inedible cookie you can imagine. It's all 'out there', nothing is hidden or cloaked in self-denial or self-pity. They're just kids, who are with their families, making waste of an excellent brunch line, and having a blast.
And then you have the other side of the coin.
When we let vanity take control. Or, even worse, hubris. When we think that we have all the answers and don't care to look outside our own personal experience, because, donchyaknow, we already have all the answers.
And usually the answer is derived from many of us just talking to ourselves. Blah! Blah! Blah! Just really white noise in our heads, but how self-important and know it all we can be.
It's bad enough when you control others to say what you need to hear to affirm your own reality, but when you start talking to yourself, with full conviction that what you're hearing yourself say is the truth, 100%, no exceptions, then that is the highest, really, lowest form of Hubris.
Until you've walked in the shoes of that sick kid, or a family dealing with a life-threatening situation, or at least kept yourself open to the maelstrom that surrounds those 'others' who are engaged in daily struggles of survival, you don't, you shouldn't, sweat the small stuff.
Bad hair days pale in comparison to 'no hair days'. The Freshman 20, or middle age pooch can't stand up to not eating for weeks on end because you're too sick. To thread or pluck? Doesn't make much difference when there's nothing to thread or pluck? And wasting one's breath to gossip and snipe or tear down? Please! Not when, just putting one foot in front of the other, is a mini-triumph.
So, I say, crack open that door of observation, of recognition of others trials and tribulations and by doing that minimalize and trivialize our own seemingly important frets and furies. It's probably not all that bad. Or as you've heard a million times before, someone always has it worse.
Strap one on. It's time.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
