Archive for July, 2012

Big Boy Pants

Tuesday, July 24th, 2012

What the fuck is up with the “big boy pants?” It’s such an annoying expression that after hearing it three times, I need it to go away.

Did everyone hear Debbie Wasserman Schultz tell Romney and his staff to put on their big boy pants and big girl pants? I love Debbie, but I can’t endorse her word usage. What’s wrong with “man up,” even though I hate that one too.

Man up! It’s like everyone had to reach for a stupider way to accuse someone of being weak or unmanly. Big boy pants was also used by ex-CIA head Jose Rodriguez to defend the use of torture during interrogations:

Jose Rodriguez: We needed to get everybody in government to put their big boy pants on and provide the authorities that we needed.

Lesley Stahl: Their big boy pants on–

Jose Rodriguez: Big boy pants. Let me tell you, I had had a lot of experience in the agency where we had been left to hold the bag. And I was not about to let that happen for the people that work for me.

What a fucking cunt!™  He needs to be water-boarded, then we’ll talk about big boy pants.

Earlier this year, some idiot elected to leave a comment here, regarding something I had written about grief, and advised me to put on my “big girl pants.” I was so offended that I deleted the comment. I never censor my comments but I had to make an exception. My pants are big enough and I’ll wear whatever pants I want, Mongoloid, Esq.!

How do you feel about big boy pants? Are you ready to nominate it for worst jargon of the year?

Let’s Do the Math

Thursday, July 19th, 2012

Admit that these shoes are perfect for me. They’re flat, they’re pointy, they’re an impractical color. They are screaming my name.

Plus, they’re on sale, reduced from $850 to $340! I would be saving $510!

But I know it’s wrong to spend $340 on shoes I don’t need. I never go anywhere and I have plenty of shoes. Not that these details have stopped me in the past.

I really want to get out my credit card but I also want to be a virtuous person instead of a greedy nitwit who curates stupid shoes. I’m trying to think of other things that $340 could buy. I could get a half-vial of Radiesse to plump up my face like a chipmunk, or half a chipmunk.

I could feed 5000 starving families in Africa. I could get a pair of eyeglasses that don’t leave a deep indentation on the bridge of my nose. I could pay my Nordstrom bill.

What better things could I do with $340? Please help me. I feel like a werewolf on a full moon.

First We Kill All The

Sunday, July 15th, 2012

One day last week, I had the clever idea of paraphrasing Shakespeare with a post called “First we kill  all the something,”  But now I’ve forgotten what the Something was.

You’d think if I really hated it, I would remember it but you wouldn’t be factoring in my severe memory problems. I’m hoping someone can remind me what the Something is, and presumably it is a group.

Going through my brain’s rolodex of hated things, I have already ruled out:

Christian fundamentalists
Fashion bloggers
The members of Cream
The members of Steely Dan
People who say “Everything happens for a reason”
Child molesters
TV chefs

Godammit, what am I leaving out? This is really bothering me! Please help, if you can.


*(My husband just responded to my question with “It’s too big a category for you.”)

The Real Truth About Tom and Katie

Wednesday, July 11th, 2012

I just had an exclusive interview with myself and here’s what I learned:

Everything you read about Katie and Tom‘s divorce is coming directly to you out of someone’s ass! That’s right, and not long ago, it came from mine, too.

As a journalist for several glossy supermarket tabloids, I was able to deliver scoops about Tom and Katie’s personal lives nearly every week, simply by sitting quitely and channeling the two celebrities until I saw the exciting details in my mind’s eye.

I wrote exclusive scoops about Katie’s struggle for autonomy, Tom’s obsession with Brad Pitt, Suri’s nursery, and so much more. If you were a tabloid reader, you accepted these stoires as God’s truth because otherwise it wouldn’t be printed in a magazine! If you are a tabloid reader, or a consumer of celebrity gossip on any level, you are walking around thinking you know something about Brad and Angie, Jennifer Aniston, Madonna, or whoever, but you’re wrong. Nobody knows anything, but we keep making it up until it is common knowledge.

Whenever you see the words “According to a source,” replace them with “I am making this up.” Same with “An insider says,” “A close pal divulges,” and “A member of his/her inner circle reports.”

Of course, some of us journalists are better channelers than others. Once, when I channeled Janet Jackson, it made the crawl on CNN! Another time, I was able to divine what Katie gave Tom for Christmas: He had just completed work on that awful movie about the German war hero, so I thought she should get him “the complete leather-bound works of his favorite author, Goethe.”

Voila! Tom got the Goethe, to the delight of my friend Wendy and my Inner Circle. I had giddy fantasies of linking Jessica Simpson with Schopenhauer. I believe I, I mean Katie, also gave Tom a custom-made iPhone with his name engraved on it. Which is still nothing compared to the custom-made Chanel evening bag I once gave to Victoria Beckham, I mean David gave to her of course.

You can say I was a liar but you can’t fault my generosity.

Mystery of the Toynbee Tiles: Something to See

Thursday, July 5th, 2012

Resurrect Dead : The Mystery of the Toynbee tiles is an unusually compelling documentary about a young artist who becomes obsessed with solving the mystery of odd handmade tiles that began appearing randomly on streets and highways across America in the early 1980s. The tiles are mostly identical, expressing incoherent ideas about life after death on the planet Jupiter.

The artist, Justin Duerr, seeking the identity of the strange tile-maker, is himself a rare bird who left school at 16 rather than conform to his art teacher’s dream for his success. Justin’s burning desire to unravel the mystery brings him into contact with two other like-minded young internet geeks. Their methodical detective work and camaraderie are merely one aspect of this film that raises one’s hope for humanity.

The tiles and their seemingly desperate message are an arresting subject. The approach taken by filmmaker John Foy shapes a haunting story of curiosity and idealism, guerrilla art and political paranoia, and a trail of clues that lead to a well-protected secret. The yearning to understand comes smack against the yearning to be left alone.

A poignant film with a suitably dark score, it is the perfect execution of its whimsical, intensely philosophical subject matter. You feel the wonder of art itself, and the joy of pursuing a project with absolute commitment.

4th of July

Wednesday, July 4th, 2012

Listening to the fireworks outside tonight, I’m reminded of Eddie, a kid who lived down the street. He was obsessed with fireworks and talked about them all year long.

Eddie was always a little shit. He was the same age as Max, and when they were around nine years old they shared a love of heavy metal bands. One day, Max ran into the house doubled over: Eddie had held his arms behind his back while Eddie’s friends punched him.

Max begged me not to go outside to confront Eddie but I was too enraged to consider his feelings. I promised not to embarrass him and went out to lecture the stupid little fucks about friendship and fair play.

Five years ago, Eddie shot himself after murdering his wife. I went to Eddie’s mass or whatever it’s called when you go to a chapel and walk past an open coffin, out of respect for his bereaved immigrant parents, who never learned to speak English. Eddie looked like a wax dummy of himself.

Why did I ignore Max’s feelings that day? Maybe I always ignored his feelings. I did what I thought was right, but that’s the battle cry of every bad parent. I wanted to protect him, his whole life long. I wish I could correct every error of judgement. Everything he suffered in life is my fault, and even if it isn’t, it is.

I wrote about Eddie here, from another perspective, and without the greater sense of tragedy I have today on this endless and pointless 4th of July.