jennsylvania

First Day of School, 2008

They grow up so fast, don't they?

Declare Yourself

Happy 19th Amendment Day!

Do me a favor - celebrate your rights by registering to vote!  (Only if you haven't already.  Which you more than likely have.  But, you know, you can double-check just in case you moved or something.)

Then you won't feel guilty when you enjoy this fine bit of Man Show parody.

As Cultured As A Croissanwich

About a month ago I spent the night at my friend Stacey's vacation home.  In between getting into head-on collisions with boxes of chairs and rescuing mini-frogs, we watched So You Think You Can Dance. 

During one of the more stirring performances, I remarked it never before occurred to me that one could tell a story through dance.  (Or maybe I knew, but the thought just sounded so pretentious that I never gave it any credence.) 

So Stacey said, "Hey, if you like dancing that tells stories, I can get us tickets to see Marta Carrasco." 

"What's that?" I asked. 

Stacey explained she was in fact a who, not a what, and that she leads a Spanish dance troupe.  They do really artistic pieces.  And I said it sounded cool.  So I went to the Goodman Theatre last night, expecting to see Flamenco dancers. 

My first hint that my perceptions might be wrong was when three different people warned us against sitting in the front two rows because it was "the splash zone."

I do not recall any splash zones during the Latin performances on So You Think You Can Dance.

I asked Stacey if this was going to turn in to a Gallagher-type show with sledgehammers and watermelons and splash tarps.  She laughed and said no.

Oh, pre-show Stacey, how little we both knew.

The set was fascinating - on the wall to the back there were dozens of antique white garments hung on ropes at various angles, including one straight jacket.  There were staircases leading to a platform towards the back of the stage and lots of little doors.  Four old, crooked bookcases were spotlighted at the front of the stage and they were filled with a variety of creepy things, like inflated latex hands and sparkly shoes and Kewpie doll heads. 

The lights in the theatre went down and the show started.  To really get the feel for the performance I saw, I'll list all the action sequentially.

• The bookcases slowly part and a woman slides onto the stage with a rolly chair and a rolly desk. 
• We watch her smoke an entire cigarette.  No dancing, just smoking.
• Other people in vintage outfits crawl onto stage, except on lady who's toting an IV pole.  When IV lady squeezes the bag of saline, it makes the sound of laughter.  None of them dance. 
• The soundtrack is some French song that gets louder and faster and includes the sounds of puppies yelping.  As the music gets louder, the smoking lady begins to twirl in her rolly chair and her rolly desk.  Someone gets slapped but no one dances.
• A man comes out in a tutu and a scrunched up baby mask.  Someone slaps him and then there's a whole bunch of shouting in Spanish.  (Did I mention this was part of the Latin Festival at the Goodman?)  A woman comes out with her head in a grandfather clock and sways back and forth.
• Still no actual dancing other than swaying.
• More puppy yelping, though.
• Two shirtless guys come out with some woman in a ball gown.  They put lipstick all over their faces and then take turns rubbing the lipstick on her face.  She gets thrown back and forth between the two of them.  A different girl comes out in horn rim glasses and is outfitted in an I-work-in-an-ad-agency-in-1962 kind of dress.  She begins shouting in Spanish.  (Seriously?  If I wanted to hear people shouting in Spanish, I could have stayed home.)
• A different woman comes out in a ball gown and a gas mask and she drops rubber babies out of her dress as she slowly walks by.  The tutu baby-man picks the babies up and slaps them.
• Two more women come on stage - one smears red lipstick all over her chin and the other takes bites out of a raw potato and then spits it out.
• Still no dancing.
• A giant vertical Velcro mattress is wheeled out and placed in a vertical position in the center of the stage.  A woman in Velcro pajamas throws herself at it for a while.  I think Tutu Baby Man comes out again.  There's more shouting and then at the front of the stage, two guys in pajama bottoms come out, yank a woman's shirt down, and then begin slapping her on her naked bits. 
• Have I mentioned the no-dancing part yet?
• AND WHY WAS I NOT WARNED ABOUT NUDITY?
• Then the lead dancer comes out wearing a big shirt-dress.  She strips from the waist up and then makes out with a statue for quite a while.  Then the whole stage is covered with a huge piece of dry cleaner's film and she (and her naked self) writhe against it for quite a long, naked while.
• She almost dances but is likely too busy being naked and trying not to suffocate.
• Then the whole ensemble comes out with giant plates of watermelon (!!) and they spit chunks of it into the air and at the audience.  They pour water all over themselves and swim around on the wet, watermelon-y floor.
• And then it is over.
• With no dancing whatsoever.

The audience went batshit-crazy and they gave an extra-long standing ovation.

As soon as everyone finally finished applauding, I turned to Stacey and said, "You realize this is exactly why my side keeps cutting funding to the arts.  And by the way?  I totally called the watermelon."

* * *

The thing is, I still enjoyed the show.  I have no fucking clue what any of it meant, and yet it was a positive experience; I had the privilege of glimpsing into an artist's mind.  And yeah, what I saw was disturbing and dark, but that's not without value.  Today, I feel like my world is a tiny bit bigger for having seen this show.

I still could have done with more dancing and less naked, though.

* * *

UPDATE:  Stacey responded to this on MySpace, so I've cut and pasted her comment here.  The whole evening will make more sense if you guys read the context.

Okay, a little bit in my defense....

I worked at Goodman for seven years and the biennial Latino Theatre Festival was always one of the coolest things we did. Marta Carrasco and her company have been a part of this festival and their performances were always a highlight for me. When I found out that the piece she was performing this year was essentially five of her best pieces that she is about to retire, I thought it would be the perfect evening, since I had seen three of them and been quite moved.

What I didn't know was that instead of just doing the pieces in their entirety, the company effectively cut them up into little bits and mixed them around, and in the process, um, lost all continuity, most of the power, and ALL OF THE DANCING. And none of the pieces I had ever seen had included nudity. Or watermelon.

Had I known this, not only would I never have taken Jen, I wouldn't have gone myself.

Sigh.

The really sad part is that when the pieces are in their original format, they are some of the most extraordinary and moving things I have ever seen in a theater.

I give huge extra credit points to Jen for not:

1. Leaving the moment the first N-I-P-P-L-E made its Goodman Theatre debut.

2. Asking me to translate the incomprehensible Spanish. (which I'm told is mostly nonsense recipe directions)

3. Slapping me like I was wearing a baby head mask the moment the show was over.

Hopefully our next cultural field trip will be less naked, and more rewarding!

I'm going to ask her if she wants to see The House Bunny with me next week.

Jenny from the Blockhead

I just heard about this story on Mamarazzi (who got it from MSNBC.)

Jennifer Lopez, who appeared on Good Morning, America August 18th to discuss her preparations for the Malibu Triathlon, was overheard saying after the segment that she “couldn’t understand why everyone is talking about that swimmer,” according to a GMA source. “She couldn’t come up with (eight-time gold-medal winner Michael) Phelps’ name, [emphasis mine] and then she yammered on about how she was the one training for a triathlon just six months after giving birth, and how that was the big story right now, not ‘the swimmer.’ ”

So, on the one hand, yay her for losing her baby bulk which had to be difficult if my experience with attempting to shed cupcake weight is any indication and even though she has the means and wherewithal to hire every single professional in the world to help her with this quest.

And on the other hand, WHO WANTS TO HOLD HER DOWN WHILE I PUNCH HER?

"This is what real bling looks like, bitch."

photo courtesy of Sports Illustrated

Payback

Dear Neighbor,

Remember this weekend when you idled right outside my bedroom window?  And you played shitty house music as loud as your fifteen year old Buick's radio would allow?  With your bass turned up so high my fillings rattled?  For, like, twenty minutes?  At 3:00 AM?  And when I went outside to glower at you, all you did was move two spaces up?  Remember that?

No?  You can't recall?

Too bad. 

Because that'd go a long way in explaining why I was organizing my purse right beneath your open bedroom window late last night, playing Natasha Beddingfield as loud as my Harmon Kardon speakers would allow. 

By the way, I don't have a day job. 

But from the looks of your pajamas, you do.

Think about it.

Best,

Jen

P.S.  Next time, I'm breaking out my Wham CD.  Consider yourself warned.

Eat, Sleep, Pick Fights

My schedule for the last week and a half:

Eat, sleep, swim. 

Eat, sleep, write. 

Eat, sleep, write, watch Olympics. 

Eat, sleep, watch Olympics.

My productivity has dropped since opening ceremonies... like, a lot.  Sure, I've been attempting to churn out this book, but I keep finding myself lapsing into diatribes about how real sixteen year olds aren't missing baby teeth and how more sports should be performed on trampolines and what an excellent word "Velodrome" is (sounds like a futuristic breath mint, yes?) and why Speedos aren't the devil after all.

As part of my all-Olympic, all-the-time regimen, I was watching the interview with Michael Phelps last night and he brought up a point that made me shout, "He just ripped off my Women's Health article!"  Then it occurred to me he's been a world-class athlete for years and years, and not just since reading my story in the July/August issue.  And then I remembered they cut out that piece of advice, anyway.

(Brief aside for those who saw the interview: how cute is it that he's breaking records and winning medals but is still still compelled to check out his Facebook page?)

(Another brief aside: yes, I'm going to start a Facebook page again if/when I ever finish my deadline.) 

If you missed the interview because you were busy having a life (or possibly writing what someone has already paid you for in anticipation of your actually finishing it) and not just camping out in front of Olympic coverage all day, then you didn't see where Michael said he's not swimming against himself.  Rather, he always performs his best to show the nay-sayers they don't know what they're talking about.  He mentioned how Michael Jordan would manufacture an issue before games so he wasn't just playing, he was playing to beat whomever slighted him.  This is exactly the point I made in my article:

Finding a nemesis:  I finally learned to play to my greatest strength - a competitive nature.  Now any time I'm engaged in an activity, I quietly target one unsuspecting gym patron and watch to see whatever he or she is doing.  If my nemesis lifts seventy pounds, I try for eighty.  Should he walk on an incline of five percent, I try for seven.  If she rides the bike for forty minutes, I will do forty-five and I celebrate every time I beat her even though she has no clue we've been competing.  Childish?  Maybe.  Effective?  Absolutely.

Works nicely in many aspects of life, not just athletics.

When I went through my archived documents to find this, I ran across an opinion piece I did for Forbes.com last year.  (A reporter queried me and wanted to know if I had any thoughts about a life-coaching organization called Becoming Alpha.  Not surprisingly, I did.)  They only used a piece of what I wrote, but I'm reprinting the whole thing here because it remains one of my favorite things I've ever written:

I'm naturally quizzical of an enterprise with an admission price of $10,000, particularly when that enterprise involves Life Coaching, an industry lacking any sort of regulatory standard.  I'm even more wary when said enterprise claims the ability to teach people to become Alpha Males (and Females.)  And I'm downright suspicious when the company offers no credentials about its instructors on the website, its main marketing tool. 

Seems like if their whole business model involves using coaches to affect results, they might want to mention why they're qualified.

Unless, of course, they're full of shit.

Enter BecomeAlpha, a “high-level life/business coaching for individuals and businesspeople interested in learning ways to legitimately and significantly increase their business's profitability, their salary at their company, or their ability to climb the proverbial corporate ladder.”  Essentially these mysterious coaches teach people how to tap into their inner Alpha Male which, ostensibly, will lead them to ultimate success, profitability, and hot and cold running Brazilian supermodels twenty-four hours a day.  (OK, I may have made that last part up, but it's certainly implied in the press release.)

BecomeAlpha claims to be a hard-core, Marine-style boot camp for individuals who are tired of complacency and mediocrity.  They say the only way to become an Alpha is to do something about it, rather than doing nothing, which... OK, sure.  That makes sense.  Doing stuff beats not doing stuff.  For example, the guy who made piles of money by inventing the knit beer can cap sat around and emptied a lot of Miller High Lifes first.  His fortune only came when he said, “Hey, what if I added some yarn?”

BecomeAlpha instructs students on tapping into their uber-selves through a variety of workshops and conference calls.  Among other classes, they teach sessions on hypnosis.  Funny, but when my father discussed his Marine boot camp experience, he talked a lot about the 26-mile road marches on Parris Island, but never mentioned the hypnotherapy.  (To be fair, maybe Big Daddy missed Hypnosis Day because he was busy fighting a war with the North Koreans.)  BecomeAlpha also provides coursework on Intimacy and Seduction, crucial in any boardroom situation, don't you think?  (Ten bucks says they advise you pull your spouse's hair during the act of love, which may be sexy the first time, but will likely land you a spot on the couch with the dog if you try it twice.)

My issue with this particular business is their assertion you can't achieve success (and supermodels) until you're an Alpha and you can't become an Alpha until they teach you confidence.  The rub is that confidence can't be taught – it can only be achieved, say, by climbing a mountain or perhaps putting $10,000 towards an MBA program.  Although I do agree confidence is important, it's not the only part of the success equation.  Have all the bravado you'd like, but it's for naught if you can't back up what's coming out of your blow-hole.  Being competent in your profession is key and this isn't something you can learn in a classroom full of strangers from dozens of different industries.  Again, if you need to drop ten-large to hear you should be reading trade journals, becoming an Alpha is the least of your problems. 

Being an Alpha and being successful are not mutually exclusive.  Just look at Bill Gates – no one can say he's an Alpha, yet he seems to have done nicely for himself anyway.  Plus, definitions of success vary wildly from person to person.  For some it might be leading the pack financially, but for many that might entail the freedom to leave the office at 4:30 in order to make it their child's T-ball practice.

The bottom line is I don't believe it's possible to change who you are at your core, and if you could, it would be through intensive personal self-discovery and achievement, rather than being coached in a classroom full of people who are precisely as willing as you to part with $10,000 USD.      

On their popular television show, Penn and Teller summed up Life Coaching best in one word – bullshit. 

And I couldn't agree more.   

 

I'm going to amend this now by saying if you want to Become Alpha?  Swim faster.

Ready For The Fail Blog In 5... 4... 3...

UPDATE:  The biggest idiot is the one who accidentally switched to comment moderation and then spent three days wondering why no one else thought this was funny. 

SECOND UPDATE: Also, they didn't lose their bumper but I did watch them eventually get frustrated (TWO HOURS LATER!) and attack the root with a hammer and a screwdriver acting as a chisel. Fletch suggested I lend them my loafer and a butter knife.

How's anyone supposed to concentrate on work when two jackasses are about to lose a bumper trying to oust a 100 year old tree root?

"We'll see who's laughing when we crash into your garage."

Get On The Bus!

I just found this while procrastinating in the TV/Film/Radio Jobs section on Craigslist. 

Tell me this isn't the best trashy TV news you've heard in a while.

* * *   

VH1 and BRET MICHAELS will hit the road literally…to find true love on the… “ROCK OF LOVE BUS with BRET MICHAELS”

VH1 is loading up a tour bus filled with beautiful babes and taking them on tour across the country. The Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels takes contestants out of the mansion and on the road in true rock star style. This season will feature all new ladies vying for Bret’s affection while traveling across America following Bret on a month-long tour. The contestants will face new challenges to see if they can handle the rock star life on the road! If you are a sexy single lady looking for love who can party like a rock star, then this is the show for you! Ladies must be ages 21 and up.

TO BE CONSIDERED, EMAIL THE FOLLOWING INFO TO YOUR CLOSEST AUDITION CITY:

1. Your Name
2. Age
3. What city you would like to audition in
4. Best phone #
5. Little about yourself and why you would be good for Bret
6. And be sure to ATTACH A FEW RECENT PICS of yourself AND webpage/myspace url

Aug. 1 – 10 CHICAGO (IL): ChicagoRock @RealTalentCasting.com
Aug. 11 – 18 CINCINNATI (OH): OhioRock @RealTaentCasting.com

Location:  Chicago only

Compensation:  $100/day   

 

* * *   

 

Bret Michaels?   

 

Bus? 

   

Contestants willing to trade their dignity for $100/day? 

 

Kudos, VH1, you've done it again!

We Have A Winner!

Between the website, MySpace, and email, I had over 400 entries, all of which made me laugh.  (I'm a particular fan of anyone who used sheet as a pun.)  Thank you all for participating!

Here are my top six:

"Maisy vs. Fletch, Tornado Season 2008: Who's the Dumb Animal Now?" by rDogg0807

"Invisibility cloak; you're doing it wrong." by Tracie

"Rumpled-sheet-skin.  Ain't no fairy tale." by Jerri

"I iz not barbie hed. Plz no makeups."  by Holly

"Intimuhdating pit bull... ur doin it wrong."  by Kat

"This toga party sucks."  by Maria on MySpace

And the winner is...

Jerri! 

Please send me your mailing info so I can send your fabulous prize (which is still TBD.)

(And ignore the auto-response - don't worry, I'll get your message.) 

Three Days

Hey, everyone - I'll announce the caption winner as soon as I finish reading them. 

'Til then, maybe you'll read this? 

Barbie, my trainer, is participating in the Susan G. Komen 3-Day For The Cure Walk.  She didn't ask me to solicit donations, but I'm doing it anyway.  Please consider helping Barbie reach her fund-raising goal if for no reason other than her not making me do this with her this weekend.

Here's the page for Barbie's team.

(She's also running the Chicago Marathon this year, although there's no fund-raising element attached to that.  She's just doing it to do it because bitch be crazy.)

Thanks so much for helping to support this worthy cause!

I Can Haz Prise?

Is there anything more brave and true than the American Pit Bull Terrier?

I mean, unless it's raining or something.

Here's Maisy, burrowing herself into Great Dirty Sheet Mountain in the basement during last night's storms. 

(Note: Why so many dirty sheets?  There was an incident with the bed in the guest room because someone was trying to juggle a book and a flaming hot cup of Chamomile and honestly, there are some places on yourself you just DO NOT WANT to scald and now I understand why all those people sued McDonalds.)

Caption this shot (in LOLspeak or other) and my favorite one wins a prize to be determined as soon as I figure out what stuff around here I have to give away.  (Am open to suggestions on prizes, too.)  Contest ends Wednesday before I go to bed and the winner will be announced on Thursday.

(Not pictured:  Me shrieking at Fletch to get his ass in the basement during the warnings.  He said we didn't have to go because the warning was for Logan Square, not for us, one block away in Bucktown.  I'm all, "WELL, MAYBE THE FUCKING TORNADO CAN'T READ A NEIGHBORHOOD MAP!")

Ahem. 

Anyway, good luck! 

Team Jen

"... and my heart felt like it was playing a game of Quidditch in my chest."

"What?"  He stops the car to look at me full in the face.

"You know, Quidditch.  The flying broom-soccer-dodgeball game from Harry Potter?  It's all whizzy and jumpy and bounce, bounce, bounce.  That's totally the perfect description of what a heart palpitation feels like."*

He starts driving again.  "Pfft.  Maybe if you're trying to explain it to a twelve year old."

"Right.  Because no one over the age of twelve ever bought a Harry Potter book or saw a Harry Potter movie."  I shake my head.  Seriously, have all the VH1 pop culture shows we've watched been in vain? 

He shrugs.  "I'm just saying that's an esoteric reference."

"And I'm saying you're wrong."

Internet, what say you?  If another adult mentioned Quidditch, would you catch the reference? 

(Or possibly the Snitch?)

*am healthy and fine - talking about an incident a long time ago