Urban Blight

There was a time when no trip to New York to visit my good friend Becky would be complete without a trip to Urban Outfitters. I'd rarely buy anything, and it certainly wasn't our only shopping stop, but those memories are fond ones - mostly for the mockery. Becky, after all, is the reason I'm snarky! I digress. Earlier today, Caramel Macchiatos in hand ("if we're going to pretend to be urban yuppies, we need to do it right"), Alan and I converged on the Rush Street Urban with a single, simple purpose: he needed to try on a cute Penguin shirt he'd been eying for some time.

I knew the trip would make my blood pressure rise when a parade of twelve year-olds wearing conical birthday hats filed out of the store just as we arrived. It got worse when we stood in the dressing room line next to a 40-something guy trying on some sort of natty polo that flattered his frosted hair. Blood started to leak out my ear when I noticed THREE different size 0 girls trying on the same so-ugly-they-must-be-trendy gauchos. It could have all ended in violence had we not noticed the Aquaman t-shirts. Urban used to seem so hep to me: now it's all bag-lady chic and tacky tees, and the clientele doesn't quite match the 18-24 target demo.

Alan's shirt, sadly, didn't quite work out, despite various attempts at sizes. So I did what any good girlfriend would do: I dragged him into Urban Outfitters's older sister, Anthropologie, where I proceeded to try on several items and model them for him in front of a much nicer crowd of women, all of whom cooed over his patient responses. Then I bought him dinner. All in all, not a bad day.

Girl-on-Girl Blogging

I'm going to make a statement that's been made many times before: I'm a fan of Jessica Alba. But it's a lot more complex than the lust in the hearts of men. (Josh T., I'm looking at you.) In the past, I've been known to be catty about the so-called hot babes my male peers lusted after - like when a guy I was dating developed a thing for Keira Knightly, and I picked apart her freakishly long torso, furrowed brow, and ugly habit of having her mouth open all the time. Breaking news: sometimes girls aren't nice. More breaking news: sometimes we snark because we're insecure.

So: Jessica. Very, very hot. Why don't I eviscerate her with the venomous wit I'm known for? She seems a lot like me - on the inside, that is. Take this quote from Rolling Stone: "I don't need a man who spends as much time in front of the mirror as me." Why, I just expressed that sentiment to Alan the other day, when he asked me how I felt about male eyebrow plucking! "I don't need to be famous. I'm not that ambitious." Despite my occupation, it's the anonymity of my alter ego that makes my job so much fun. Jessica's best friends? Her parents. Anyone who knows the real me knows I feel the same way. She likes to read. She drives like a crazy person. She HATES to lose. Me, me, me. We're, like, totally the same person! Except that I'm not the focus of worldwide masturbatory fantasies. ...that I know of.

The Opposite of Subtle

Today, while riding the Merch Mart escalator up to work, I saw a guy in his 40s wearing the Big Johnson shirt shown here. This upset me. Big Johnson t-shirts were all the rage in the early to mid-90s; young men who'd not yet known the touch of a woman sported colorful shirts informing the world that "two fingers in and she'll be ready for a spare!" Of course, one raunchy brand of t-shirt was not enough for the horny youth of America: remember those fashionable "Coed Naked" shirts? Do you play pool? "Get felt on the table!" Are you a firefighter? "Find 'em hot, leave 'em wet!" These shirts are just about as classy as Courtney Love after a cocktail. Gentlemen, if you have to wear a shirt that explains the ins-and-outs of sex, no woman is going to take the time to tell you otherwise. Besides that, the early 90s are the LAST timeframe we should consider stealing fashion ideas from. Don't make me pull out my slap bracelets and scrunchies.

Risk: Not Just a Game of Strategy

Tonight it rained in Chicago. This is a big deal, given the intense heat of the weekend and the extreme drought we've been facing. I walked home with no umbrella and a smile - I find it soothing to walk in the rain when I have nowhere in particular to be. After dinner, Alan and I enjoyed a quiet Tuesday evening, half watching baseball (thank you, mlb.tv) and half reading magazines. He showed me cool gadgets; I shared trashy gossip. It was a comfortable night in our new place.

While watching the Red Sox play the Devil Rays, I saw pitcher Matt Clement get hit in the head by a line drive. He crumpled to the ground in an awkward heap and lay still for several minutes before being carted away. It surprised me, how frightened I felt for a man I hardly knew. My mom and brother both called: they too expressed their concern for this stranger. The Devil Rays announcers were glib about the risks athletes take when they choose to put on their uniforms. I fretted quietly and finally abandoned the game in favor of grocery shopping. It felt strange to care about the outcome after the injury.

The night before, I'd talked about friends I knew who were afraid to take risks. By risks I meant moving away from a comfortable environment, taking a better fitting job for less pay, or trying something challenging instead of something familiar. How "risky" are those choices? We live in a culture obsessed with hyperbole: headlines scream about a SHOCKING SCANDAL or the BEST EVER. But an action that seems monumentally daunting to me is small in the grand scheme, and making a choice outside of your comfort zone isn't the same as putting your life in danger. I'm not saying that pro athletes are on par with our soldiers, police officers or firefighters as far as risk goes. A baseball game just reminded me that unless it's life or death, a tough choice isn't always a risky one.

Friends and Rock Stars

What a weekend. Some old friends came to town for baseball and Lollapalooza... lots of beverages and shenanigans involved whenever that crew shows up. As for the big festival itself, well... between getting cozy with Billy Idol, triple digit temps, and watching the Arcade Fire with Perry Farrell standing next to me and singing along, "hot" seems like the appropriate word. I'd tell you more, but I'm tired, covered in dirt, and wearing a cowboy hat. (Don't ask.)

There's No X, Dammit!

Just before the end of my show today, I heard a commercial where a young voice-over actor used the word "expresso" to connotate a small cup of very strong, black coffee. This is not the first time I've heard this term used to describe the potent blast of caffeinated goodness: my former production director used to tag commercials for Dunkin Donuts by encouraging patrons to try one of their new Iced Lattes made with real "expresso." Yes, I'm a vocab snob, but it's not that hard to realize that ESPRESSO DOESN'T HAVE THE LETTER X IN IT. Yes, I'm familiar with the word "express," and I realize that they sure do sound alike. But there's no X. Mispronounce it in my presence and there will be consequences. Thank you.

Robots and Turtles and... Smurfs? Oh $#!&.

Last week I learned that there will be a live-action Transformers movie, out on July 4th, 2007. This is awesome news. Then... yesterday, I read about a new animated Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie, also due out in 2007. This is slightly less awesome news. THEN... this morning I read about the new CGI Smurfs trilogy, set to hit theatres in 2008. This is BAD news. What the hell is wrong with Hollywood? Have the brightest minds in screenwriting completely run out of ideas?? If I wake up tomorrow and hear about the brand new, live-action, full length Popples film, I'll have to set something on fire.

(I used to have a Popples sleeping bag. Let's not spread that around.)

Colin Farrell: A Real Irish Tragedy

Like so many sad celebrities before him, Colin Farrell now has a sex tape saga. He fornicated with a former Playmate before a camera some time ago, and - surprise - she now wants to make some money off the 15 glorious minutes of footage. Naturally, Colin is suing. The lawsuit tosses around phrases like "commercial exploitation" and "common human decency," while adding that "the release of the videotape would irreparably
harm Farrell's reputation and career." I remember the moment when Colin's rep was first damaged in my eyes. It was when I heard he hooked up with Britney Spears - this was clearly before she became the Federwife. Britney was just starting to show the white-trash side so clearly evidenced in that piece of crap UPN called a television show, and I thought, "he can do so much better! He was so good in Tigerland! And he's supposed to be mine!" Alas, then Colin was doomed to become the cracked-out pirate from Waterworld shell of himself seen here. And remember - it was only 15 minutes of footage.

Harry Potter and the Crazy-Fast Reader

Look, I don't mean to brag, and I don't mean to boast. But I got my copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince around noon today, and I finished it by 5:30. While I might not have been as diligent (read: psychotic) as other fans about buying the book, I know I outread at least some of them. I've always been a speedy reader, ever since the days of Babysitter's Club and Sweet Valley Twins, when my dad would take us to Waldenbooks after dinner and I'd finish my book during the car ride home. Yes, I'm a geek. But I'm proud of it.

Where's the Beer?

Electra's first alcoholic beverage: a screwdriver. Cheap vodka that had been in our hutch for god knows how long. My mom's not really a drinker, so it's not an exaggeration to say 10 years. Enough Tropicana to mask the taste. How old was I? Um... best not to say. (Sorry, Mom.)

Electra's favorite alcoholic beverage: a margarita, on the rocks, with salt. I'm not picky about the tequila, but if you're buying... well, sure, Patron sounds good.

Electra's favorite beer: this requires a lengthier explanation. It never used to matter that much. I drank lots of beer in college. Miller Lite in cans, the Beast, maybe Corona if we were feeling fancy. When I lived in Burlington, it was all Molson, what with the Canadian proximity. During scandalous road trips to Montreal, we'd buy Molson Dry over the border - hey, it's close to 6% alcohol, why not? Then it was Philadelphia and the local Yuengling, and I really enjoyed it. It felt cool to enjoy a historic local brew, and I always had a case kicking around.

Then I made a trip to Amsterdam, and I discovered Witte Bier: literally, white beer. Since I'm not into the other offerings found in those infamous coffee shops, I drank a LOT of it, and I was in love immediately. You drop a lemon slice in the glass, and it's heavenly. I knew I'd found "my beer."

Once back in Philadelphia, it was good to learn that my neighborhood's awesome Race Street Cafe carries Hoegaarden, "the original white beer." So I drank it with their phenomenal spicy turkey burgers and bought six-packs whenever I could. The relationship blossomed with each smooth sip.

But tonight, as I scoured Chicago liquor marts and grocery stores fruitlessly for my Hoegaarden (nowhere to be found... a shortage? a spillage? an unfortunate incident with a rat and a vat?), I wondered if I really want to develop an exclusive taste for a beer. Now I turn my nose up at the scent of aluminum and scowl at domestic brews. I'm not the laid back consumer I once was. Maybe I shouldn't complain... I'm growing up, after all. It's okay to want more than the dusty plastic bottle hidden in the hutch. (Did I mention I'm sorry, Mom?)

He Might Want to Be Lonely Some More

"If I were gay, Tom wouldn't be on the top of my list... it would be Brad Pitt.”
Who might have uttered that phrase? Why, it's Rob Thomas! Lead man for Matchbox 20 (oops, sorry, matchboxtwenty), Santana collaborator, and solo artist who may or may not make the ladies swoon. Now, Rob is married - to the woman who inspired that catchy "Smooth" ditty - so there will be no Brad/Rob romance anytime soon. He just expressed his preference in response to rampant rumors that he HAD actually had a tryst with Tom "Looney Tunes" Cruise. Tom just keeps sliding further and further down the totem pole of cool - when you can't even get love from the guy who wrote "Back 2 Good," it's a sad day.

Back-back-back: ENOUGH ALREADY!

I wasn't even going to watch the Home Run Derby tonight. As my friend Brendan put it, "How much of Chris Berman yelling can you take?" I love the Tizzle, but the new international format seemed to leave a lot of major players out - and put randoms like Jason Bay and Hee-Seop Choi in. But in the end, I succumbed to my love for all things baseball and watched. Besides, Brendan's comment inspired me to come up with a simple Chris Berman drinking game: he says "back-back-back-BACK!" and you take a shot. Genius!

I'm really glad I watched. Bobby Abreu absolutely put on a record-setting clinic. 24 home runs in the first round alone - and in Comerica Park, which is usually a long ball nightmare. Yes, if you don't like baseball, essentially you're just watching the same thing over... and over... and over. But this year you also saw players representing their own countries with massive flags and fierce, giddy pride. I do think it's neat to see players out of their usual elements, sitting around with their families and friends, drinking Gatorade and goofing off on the grass. But then again, I also think Kevin Spacey is attractive, in an older balding man kind of way.

Tomorrow it's the All-Star Game, and "THIS TIME IT COUNTS!" Boy, the MLB sure is subtle with their marketing.

(By the way, don't try the "back-back-back-BACK!" game next year. You'll probably die. Boomer must be running out of phrases.)

Ye Olde Renaissance Faire

Today I went to the Bristol Renaissance Fair with Tony and Ravey, plus Tony's lovely wife Beth. It was a nostalgia-laden trip: my mom used to take us to King Richard's Faire in Carver, MA every fall. I loved the jousting, Jacob's Ladder, and the medieval torture devices - like the iron maiden, pictured to your left. (I was not one of those girls who wanted a pretty dress or to have my face painted. I bet that's not surprising.) There's an old picture of me, my brother and father at Medieval Times kicking around somewhere, too. Ah, eating food with your hands.

Our adventure today was much less childlike and innocent, as it involved much imbibing of adult beverages and at least one visible nipple in chain mail. Tony had to be in costume for the day: the getup was part town crier, part swarthy pirate ("Scurvy Antonius Seabottom," to be exact). Ravey, Beth and I followed him around as he learned how to navigate the sea and woo harlots. The professional insulter questioned his manhood and made reference to goats, which was a highlight. Toss in some flaming sticks and a couple of washer well wenches, and you've got a jam-packed afternoon.

I mostly watched the spectacle from the sidelines and made comments with my usual blend of dry wit and wry cynicism, occasionally sucking meat off a huge turkey leg or chocolate coating off a frozen banana (sorry, a "Monkey Tail"). They sure do know how to tempt your taste buds at these events. By the time I hit the cheese fritters, I'd thrown myself a gastronomical party the likes of which my stomach has rarely seen.

By 4 we were all beat, thanks to another dry, hot day (thanks a lot, extreme drought) and copious amounts of alcohol. I'll be back, though - my first taste of Wisconsin has only whetted my appetite for more. Okay, and I want to try the Steak on a Stake.

I Want a Penguin!

Tonight I saw March of the Penguins at the Esquire 6, and it was everything I dreamed it would be. There were some dizzyingly beautiful shots of the barren Antarctic landscape and the brave little penguins who cross it to breed. I wondered just how they got some of the intimate close-ups of the gorgeous Emperors and their beyond adorable chicks. The closing credits ran alongside footage of the filmmakers, head to toe in orange gear to fight off the extreme cold, adjusting shots with curious penguins investigating the equipment. Almost no one in the theatre left until the behind-the-scenes look was over. I was proud that I managed not to cry in front of strangers, although there were more than a few heart-tugging moments.

Of course, the experience wasn't all good. One boisterous young lady decided to have a loud cell phone conversation with a friend before the previews. I learned that she had just had dinner at a FABULOUS Indian place with her sister, who was in town visiting. I learned that she took a philosophy class in college and ran into a loathesome someone from that class at said dinner. I also heard a synopsis of the movie I was about to see, and learned that "Nicholas," the person on the other end of the line, did not believe such a movie existed. All this happened several rows away from me, but clearly this girl suffers from voice immodulation, as I heard every word like she was sitting next to me. She's lucky she ended the call when she did, because I could feel the murderous rage rising in my throat like so much bile. And people wonder why no one wants to go to the movies anymore...

A Great American Tradition

The 4th of July is not only a time to celebrate the nation we live in, but also the traditions that make it great. That's why I spent part of my holiday watching the 90th Annual Nathan's Famous hot dog eating competition on Coney Island. It's a little bit like Seven Minutes in Heaven, but with twelve minutes of stuffing hot dogs in your mouth instead. This is no contest for newbies. Contestants use special techniques, like "Japanesing," where you separate hot dog from bun, and "Solomoning," where you break the hot dog in half. Many competitors also dip the bun in liquid to make mastication a moot point.

Since watching men and women eat for twelve minutes can be, well, dull, the color commentators break up the monotony with facts about what other foods these athletes consume in mass quantities: deviled eggs, glazed donuts, deep fried asparagus. One slight young man with bleached blond hair, who's held the title for four straight years, is compared to both Lance Armstrong and Babe Ruth (some real American sports heroes) as he squeezes soggy bread and opens wide for another mouthful of meat.

As the minutes tick on, faces turn green and half-chewed food dribbles down shirts. One guy almost faces "reversal" - competitive eating speak for "vomiting." The combination of hot summer sun and hot dogs, usually such an appealing summer sight, makes me slightly nauseous. I think twice about my barbequed dinner plans. Perhaps a nice salad instead.

When the dust clears, the reigning champ tacks a fifth title onto his list. His name? Takeru Kobayashi, of Japan. Happy birthday, America!

MTV Presents: Live 8

Today MTV and VH1 sacrificed precious airtime from such programs as Fabulous Life Of and Date My Mom in favor of eight hours of Live 8 coverage. Earlier in the week, I'd questioned whether or not the worldwide concert event would resonate the way Live Aid did twenty years ago. Those concerts raised money towards the cause of extreme African poverty, while Bob Geldof intended these shows to raise awareness as the G8 summit approaches. A listener who'd watched Live Aid as a teenage said no: only raising awareness rings a bit hollow when we could be doing more, she said. I decided to reserve judgment until I watched the coverage.

What I saw today were some sad representations of my generation's understanding of issues beyond our own day-to-day. MTV treated Live 8 like Short Attention Span Theater: a minute of musical performance here, a quick-cut montage of starving children there, all interspersed with some of the most vapid VJ commentary possible. A phrase like "totally awesome” DEFINITELY rings hollow when describing an event that hopes to eradicate the pointless suffering of millions. One perfectly dressed and coiffed young lady made a point of "wiping away a tear" after cutting away for footage of African poverty. Call me cynical (which I am), but I just didn't buy it.

During the broadcast, there were commercials for the freshly released Live Aid DVD. Those moments and stories truly are timeless. Mick Jagger and Tina Turner. Phil Collins flying from London to Philly. A bushy-haired pre-superstar Bono enthusiastically leading the "Do They Know It's Christmas?" sing-along in Wembley Stadium. As for this year... all I can think about right now is a stupid bit by Rachael Perry where she was trying to find her friend Mike in the crowd of hundreds of thousands in front of the Art Museum in Philadelphia. Her intention: to point out how many people turned out for the cause. What actually happened: I thought about how contrived and unrealistic it looked.

Perhaps the most telling evidence that times have changed since Live Aid: MTV followed up their coverage by showing an episode of Punk'd. The network has really changed in 20 years, from an edgy voice for the musical interests of the underrepresented to a ubiquitous brand specializing in repetitive and shallow reality-based programming. MTV has become so good at manipulating reality into entertainment that it has no idea how to portray... reality. I don't feel more aware of African poverty than I did before Live 8; I feel more aware of my generation's inability to deal with life outside the Real World.