Yearly Archives: 2009

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The Jackson 5 are no longer my friends and business associates

February 16, 2009 5:10 pm , 8 Comments ,

A Nigerian monument to slavery/casino resort/museum of Jackson 5 memorabilia sounds like a great idea to people who are sarcastic for a living.

“Money-making and historical memory are allies in the extension of capitalism. You cry with one eye and wipe it off with cold beer, leaving the other eye open for gambling,” [said Toyin Falola].

The new and improved Simpsons couch is my favorite character on TV.

As an avid follower of trends, this would’ve been a good thing to know before I said yes. Just kidding, sweetheart!

Marriage couldn’t be more unattractive – the number of us getting hitched has slumped to the lowest level since records began, 150 years ago. By next year, it’s predicted that singletons will be in the majority.

Brothers and sisters should collaborate on storytelling more often. Read “The French Underpants” by Hal White and “The French Underpants Part Deux” by Celeste White in The Hot Air Quarterly (PDF).

You’ve read my brother Hal’s tale of the errant French underpants. This is mine: . . .

My current favorite book website: Book Beast. (Thanks to Cat Woman, my current favorite commenter, for the link.)

Portrait of the artist (and the chicken) as a young woman/young chicken.

If you’re wondering why your favorite bar smells like dirty diapers, wonder no longer:

All across the country, Baby Loves Disco is slowly but surely transforming the hippest night clubs into child proof discos as toddlers, pre-schoolers and parents looking for a break from the routine playground circuit let loose for some post naptime, pre-dinner fun.

Congratulations to my friendly correspondent Charles McLeod whose books are being published in the middle of an acquisition freeze! I will now hand the publishing crisis over to him. Good luck, soldier.

Crap in space is terrifying to me. One word: fireball. And I have to fly on Friday! As if planes don’t scare me enough.

I was actually thinking about this article this morning as I drove around listening to the significant hole in my muffler expand. Although I have over 100,000 miles on my odometer, I am comforted by knowing that my self-esteem must equally be soaring.

“By the time children reach early adolescence, and experience a decline in self-esteem, the stage is set for the use of material possessions as a coping strategy for feelings of low self-worth,” [say researchers]. . . . The paradox that findings such as these bring up, is that consumerism is good for the economy [and for the fight against terrorism! -ed.] but bad for the individual.

Salman Rushdie’s new girlfriend sure is chatty. Sigh. When am I going to get my chance?

It is 18 months since his much-publicised break-up from his most recent wife, TV hostess Padma Lakshmi. Mocked because Padma, 38, looked young enough to be his daughter and was an inch taller than him, Rushdie has now chosen a woman who is even younger and taller – and eccentrically extrovert to boot.

This article about having babies is depressing. Ladies, please don’t hate me for linking to it. My four-year-old niece (niece-in-law?) wants to “poop out” some babies right now. She and her friends sometimes play “pregnant 16-year-olds.” Maybe she’s on the right track.

The hourglass turns upside down at 30. If you get one in at 34, you’re probably not going to have another. If you are happily married at 30 you are most likely going to get 2 in but know that you JUST made it under the wire. That means you have to stop fucking around and start to care who you’re fucking right after 25.

It’s like Candace Bushnell quit writing chick lit and began pursuing a degree in apocalyptic biology.

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In which I solve the publishing crisis

February 15, 2009 5:14 pm , 3 Comments ,

A few months ago I was having dinner with a friend, her billionaire husband, and some other glamorous people (sometimes I run in these circles just to shake things up). We were talking about the nation’s financial troubles. I felt more and more complacent as the conversation turned to stock losses, bankrupted companies, and subprime mortgages. I said, “I don’t mean to brag, but I haven’t lost anything in the economic crisis. You want to know my secret? I don’t have any money, nor any assets, to lose.” They were all exceedingly jealous. As I savored the creme brulee that the billionaire’s imported French chefs had just prepared in the next room, I congratulated myself on enlightening these people. And who needs money when you have rich friends?

I am reminded of this dinner when I turn my keen eye to solving  the current crisis in the publishing world. People are losing jobs in the industry left and right. Most publishing houses have implemented acquisition freezes. And in Manhattan, where literary agents and HarperCollins executives are used to three-martini lunches, the “cushy schmooze fest seems to be winding down.” But this really doesn’t concern me because no one is publishing my books anyway. I lack book deals even when the money’s there, so why should I give a shit now?

Nevertheless, on the off chance that a full financial recovery in the publishing world will mean a Random House novel for me, I will solve the crisis. Listen up, people.

(I love blogging because no one can read the time delays between when I proclaim that I have an answer to something and when I actually arrive with some semblance of an answer.)

First of all, authors should write more bestsellers. Second of all, people should read more. We can all do our part. For instance my friend Abbey and I just started our first book club. It’s really more of a drinking club, but we will definitely use the books as coasters. And look – I understand that reading isn’t necessarily as fun and social as watching TV or spending hours alone on Facebook, but just think of how lonely writing is. And people do that every day so you’ll have something to read in the bathroom. Plus there are plenty of social networking websites that focus on books, like Goodreads and Shelfari and Library Thing. You won’t feel as isolated in your reading when you’re competing sharing with other people.

But this isn’t about what we’re doing wrong; it’s about what they’re doing wrong. All those big shot Manhattan publishing people with their love for great literature and their deep pockets for brilliant writers and their hard-ons for talented, creative people. Something’s got to give. Maybe publishers should stop issuing advances and funnel their money into innovative publicity instead. Because god knows there are more ways than ever to get inside other peoples’ brains. Then the authors and their agents get 60% of ensuing book sales if they don’t starve to death in the interim. But honestly, an author who doesn’t have a day job is just being irresponsible. At least submit an article to Ladies’ Home Journal every now and then. Experiment with other media, like blogs and porn. And don’t expect a big payday unless people actually like your book. It’s only fair.

Maybe I don’t have all the answers. Maybe I just failed miserably in my attempt at winging it. The same thing happens when I’m asked about astrophysics or when I’m expected to be charming in public.

Oh! One more brainstorm – isn’t it possible that there are just more books published – most of them awful – than the industry can sustain? Shouldn’t more writers just give up so there’s more room for me? Also – hardcover? Is it really necessary? Smart people pledge to wait and read the book when it comes out in paperback, then they forget about it (in my world smart people do a lot of pledging and forgetting and failing).

Finally, what if there was a speed printer that could print and bind paperback books from your computer in a matter of minutes? You pay a minimal amount to download the book from the publisher; you buy your own paper and ink and glue, saving them the expense; you press the Future Button; and the company experiences no net loss due to unsold books because they’re operating on a one book to one reader ratio. Brilliant, right? Make it happen, American entrepreneurs! The rest of you can get back to creming and bruling my creme brulee.

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The Virginia Festival of the Book is like Bonnaroo but for sexy people

February 14, 2009 12:03 am , 1 Comment ,

Why do I say that? No reason.

I’m outrageous!

The truth is the Virginia Festival of the Book is better than any music festival you can shake a porcupine pie at and that’s because the VFB doesn’t buy into the whole concept of “cool” or even that of “music festival.” The VA Festival of the Book doesn’t try to wow you with its “Clean Vibes’ Trading Posts” or its Yoga Classes or its rock ‘n’ roll or its Yeah Yeah Yeahs. People don’t bus onto the festival grounds because they want to get a henna tattoo and smoke weed with John Grisham. They come because I’m here. In my capacity as a headlining VFB blogger, I demand that you join me for this important event, March 18-22, 2009. Here are some highlights:

Stephen L. Carter of Yale and John Grisham of My Pants are going to have a handsome contest and I don’t know who’s going to win, but I will be judging strenuously. I feel bad for the writers who aren’t given enough credit for being sex objects. I want to print their book jackets on giant posters and distribute them to teen girls.

Doctors are going to bridge the gap between medicine and writing. I am going to grow a hernia thinking of something funny to say about it. Then the doctors are going to operate on me and I’ll be cured! Haha!

Rita Dove is going to read from her new book of poetry accompanied by a member of the Dave Matthews Band, Boyd Tinsley. He will be jamming on his electric poetry violin which will plug into his poetry road amp, nicknamed Will-jam Butler Yeats. Maybe Nikki Jamiovanni. Oh god.

Dan Ariely, author of Predictably Irrational, is going to eat croutons and peanut butter sausages or perhaps something even more unexpected at his business breakfast.

I am going to have an awesome time shmoozing at the Authors’ Reception, just like last year when I met these precocious young ladies and ate my weight in hors d’oeuvres and (swoon!) got a literary agent’s e-mail address. The VFB Authors’ Reception is my Vanity Fair Oscar Party.

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On second thought, maybe some of these blog drafts should stay dead

February 13, 2009 10:06 pm , 1 Comment ,

DOA posts from the back end:

Hot tips for teen moms [This one recommended that pregnant teenagers move to France or Germany where the government would pay for their babies. In retrospect, not very good advice.]

Reading on the treadmill [Challenging, but worth it, like walking on a tightrope.]

Invite me to your next party so I can determine if you’d go Nazi [Failed post was based on this bizarre 1941 Harper’s article.]

Why are women so gay? [I have no idea where this one was headed.]

India [Again, that’s all I had so far.]

Planning a wedding is no big deal

I wish you could get married on the internet

Shopping for a wedding dress on Craigslist [You can see where my mind was when I wrote these last three. They were good for venting but then they struck me as a bit self-absorbed. Unlike all my other posts.]

On being a late bloomer [I might actually try this one again if no one objects.]

Mom, I’m a porn actress [I’m not actually, but do you see now how hard I work to come up with posts for you guys? And how much of my mother’s well-being I sacrifice in the name of Internetainment? ™]

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Reverse caption contest

February 13, 2009 9:46 pm , 2 Comments ,

Yesterday* my sister and I made a pit stop at the BP station to buy some snacks for the movie theater. My sister, who takes her concessions seriously, bought a turkey sandwich. But when she asked the sandwich artist for tomato fixings, the lady said, “The tomatoes have a virus.”

So in the spirit of the New Yorker caption contest, I want you to draw me a suitable picture for the punchline “The tomatoes have a virus.” Nevermind the fact that this is the internet and you can’t color directly on the monitor or on the server. Nevermind the fact that I have every intention of forgetting I proposed this contest. But note that unlike other national sweepstakes, only family and friends can win this one.

*This actually happened sometime last June, but the draft disappeared into the back end of my blog. [Cue a “That’s what she said!” Or maybe a chuckled “If you know what I mean!”] Since I’m home on a Friday night with a stomach ache, I thought I’d take the opportunity to revive some of these DOA blog posts, thus creating zombie posts that will eat your brain over the weekend. Happy Valentine’s Day!

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New feature: Why I love this questionable video

February 13, 2009 9:35 pm , 1 Comment ,

I love this questionable video because it depicts my dear friend and closest French ally Bart Calendar (site semi nsfw) whipping his shirt onto the ground (“I was just whipping my shirt onto the ground. It seemed like the right thing to do.”) during La Fete de la Musique in Montpellier, France (where I once had the pleasure of trolling bars with him). Bart never fails to bring the Nouveau Jersey to all his foreign enterprises, including getting drunk. He turns 40 on Valentine’s Day and he deserves a high-flying salute from this blog.

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Link corral (bookmark spring-cleaning)

February 8, 2009 1:53 am , 7 Comments ,

The New York Times shows us 25 ways to impress others on Facebook.

How to exalt your achievements while appearing humble? How to convey your essential originality while coming off as reassuringly familiar? How to illuminate without oversharing?

Stop apologizing for your perfect breasts. Nobody’s listening because they’re too focused on your perfect breasts.

For the Charlottesville people: The Parking Lot Movie is finally here.

I Bang the Worst Dudes recently changed its URL to www.sorry-mom.com. I must have accidentally let the domain expire after high school.

The author of this article about male lesbian sexual fantasies has obviously never attended a slasher convention.

I like this lady even though she writes for USA Today: 25 Great High-School Books.

I now feel the need to support other peoples’ weird animal photos.

Before the octuplet mom, there was Josef Mengele’s “twin town” in Brazil. If you’re wondering what these stories have in common, the answer is tainted babies.

Surprisingly endearing interview with the author of Stuff White People Like:

CNN: Where do you get your ideas?

Christian Lander: Farmers’ markets.

. . .

CNN: What are some of the things that have been rejected from the list?

Lander: The one I reject a lot is people say, “Well, you know what, ‘Stuff White People Like’ should be on the list of ‘Stuff White People Like.’ ” I’m just like, “All right, postmodern hero, you’re not the first person to send this in. I’m not putting it on the list.”

Bhutan banned smoking. But the country still lights up after a rice wine bender with Tibet. Whaa? I just turned into Jay Leno all of a sudden.

This page is the Las Vegas slot machine version of the internet.

I know the whole hipster debate is over, but let this list be its swan song.

All Top online newspaper only compiles feel-good news from around the world.

Carolyn Hax just schooled somebody.

Abusing spoiled rich people is the easy thing to do, so I’ll take the sympathy route.

Now your kidney has chlamydia.

Full online documentary about Second Life love affairs.

Weekend newsprint warriors:

More people need to review cold novelty beverages for a living.

He is why my single girlfriends (and my mother) want me to attend grad school in New York City.

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I am loving The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

February 2, 2009 2:02 pm , 2 Comments ,

The book lives up to the hype. A good quarter of the novel is written in Spanish, which is one of the many languages that I don’t speak, but I just assume that the gibberish parts I skip are greater than or equal to the English parts that I don’t.

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A formal essay about famous frogs me

January 29, 2009 10:11 pm , 16 Comments ,

My mother is exasperated that my husband and I still haven’t made a dime from our famous photograph. “Couldn’t you at least print up some t-shirts?” she says. “You can sell them on www.turtlefrogspiderphoto.com.” I explain to her that it seems exploitative to profit off something that—for whatever reason—inspires people. It’s like selling $5 bottles of Barack Obama water on the Washington Mall. I also explain to my mother that I don’t want to abuse or overextend my 15 minutes of fame. But in the back of my mind I’m thinking, “If I play my cards right, I can ride this photo all the way to the top.”

My husband and I never aspired to make a full-fledged career out of the spider on top of a frog on top of a turtle that we rescued from my parents’ pool filter last August. How could anyone sustain that kind of celebrity? We never dreamed that the photo phenomenon would go as far as it did. In fact we thought it would go precisely as far as our personal blogs. But the turtle/frog/spider mutant took on a life of its own. First local website cVillain picked up the story and photo. Then it went viral on the internet. Then it went international in OK Magazine and the Daily Telegraph. Then it went epidermal with a giant back tattoo on a California woman. Then it went full circle with Brian McKenzie’s Daily Progress column. Then it went statewide with Sandy Hausman’s WVTF radio story. Here on One Star Watt I will try to prolong the story for at least another week.

All my previous fantasies about being famous involved the New York Times or the Oscars or the White House or (on bad days) the Darwin Awards, not accidental drownings. Granted, the three critters survived their ordeal, but that didn’t stop an irate Albemarle County woman from writing into the Daily Progress. According to Marlene Condon’s editorial, the photo “epitomizes the cruel impact that humans often unwittingly inflict upon the Earth’s creatures.” Since when is it cruel to go hunting for animal carcasses in your bikini? Pool filters are the middle class’s version of raccoon traps baited with Friskies cat food. And I doubt that the chipmunk living in the neon-green Funoodle on my parents’ pool patio would exchange its happy home for personal safety. But Ms. Condon alleges that “[b]y maintaining an uncovered swimming pool, people bring about the deaths of numerous kinds of wildlife that are attracted to the water but then can’t escape the consequences.” Tell that to the three creatures that are in the woods right now writing the Disney/Pixar screenplay of their lives. At least I think they are. I’m a little afraid to return to the place where my dad finally released them after the photo shoot. What if I discover three small skeletons stacked one on top of the other, delayed victims of chlorine inhalation? I would bury them in formation. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that I’m famous.

On the internet especially, I’m surprised the goodwill has endured so long. Usually it takes a much shorter time for a cyber backlash to begin. It’s a credit to the New Age websites that have featured the picture that few people make negative comments. Even the “This is clearly shopped” comments are rare. But please—if I were to Photoshop an image, it would probably be of me and Mick Jagger partying together on the island of Mustique. I have a hip, unfeeling reputation to uphold; I would never choose to be known as the woman who took a heartwarming picture which Chicken Soup for the Nature Lover’s Soul will one day option. (Call me anytime, Chicken Soup.)

But I’m not embarrassed by being the author of the picture. Fame is always cool, no matter how lame its origins. At least my mom has been really impressed with me since the photo started generating buzz. And I’ve discovered that it’s not really how you get famous that matters, but how you deal with the fame once you have it. Once it’s in your lap, do you reject it (no), freak out (no), gloat (yes), start judging your friends “pre-turtle/frog/spider” and “post-turtle/frog/spider”? Certainly. Do you become full of yourself, thinking “I can stack any three things on top of each other—magazine, turkey sandwich, remote control—and they will be transformed into high art when I take their picture?” Of course you do. In the morning I’m going to lay my bowl of yogurt on top of a cat on top of a dictionary and then sell the photo rights for a million dollars.

But at what price fame? Sometimes fame can tear a couple apart. I should know because I was engaged to my husband when I found the turtle/frog/spider and now we’re happily married. All because he remembers that I took the picture so technically I own the rights. Every time I open our freezer and see the preserved topping from our wedding cake—the sugar turtle/frog/spider that Frank Cappellino made for us—I understand that love is the turtle that holds up the frog bride and the spider groom. Or maybe the spider bride and the frog groom? Or maybe humankind? I’m determined to find a deeper message in my photo. In any case someone has his fidgety legs in someone else’s eyeball and someone else is feeling seasick and the ground seems to be constantly moving underfoot. But in a good way. In a way that says one day God will pluck us out of the pool filter of life and unleash us in heaven after having a good laugh at our expense. Or that we will simply succumb to the fumes. Or that I should apply for a photojournalism position at National Geographic Magazine.

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Failed improv and other notable neuroses

January 28, 2009 6:16 pm , 3 Comments ,

Last night I had a nightmare that I was one of two leading actresses in an improvised play and all my friends came to see it but I couldn’t think of any funny lines and every time I spoke it was with a different unconvincing accent. No one returned to the theater after intermission, but the dream still woke me up in a cold sweat.

I think I experienced this nightmare because I watched Reno 911 earlier in the evening and those actors always knock me out with their improv skills. They don’t make me cringe like I usually do when people try too hard to say zany things off the cuff. For instance John C. Reilly routinely makes me feel uncomfortable when he acts in comedies. Every time I see him in a comedy I want to reach into the TV, pluck him out, cuddle him to my bosom, change the channel to a depressing period piece, and then put him back where he belongs. All with the help of my Wonkavision.

But this Reilly business reminds me of a website I recently discovered: I Am Neurotic. Here folks can dredge up the weirder thoughts and feelings that reside in their subconscious minds and post them on the internet for all to see. It’s a time-honored recipe for building a popular blog and then earning a book deal (HarperStudio, 2009).

If I drive up to this light late at night, when I know I can easily make the right on the red, I feel bad for the light making the effort to turn green, so I wait for the light to turn green before I go.

I do this with crosswalks. I imagine that if I push the crosswalk button and then walk across the street before the white light specifies that it’s okay, a driver will later be held up when the light turns for no one and he will think, “That bitch must have already crossed.” But that isn’t exactly neurotic because road rage is very real.

And then there’s this clown:

I don’t wash my hands every time after going to the bathroom because I don’t want to aggravate my dry skin too much. But I want everyone to think I’ve washed my hands so after I flush I turn on the faucet and let the water run for people to hear. I want it to be believable though, so I mime washing my hands to make sure I let the water run for exactly how long it would take me to really do it.

Hey person, you are gross and everyone knows it. Your ruse is a failure because there are hidden cameras in the bathroom and they also caught you pooping. And your whole office knows that you’re addicted to porn and Buffy: The Vampire Slayer fan fiction. Now stop soiling my internet with your dirty stories.

We hate you.

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