Two people used the search phrase “steak vagina” yesterday to find my page. Those two people, or that one person who searched the same phrase twice, are/is to blame for what follows.
Steak is good when properly prepared. I’m still deciding how I feel about A1 Steak Sauce. I think I like it. I like steak when there’s that bit of pinkness (not redness) right in the middle–I guess that qualifies as medium? Medium well? I used to always request my meat cooked medium well, but the meat usually comes back completely well. Which is a bummer.
Advertisers love to use backyard barbecues as the setting of commercials in the summer. Men manning grills. And tongs. And lighter fluid. There’s something so American about it. There’s this commercial Jim Gaffigan is in right now in which he makes some snarky comment about a grill being a thoughtful gift. I bet he doesn’t actually want a grill for Christmas, though.
My supervisor just came around and told my coworker and me that we could eat the chicken in the fridge. I don’t think it was prepared on a grill.
I like those steak chew toys that dogs sometimes have. If I were a dog I would love one for Christmas. It need not squeak though.
Some people don’t eat steak, but they eat vagina. Some people don’t eat vagina, but they eat steak. Some people eat neither steak nor vagina. Some people aspire to eat vagina and see no correlation between that and eating steak. Some people eat three times as much steak in a month as they eat vagina. Some people are morally opposed to eating steak. These are probably not the same people who are morally opposed to eating vagina.
If you find yourself lost in that throng of angry pedestrians taking pictures of themselves in front of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and electronic billboards, I recommend walking on the south side of W 43rd between 9th and 10th Avenues. It will provide respite from the chaos, and it will remind you of one of the simplest pleasures in life–smelling stuff that smells good. Specifically, the good-smelling scents of these two things:
Pi Pie! (Not necessarily available at this particular pie shop.)
Trees! (Beer can ornaments probably sold separately.)
You may also get a whiff of urine.
Remember that time in Forest Gump when Forrest hangs out with Lt. Dan on New Year’s Eve? And they end up back in some room with those women they picked up at the bar? Then Lt. Dan falls over in his wheelchair and the women laugh and leave? I hope your New Year’s is JUST LIKE THAT.
This ad really, really disappoints me. They couldn’t think of a less obnoxious way to advertise these stupid sneakers besides making us all stare at this woman’s ass?? I know that’s the point of the sneakers–to tone asses, but come on.
Or when seemingly simple things are explained in a long, detailed way. Especially when they’re things that don’t usually warrant an explanation. The kind of stuff that we brush past because they’re included in that “just how it is” category. Stuff that doesn’t always get asked, and if it does, it gets scoffed at and cast aside–”Why is the sky blue?” ”Why do I have to go to college?”
That’s just how it is.
We all want to feel smart. And often it’s easier to pretend to know all about something then to belly up and ask to be enlightened. Maybe it’s part of that American philosophy of doing it one’s self–I’m loading my shit into the back of this wagon, I’m driving it through dust, rivers, and mountains, and no one’s going to stop me or help me along the way. In other words–I’ll Wikipedia whatever this prick is talking about when I get home.
Anyway. I didn’t mean to talk about any of that. I just meant to talk about this theater review in the NYT for the play Matthew Broderick is in right now, The Starry Messenger. I haven’t seen the play, but the review talks about its themes, and they’re ones that fascinate me in this indescribably powerful way. The kind of stuff I want to go mad trying to wrap my head around, but only if it’s with someone who’ll go mad with me. You know, a John and Yoko type of thing. Madame and Pierre Curie, too.
Fragments from the article I especially like, and for which I am willing to go mad:
accepting the built-in limitations that come with being mortal
dialogue that laments the inadequacy of human communication, while quietly celebrating the valiance in trying to overcome it
“Nobody knows anything. We’re all just guessing.”
the lines between love and hate, affection and resentment are eternally blurred
ambiguity
juxtaposition of the mundane and the infinite
Flaubert said about the heartbreaking limits of words: “Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while longing to make music that will melt the stars.”
Not all that much makes me angry enough to vent about it in a public forum, but something happened earlier tonight that really rubbed me the wrong way.
Okay, I’m at this restaurant. There’s an open mic going on, and my turn to perform is coming up. I leave my seat to order a drink, only I don’t know where the bar is, so I look lost. And this waiter sees me. He’s at a table of patrons taking their orders. And he’s young–no older than mid-20s. So he looks up, and in a pretty loud tone that lets the whole restaurant hear him, he goes, “You trying to order a drink, sweetie?” And I go, “Yeah, I just want a Coke.” And he’s like, “The bar’s downstairs, sweetie.“
Like I said, not all that much ruffles me, but MAN. That just felt really crappy. It’d be a totally different story if this waiter was a few decades older, or if the restaurant wasn’t in supposedly one of the most progressive cities in the world. It seems like such a small thing, to be addressed as sweetie, but it’s huge. It knocks the wind right out of your “I’m equal” sails. And this is a restaurant that regularly hosts improv and other comedy shows–why you gotta be a douchebag? I don’t know. It caught me so off guard that I didn’t do anything. I just walked down the stairs and ordered my soda.
I’ve got a few theories as to why this dude did this condescending thing, though.
He’s stupid. He simply has no idea what effect his using this form of address has on the majority of women. And I do think it’s fair to say the majority of women.
He’s mean and bitter in his ripe young age. He’s a waiter at a place where other people regularly come to live out their dreams and make other people laugh and bring joy to the masses and themselves. And he feels like he should be somewhere else…which leads me into my final theory…
He’s been watching a lot of “Mad Men” and has delusions that he’s either an ad man in the 1960s, or as desired as Jon Hamm. It’s funny because every time I hear one of the male characters on that show address one of the female characters, one of the secretaries, as honey or sweetheart, I’ve been thinking to myself, “Gosh, I’m so glad men don’t do that anymore.” And this really gets to the heart of the matter–status. When you use one of these words to address someone who’s basically a stranger, you are, in a very obvious way, letting her know she’s beneath you. And that feels crappy.
That said, I got my drink, got on stage, performed, and felt pretty fucking empowered. So fuck you, waiter. Use your tips to buy some class.
This Ace of Base song came into my head earlier today, and the video is kind of amazing. It’s one of the most spastic things I’ve ever seen. When I was 12 or so, a lot of my time was spent choreographing dances to Ace of Base songs in particular. At the house of a bad influence I was friends with. The choreographing was fine, but it was the watching Showgirls late at night for inspiration that was questionable.
You can’t really make it out, but this photo depicts a man using a bench on the subway platform to do arm exercises. And the woman next to him looks uncomfortable, but too tired to move. Which is sort of an interesting metaphor. I feel like I get that way a lot–uncomfortable with my situation, but too tired to do anything about it.
I finally got around to cleaning my room, though, so things are looking up.
My coworker just walked past my computer screen. And if he happened to look, he would’ve seen that I was on Dictionary.com looking at the definition of “sad”.
I don’t feel particularly sad, but…looking up the definition of “sad” is admittedly a pretty sad thing to do.
Contemplating sadness got me thinking about Eeyore. I never connected with Winnie the Pooh when I was little, and I especially didn’t connect with Eeyore–which is funny because I lived up the street from a donkey farm. But Eeyore’s deal isn’t that Eeyore is a donkey. Eeyore’s deal is clearly that Eeyore is sad. And wears a pink bow.
With age I’ve come to better understand Eeyore’s condition/s. It’s painful to see such a sad creature. This video below makes it less painful. And it’d be even less painful and more amazing if drugs were involved:
There’s something about SNL promos that are completely awkward. I spent some time watching a bunch of them on hulu not long ago, and most of them are painful to watch. Self-promotion is hard to pull off well. Most of the hosts crash and burn with the format:
Host says that he/she is hosting, and also mentions the musical guest.
Cast member does/says something that warrants a reaction from the host.
Host reacts.
That third part is the clincher. If the host doesn’t react in a genuine and funny way, the whole thing kind of fails. The viewer can tell when the host just feels awkward about the whole thing. They look awkward, the viewer feels awkward. It’s hard all around. Because I’m rooting for them. Hosting SNL is a big deal. You’ve made some kind of name for yourself if you’re invited. But there is that very real danger of being god awful. And the promo is often an indication of how the show will go.
That said, Taylor Swift is hosting this week, AND she’s the musical guest. And I predict, based on the fact that she’s awesome, that she’ll do a good job. And by good job, I mean as good of a job as is possible. I hope.
I think Taylor Swift’s reactions in her promos are really impressive. Before you watch hers, though, watch the promo with Peyton Manning and Carrie Underwood. Peyton does well, but Carrie… Kind of painful. Compare and contrast.
No. But I did attend a couple information sessions about becoming one.
Madame?
"A title of respect used in speaking to or of an older woman, especially one of distinction, who is not of American or British origin."
Definitely not.
madamelibrarian