zebra print
fanny pack (I saw a Miu Miu fanny pack at a resale shop. Even at $5 it was too much)
padded brassiere
trucker hat
"jelly kelly" tote bag
neon anything
pleated pants
fishnet gloves
tommy hilfiger clothing
shorts (I wore them as a child, but that is different)
uggs
tube tops (impossible due to gravity)
nine west shoes (cheap, pinchy)
girdle
"A lot of television viewers—more, quite frankly, than I am comfortable with—get their news from [...] The Daily Show." —Ted Koppel, July 04
Lately, the old-guard journalism fellows are sweating through their gabardine. Turns out that my generation is distrustful of the news media, and would rather watch The Daily Show than Nightline.
Should this really surprise anyone?
I watch Nightline more often than I catch The Daily Show, mostly because I don't get cable. But if it were possible to watch TDS instead, I'd do it in a heartbeat—and not just because Jon Stewart is a sexy, sexy Jewish man. It's because news media outlets are largely owned by corporations; they are influenced heavily by talking points rather than by their own ideas; they follow each other around to earn ratings, not to report stories; and finally, they are so scared of looking biased that they report allegations rather than facts (see: Swift Boat Vets fiasco).
Look, I don't care about the BAT INVASION!!! in one Peoria woman's house (that hard-hitter aired at 10:07 on a local ABC affiliate this month). I don't care about a scientist who put little weights on a beetle to test its strength (that's from a national network broadcast this week). I am sorry that Laci Peterson was killed, but I do not think that her story merits national attention of this magnitude.
I think a lot of people my age believe the same thing. When people like Ted Koppel (I do a great impersonation, by the way) talk down to my generation, implying that we're not bright enough to differentiate "real" news from "fake" news, it's insulting. Of course we can tell the difference, and we can also tell when the "real" news isn't giving us the whole story. We are tired of news without nuance, without balance, and sometimes without fact.
I like Ted Koppel, and as part of Operation: FTAS I do my little exercises while watching Nightline. For the most part, it's a good program. I think ol' Teddy fights the good fight. But what he doesn't see is that many intelligent viewers have grown disenchanted with the lazy fare (arr arr) that dominates television news. We get our news elsewhere and then watch The Daily Show for a laugh. What's so bad about that?
Interior: kitchen table where ANNIE is looking at stacks of teen magazines. MOTHER is goodnaturedly offering food to her beloved only child
ANNIE: You can read some of these if you want. I would write captions for stuff like this (points to magazine column)
MOTHER: Okay! This will be fun! (flips through magazine) Honey? (a beat)
ANNIE: Yesh?
MOTHER: What is a metrosexual?
ANNIE: Um.
MOTHER: Is that gay? Does that mean gay? Or is it something to do with—oh my god, sex on the subway, that's not sanitary...
ANNIE: No no no. Although that would be unsanitary; you know, I hate even touching the poles.
MOTHER: Oh no, metrosexual means pole dancing in the subway!
ANNIE: No, no, mom—it's just a made-up term.
MOTHER: Does it mean gay?
ANNIE: No, it, um, it's kinda lame but it's a term that describes straight men who do traditionally "gay" things.
MOTHER: Like parades?
ANNIE: No, like, I don't know, they use fancy shave cream. And they wear expensive jeans, and get manicures and stuff. That sort of thing.
MOTHER: Ohhhh. (conspiratorially) Do they get their assholes waxed?
ANNIE: Uh— (starts writing this stuff down verbatim)
MOTHER: Because you know, some women do that! Brazil waxes, they're called.
ANNIE: Yes, Mom, I know about that.
MOTHER: And I'm wondering if maybe these men, maybe they get their assholes waxed too.
ANNIE: I really have no idea.
MOTHER: I think that would hurt. And you know, the men would have a different kind of pain if the wax went in the wrong spots.
ANNIE: (laughing, tears in eyes, switching between horror and hilarity) I... I don't know...
MOTHER: Well, I certainly wouldn't—Annie, what are you doing? Are you writing this down?!
ANNIE: Um, yeah.
MOTHER: Don't you tell people! You always make fun of your mother!
ANNIE: No, it's that you're funny, you do funny things unintentionally.
MOTHER: I don't see what's so funny about waxing assholes!
On Monday, my friends Jen and Drew welcomed their first child into the world. The next day, I visited the new family at the hospital. Even before walking into their room, I had happy tears in my eyes. All I could think about was how fortunate I feel to witness the beginnings of their family, and how people like them give me hope. The baby is beautiful, with a full head of hair. They had her bundled up in a blanket, and she looked like a ham. I mean that in the best possible way. I marvel at the life that stretches before this tiny person.
The next day, my mother came to help me shop for an interview suit. I had tried to explain to her that whenever I try on suits, I wind up looking like a little girl playing dress-up. I also told her that I refused to buy my suit at Ann Taylor, because I will look like Day-to-Night Barbie minus the D-cups. She scoffed at both of my claims until we made it to Marshall Field's. I don't like Marshall Field's; I think it's a C-list Saks with dirty dressing rooms and poor customer service. But my mother, who is a longstanding card holder there, had a discount coupon, so we decided to give it a go. Our evening of shopping ended with me tugging on the lapels of a $600 suit, frowning at the fact that the only flattering outfit cost nearly as much as rent. I didn't buy it.
Then, on Wednesday, I did a big thing: I resigned from my job. It still hasn't hit me. I've been part of Job Club for four years, and very soon my daily routine will be completely different. I feel a strange amalgamation of disbelief (did I really just do that?) and optimism. Maybe it's foolish to leave a steady job when the economy is lousy, but I feel ready for a change. Ready for a challenge. Ready for the next chapter. Ready to eat a lot of rice and beans.
A lot of your music has a political edge, but it's not in a Born Against sort of way. How do politics come into your songwriting process?
More often than not it's just about wanting to get something off my chest, but I also do recognize that, by and large, I'm preaching to the converted. Part of what I see my role as in that is a buddy who can help you get through these issues, that kind of thing. Because 90 percent of anybody at any of my shows is probably going to agree with most of the political things that I would want to talk about.
vote for hamster heart pumper
chin like jay leno
Yes, it's another night at the coffee shop. I don't even love this place. It's overpriced and a bit grimy, and aside from the guy who looks like the singer from Earth Crisis, the baristas aren't overly friendly. I come here because it's a good place to watch people swarm the intersection of Milwaukee and Damen, and it gets me out of the apartment.
I also must confess that I have been coming here lately because one of my summertime crushes is a frequent customer. I've asked a few of the baristas about my crush, but they tell me that they see dozens of people every day and they can't remember. That's only partly true, because some of them remember me; but my crush is so stunning that it's hard to believe that they wouldn't notice such an intriguing individual.
On my way here tonight, I stopped by a dining establishment to say hello to one of my other summertime crushes. I gave him a copy of the current Venus but then nervously blurted, "But you are at work and I don't want to get you fired, so I will go." He said that I should go see his friends play classical music at Heaven. I am convinced that he thinks I am a big-time ho because I always dine with someone different (Tom, Adam, Brian, Josh, Miles, Lindsay, and Megan come to mind). I wish that I could just say, "I like how you're always quiet and sweet to me when I eat here. You seem a little lonely, and I am lonely too, so maybe we could go to the park and be lonely together." But that would probably be considered creepy. Much like the guy at the table across from me, who keeps alternating between attempts to read my screen and steal none-too-subtle glances at my thighs and breasts. Does he think I am sitting in a bucket of crispy fried chicken or something?
Oh god, open mic night is closing with that "Jammin'" song by Bob Marley. That's my cue to head home, sore ears and all.
Shortly before 11 am, I took a cab to Manny's Deli. It isn't really a deli; it's more of a cafeteria, and the seating area reminded me of the Kiwanis Club meeting space back home. To my delight, Manny's serves a veggie burger, so I ordered that and a rusty-tasting lemonade. Well, as it turns out, Manny's veggie burger is literally that: canned vegetables mixed with egg (?) and fried:
Next time, I will order the grilled cheese.
One of my problems with The Left is that nothing ever starts on time. Say what you will about conservatives, but their events generally stay on schedule. Obama and Edwards were running late. So there I was, drowning my vegetable burger with mustard and ketchup in a futile effort to make it taste like anything but eggs and On-Cor peas. I sat alone, amusing myself by watching the television reporters scurry around breathlessly. You could tell when the Dreamy Dems had entered the restaurant, because all of the cameras suddenly swooped to the left (har har).
So, without further ado, awkward photos and real-life commentary:
Oh, Johnny Sunshine! Such a smiler! He says "you" like "ewe" and keeps eye contact. "THANK YOU FOR RUNNING," I said woodenly. "I HAVE BEEN REGISTERING VOTERS." Yes, Senator Edwards, I am a political FemmeBot. He thanked me for my efforts. I love how Senator Durbin is in the background, looking kinda crestfallen that his presence was not thrilling the crowd as much as the candidates'. Also, I trust that Mr. Obama is not looking at my ass in this photo.
Continuing in my stilted voice, I greeted Mr. Obama with a cheery, "I AM SO GLAD THAT YOU ARE RUNNING. I HAVE BEEN VOLUNTEERING FOR YOU." He thanked me, and honestly, I know this sounds naive and cheesy, but it felt genuine. I love that guy. I look dopey in this photo because the paranoid in me kept thinking, "What if it comes out blurry?" Ah, politics.
That's when I start searching for an excuse to cut the conversation short. I do not want to tell people where I work, because then their eyes will grow to the size of canteloupes, and they will begin a rapid succession of questions: what's it like, can I get them a job there, can I do this, does it really work like this, you know I heard an interesting story about that place... and so on. Especially at "professional networking" events, I do not wish to reveal much about my employment, because then I become The Woman Who Works At Job Club, and I can see where it's all going. I try to deflect their questions with inquiries about their jobs, but it inevitably circles back to mine. And I can't talk about my job. At all.
What I can talk about is the fact that today, Miss T is a winner. In July, I entered an essay contest at the last moment. The prize for this contest is not a big fancy car or something material; it's an opportunity to meet with somebody whose career I really admire (which I value much more). This afternoon, I found out that my essay won the contest, and before long I'll be in New York City to spend an hour with this person. I feel energized and confident and validated, glad and thankful to have excellent news.
