mundane jane

You're welcome.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 17 May 2010 01:27:00 +0000

Image, Toothpaste for Dinner

One of the people who works for the company that operates my cafeteria plan spent a couple days this past week fixing somebody else's screw-up. The fact that she was able to do so took me completely by surprise.

When I hadn't heard from her by day two, I figured she had left me high and dry; I was going to have to spend most of my morning trying to get her back on the line—or, barring that—explaining the problem to someone brand new so I could start the entire process over again.

Instead, she phoned at what must have been her quitting time on Friday to let me know she had taken care of the problem.

It was one of those situations where "Thank you" is appropriate, but because the other person went to so much trouble, doesn't really seem adequate.

"Thank you so much,” I said.

"That's quite all right."

"I really appreciate all the trouble you went to in clearing this up for me."

"Really--it's fine. That's what we're here for."

"Well, okay. Thanks again!"

"You bet."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

It didn't go exactly like that, but that's always my fear during these conversations—that in the flurry of sign-offs that wind down a phone call, I will slip into auto-response mode and proclaim love for a total stranger.

And as everybody knows, once you say the L-word, there's really no going back.

You and what army?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 May 2010 23:38:00 +0000

Every Tuesday night, I and several of my friends tweet through that week's episode of LOST.

That's right. I'm a member of the LOST Twitter Army.

If those two words in the same sentence make you think less of me, then so be it. I feel better during that hour of the week than I do at any other time.

It's a testimony to the nature of that show that so many of our tweets aren't really repeatable here. Well, I could--but I'm somewhat ashamed of myself so I won't. At any rate, we are almost always full of shock and awe as we watch, and our tweets are reflective of that. As you probably already know, some of us are more shocking and awesome than others.

But for that hour, my tiny apartment is filled with my friends, and we're having that experience together. We talk on top of one another, and hook punchlines off someone else's setup, and for the most part are our very best selves. It's fun and funny and lets everyone forget that some of us are actually physically hundreds of miles away.

And then it's over.

In a little over a week, LOST will be over too, and all my friends really are going to be a terribly long way away. On Tuesday nights, I'll be missing them almost as much as I will be missing my favorite show.

I'm going to hate to see it all end. Truly.

Tell her I said, "Hey."

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 10 May 2010 02:04:00 +0000

Muffin Uptown has a blog. She's posting about her art. If we're lucky, she'll do some writing there, too.

Yup. She's good at all those things.

You are a number YO.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 02:02:00 +0000

I needed to send a copy of my driver's license to someone. I don't even like showing my license to people who have the real-life me with which to compare--so I was really unhappy about having to send it out to be my sole representation to people who have never met me. It didn't even matter that those people weren't going to care. I guess I'm just that vain.

But lo and behold, I had let my license expire.

So on Wednesday, I spent a goodly chunk of my only free afternoon awaiting my turn at the DMV, where I exchanged a license featuring the photograph of a wild-haired, myopic, middle-aged woman with two chins for one picturing a wild-haired, myopic, double-chinned doofus who is four years older than middle-aged.

You would have thought that being in possession of a particularly unflattering driver's license photograph for the last four years might have prompted me to practice in front of a mirror beforehand. It did not. Mainly because I just didn't believe it was possible to take a worse picture than the one I already had. Anything--I figured--would be an improvement.

I don't understand why the guy who was snapping pictures that day couldn't have leaned in and said, "Sister. You don't want to be making that particular face. I'm serious. Nothing personal, but from where I'm sitting, you look like a doofus."

DMV restroom Image,Chacabuco's photostream.

Something for everyone.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 17:57:00 +0000

I've started a tumblelog. Now you can be frustrated by my posting inconsistency across three separate platforms!

FastCompany's Chris Dannen makes the point that not everything requires text. And even though I make my living via the written word, I completely agree. Sometimes it's enough to say, "Look. I want show you this."

Occasionally, I want to share things with you without having to add my two cents. That's what Tumblr is for. You can follow me there by way of the little button on your left, or you can just click here.

Read the rest of Dannen's What the Hell is Tumblr? here.

Until Time Erases.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 01:02:00 +0000

Unlike the Titanic disaster one year later, the Triangle Fire of 1911 has never been the subject of a major Hollywood blockbuster. When I proposed it back in grad school as the subject of my research--to a class that had already been studying immigrant lit for almost fifteen weeks--no one had ever even heard of it.

146 women died in the fire; almost all were first generation immigrants. The circumstances of their deaths directly influenced future social programs and political practices of the US.

Poet Morris Rosenfeld's memorial as published in The Jewish Daily Forward after the fire:

Neither battle nor fiendish pogrom
Fills this great city with sorrow;
Nor does the earth shudder or lightning rend the heavens,
No clouds darken, no cannon’s roar shatters the air.
Only hell’s fire engulfs these slave stalls
And Mammon devours our sons and daughters.
Wrapt in scarlet flames, they drop to death from his maw
And death receives them all.
Sisters mine, oh my sisters; brethren
Hear my sorrow:
See where the dead are hidden in dark corners,
Where life is choked from those who labor.
Oh, woe is me, and woe is to the world
On this Sabbath
When an avalanche of red blood and fire
Pours forth from the god of gold on high
As now my tears stream forth unceasingly.
Damned be the rich!
Damned be the system!
Damned be the world!
Over whom shall we weep first?
Over the burned ones?
Over those beyond recognition?
Over those who have been crippled?
Or driven senseless?
Or smashed?
I weep for them all.
Now let us light the holy candles
And mark the sorrow
Of Jewish masses in darkness and poverty.
This is our funeral,
These our graves,
Our children,
The beautiful, beautiful flowers destroyed,
Our lovely ones burned,
Their ashes buried under a mountain of caskets.
There will come a time
When your time will end, you golden princes. Meanwhile,
Let this haunt your consciences:
Let the burning building, our daughters in flame Be the nightmare that destroys your sleep,
The poison that embitters your lives,
The horror that kills your joy.
And in the midst of celebrations for your children,
May you be struck blind with fear over the Memory of this red avalanche
Until time erases you.

Source: Stein, Leon. The Triangle Fire. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1962, 145-146.

Image, Detail, History of the Needlecraft Industry (1938), by Ernest Feeney, High School of Fashion and Industry. A mural commissioned by the International Ladies Garment Workers Union (ILGW).

Okay. Here's what happened.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 05:00:00 +0000

I curled up in a chair Tuesday afternoon with Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger. It's a slow-building modern Gothic that's just perfect for falling asleep over on a quiet, weekday afternoon.

And so that's what I did.

And of course, the thing that always happens when I fall asleep in the middle of a weekday afternoon happened. The doorbell rang. It scares me to death to be awakened by the doorbell. In fact, it's pretty common for me to answer the door in wild-eyed, bed-headed breathlessness. There's no telling what people think I'm doing up in here.

This time, though, I lept up into the air and as I came back down, heard a sound that seemed, oh, I don't know, kinda out of place. Way in the back of my mind--the part that wasn't already begging to be shot--I thought, "Hmm. That sounds just like snap beans. It's too early for beans, init?"

It took quite a while then to get to the door, because for what seemed to me to be a very long time, I could only roll around on the floor saying, "Owowowowowowow" (or some less printable version of that same thing). Finally though, I got to my knees and crawled the two-to-three feet to the front door, dragging my useless right leg behind me.

So I was on my knees--a wild-eyed, bed-headed, breathless Dorf--as I opened the door. And then I did something that really only happens in the South.

"I'm sorry, I fell trying to get to the door."

That's right. I apologized to the UPS man for taking so long to open the door.

Which was fine, I guess, because this guy was not the least interested in whether or not I was injured. Maybe because I was so successfully holding my shit together or maybe because it was obvious to even this total stranger that I was some kinda tough old bird, he handed me first the package and then the fake clipboard WHILE I WAS DOWN THERE ON MY KNEES. I had to lay the clipboard-y thing on the ground in order to sign.

And then he thanked me and got back into his truck.

Ordinarily, this is the place where I would hit the post button--because you know I don't like to go on after I think I've made my point. But I want to pause here to ask--way back on February 16, when I was working up a full head of steam reaming out the lady at my doctor's office for not having my name on the appointment register when we both realized first that my appointment wasn't really scheduled until March 16, and then that no amount of apologizing would likely ever be enough--it's cool if we just call that a wash, now, right?

Right?

Image, sergiok's photostream. My xrays are happening on Wednesday. Stay tuned.

Because there's new school ukulele, and then there's get-the-hell-outta-here ukulele.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 10:30:00 +0000

For all those folks who--when I say I play ukulele--say, "Oh. Like Tiny Tim."

edit--which is not to say that I can play this well. Yet.

What a feelin'.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I have a friend whose husband is amazed that she can remove her brassiere without taking off her clothes. It's an easy trick, and for some reason I don't understand, it's been shocking guys slackjawed since Jennifer Beals did it in Flashdance. Truly, men forget their home address when they see women do this.

But let me tell you something. If men wore bras, they would find a way to take them off right there in front of everybody in the room--all while making you think they were just jingling their keys.

image, Melissa Maples' photostream.

I shimmy out of mine in the car all the time. Most days, I'm shed of it before leaving the parking lot. Last week, I couldn't find my favorite bra, and it wasn't until I had turned the house upside down that I realized I had left in in the glove compartment.

Oh, don't act so shocked.

Happy International Women's Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 18:05:00 +0000

The rest of the world has been observing March 8 as International Women's Day for 100 years.

I'm willing to bet that you've never even heard of it. We just don't make a big hairy deal out of it here in the US--probably because we didn't think of it first.

Instead, we designated the entire month of March as Women's History Month. Of course, you might not have been aware of that either, since there are no cards to send or decorations to string.

Hopefully, you did get wind of the fact that Hurt Locker director Kathryn Bigelow took the Oscar for Best Director last night--the first time the award has ever gone to a woman.

Which seems as sure a path to equality as having our own special day, I'd say.

image, Library of Congress, 1920 Republican Convention. L-R: Mrs. James Rector, Ohio, Mary Dubrow, N.J., Alice Paul, N.J.

Priority Mail Clutch Purse

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 00:54:00 +0000

I shouldn't even have to say anything about this idea. I should be able to just post a picture and let you love it to pieces without any help from me.

But here's the skinny: Alyssa at Shamdoogle! remixed instructables from U-handblog and Purl Bee to transform a used Tyvec envelope into a clutch.

Quick. Somebody mail me something.

The Yeti of promotional giveaways.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 15:17:00 +0000

My zombie friend Robin mentioned on Saturday night that she really, really wants to get her hands on a Weekend Edition Lapel Pin. After thinking about it, I realized that, while I've heard it promised to puzzle winners legion, I've never actually seen one.

So I set about finding an image of one on the Internet. I googled and I searched the photostreams on flickr. Nothing. Nobody is trying to unload one on ebay. You can't buy your own in the NPR shop. I'm a little embarrassed, really, at how much time I spent looking for this item on line. I've concluded now that it may very well be that the most precious of all cheap-ass trinkets doesn't even exist.

And now that I know this, I WANT ONE TOO.

Fortunately, all one has to do to get one of these pins is answer a qualifying question, have his or her correct entry selected from alllll the other correct entries, and then play the puzzle on the radio. On-air, the challenges are pretty easy--and even if the player gets stumped, Liane Hansen can usually figure out the answer.

The problem for me is going to be the qualifying challenge.

Think of a six-letter word in which the third letter is 'S.' Remove the 'S' and you'll be left with a five-letter word that means the opposite of the six-letter one. What is it? Clue: The six-letter word has two syllables. The five-letter one has one.

I worked for a guy once who had some synapse connectivity issues and most of his instructions sounded like this. Fortunately, I found that if I stood there and nodded my head long enough, he would eventually say something that made sense. But I don't see these challenges getting any easier for me, no matter how long I stand and nod my head.

NPR challenge quote courtesy Theresa Novak.

You're wanted on the phone, Mr. Glass.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 01:05:00 +0000

You know, when you listen to this, it almost sounds like Ira understands all about iPhones and connectivity and Qwerty keyboards. This idea goes directly against my vision of him as a retro, non-techie sort of guy. I find it quite titillating, really--the idea of Ira Glass welding anything more complicated than an Underwood typewriter.

I think I might be a little scandalized.

Be still (redux).

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Monday night, after a not-very-productive or enjoyable day at work, I walked in the door at home and went straight to the computer. I hadn't accomplished much with my day, and the little bit I managed to do was, I felt, not very good.

Most people go home after a frustrating day and just try to get over it---a little How I Met Your Mother, maybe some pizza, probably some beer, and after a couple hours, they feel like they might be able to answer the charge again the next day.

I'm not so good at that. Usually, I'm re-living the battle, but trying to do it in such a way that it comes out differently. Sometimes this works just fine and I come out ahead. Mostly, though, I just come out tired.

That was the situation when Muffin Uptown came in and began making cookies in commemoration of having finished her last class. She brought first the cookie dough and later the first cookie for me to taste and approve. Which I did. Then she went about her business and left me to mine.

Then, about a half hour later, I heard her sitting in the living room, singing softly to the cat.

And every difficult thing about my day fell silently and completely away.

photo, Riana Ambarsari.

Originally posted December 12, 2007. Something tells me I'm going to want to remember this one.

Small things (redux).

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Since school has been out for the summer, Muffin Uptown has been filling a sketch book with tiny little cartoons.

I got a look at it yesterday and liked it so much, I said I would like to publish some of it.

She might not have actually been in the room at the time.

Originally posted August 7, 2007.

Keeping those lines of communication wide open (redux).

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 05:00:00 +0000

From my office voice mail, sometime Monday morning:

"Hey, Mom, it's me. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that the cat threw up on the rug in the living room. I can't clean it up right now, but I didn't want you to come home after work all excited and run over to the TV and--you know--step in it, or something.

It's shaped like a heart."

Just in case I don't recognize it. What with my excitement to get to the television, and all.

image, Matt Cox.

Originally posted March 25, 2008.

Sister, your slip is showing (redux).

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Last weekend, I went to brunch with Muffin Uptown, my ex-husband, and my ex-wife-in-law. It was mostly just an excuse for everyone to spend a little time with MU before she embarks on her big LA adventure.

We don't exactly hang out, but we've spent a goodly amount of time together in the interest of parenting this (now grown up) child. We all went to the parent-teacher conferences, the music recitals, graduations, and art shows. They've come to my house for Christmas, and I've been to theirs for Thanksgiving. We've eaten out together. We collaboratively celebrate her birthday. We have a lot in common.

And we are very, very, civilized people.

Driving back from the restaurant, her dad was telling me of their plans to remodel their ten-year-old kitchen. The plan is to knock out a wall and extend the cooking area into the space that is now the garage. Their kitchen is already the size of a football field.

So I said, "Oh-my-gawd, Vickie! It's going to be HUGE!"

Muffin Uptown put her face into her hands. Then she looked up and shrugged at her stepmother, who held up her hands like, "What can you do?"

"What?" I said. "What?"

Then it hit me. My ex-husband's wife's name is Jackie. Vickie was the name of wife number two.

photo, Vintage Pulchritude.

Originally posted May 28, 2008.

My mom will get it (redux).

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Although practically perfect in every way, Muffin Uptown has a very short fuse when it comes to balky mechanical equipment. I warned her about this when she asked for her first sewing machine. As those of us who already own these contraptions could easily have told her, sewing machines exist for the sole purpose of testing one's certitude in a higher, beneficent being. Anyone prone to crisis of conviction would be better served at the mourner's bench than in front of a sewing machine.

And MU's constancy? Well, she loses her shit when a zipper gets stuck.

She's building an ambitious art installation that involves PVC piping and yards and yards of fabric, and had a meeting scheduled with her advisor on Tuesday to evaluate her progress. It's been going well. So of course, the machine inexplicably stopped in the middle of the next-to-the-last, nine-foot-long seam.

She telephoned me at work to test both my diagnostic and prognostication skills. Normally so articulate, she was struck dumb in the face of total mechanical malfunction.

"Mom! My sewing machine is all messed up. The wheel thing won't turn and it doesn't work. Well, it will turn--but it's really, really hard and when it does, the other thing just moves back and forth, instead of up and down and nothing is happening. This is really making me mad. What's wrong with it?"

Click. Click. Clickclickclickclick.

"What is that noise? What are you doing?"

"I'm turning the other wheel thing. But nothing is happening. Why won't it work? This is really making me mad."

"I think you should stop doing that--it isn't supposed to make that noise. Check the needle and make sure it isn't bent. Look for knotted up thread behind the bobbin. Check the presser foot."

"Presser foot? What's that?

Clickclickclickclickclickclick.

Ultimately, she was reduced to finishing her project on my sewing machine--a Singer 301A, circa 1956. There was a lot of inarticulate moaning and groaning about that, too.

"Does your machine even work? It's old."

Later, during her project review, she detailed the difficulties she'd had to her professor and complained of having to finish her sewing on a "Triangle Shirtwaist Factory sewing machine."

"That sounds cool." her professor said, "I don't think I've ever used one of those before."

Originally posted January 23, 2008.

There's a Haiku for that.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Did you know that you can write your dissertation as a haiku and submit it to Dissertation Haiku for all the world's wonder?

"It takes a long time to get a Ph.D. Maybe five or six years, four if you’re fast. At the end, you’ve written a big fat document which all of your committee members will read if you’re lucky. How can you gain a wider audience for the major product of ten-or-so percent of your time on Earth?"

Maybe you don't have a dissertation. I don't, and I only read them when I'm researching. But I like Haiku--especially Haiku that gets out and sees the world:

Marine microbes eat
polysaccharides, except
that sometimes they don’t.

Andrew D. Steen

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

I measured the rates at which dissolved polysaccharides are degraded by microbes in seawater. Differences in those rates among locations suggest that the reactivity of dissolved organic matter in seawater is determined by the nature of the microbial community as well as the chemical characteristics of organic matter. If seawater microbial communities in the Arctic Ocean begin to access a wider range of dissolved organic molecules as temperatures warm in the future, more organic matter may be converted to carbon dioxide in the Arctic Ocean.

Scholarship, with a touch of irony. I like it.

image from ashkev's flickr photostream.

Telling the tale, true.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Before I was a writer, I was a storyteller.

I love writing stories down, but for me, nothing compares to telling a story in real time, to real people. Once it's on the page, it's going where it's going. But a story told to another honest-to-goodness person is a once in a lifetime event. It's shaped as much by the reactions of the listeners as it is by the teller.

As self-absorbed as I am, though, I also like hearing the stories other people have to tell--which is where The Moth comes in.

I can't remember if I've talked about The Moth here before--I meant to, but something sparkly may have distracted me. If I did and you remember it, please send me the link. After the first 700 posts, it all starts to run together.

The Moth is a not-for-profit storytelling organization based in New York City featuring "celebrated writers and actors and other unique storytellers." They feature "true stories told live on stage without scripts, notes, props, or accompaniment." Moth stories are broadcast via podcast for free download each week on iTunes, and some of the stories you hear on This American Life were recorded live at The Moth. You don't have to live in New York City to hear the storytellers featured on stage.

But if you are Muffin Uptown and living in NYC for the summer, you aren't going to miss an opportunity to see it up close and in person. And yes, if the opportunity presents itself, get up on that scary stage and tell a story your own damn self.

The Moth hosts competitive StorySlams for the amateur storyteller four times a month, so it wasn't like Muffin would be sharing the stage with Garrison Keillor or Dan Savage. Even so, I was a little nervous. As much as I hate flying, I'd board that plane today if I thought a single big city New Yorker had been mean to my heart of hearts.

So, I had lots of constructive criticism for MU after gave me a preview of the story she planned to tell on stage--stuff to leave out and stuff to stick in--along with some advice about delivery and timing. She left the majority of my advice right where she found it, and--like any good storyteller--told the story the way her intuition and the crowd told her to tell it.

Which--when you think about it--is even better than doing what I told her to do in the first place. I guess she was listening to me after all.

Muffin Uptown took 3rd place in her first ever Moth StorySlam. Not bad for a little pastry in a big city.

Artifacts.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 05:00:00 +0000

For years, Tawana and I have had an in-case-of-sudden-death arrangement. I won't go into details, except to say that each of us has agreed to go in and vamoose certain items that might not leave our loved ones with the best last impression. We're good friends, and that's what good friends do.

This is the kind of thing that has to be revisited periodically--stuff gets moved around, the list of damning items changes. I assume that--given enough time--there will eventually come a moment when we no longer need this compact. If you get to live long enough, you reach a point where you just don't care what people think of you after you've called it a day.

Last week, Tawana told me that she is almost always conscious of what she's doing at any given moment--just in case it happens to be her last. In other words, would she want to be found having gone the way of all flesh while doing whatever it is she happens to be doing? As she was telling me this, I had another one of those moments when I realized how fortunate I was to have a very best friend. Who else is going to go the extra mile to be sure my anxiety level about an already uncomfortable subject is ratcheted up there where it's supposed to be?

Because, before she named it, I hadn't even considered this.

When I have thoughts of death, they are almost always of the how-to-avoid-the-untimely variety. Premature death lies in wait around every corner for the woman who lives alone. I wish I could see the statistics for the number of women who plummeted to their deaths carrying three trips-worth of crap upstairs--just so they wouldn't have to schlep back down and then up again. And again. I'd like to know my odds of meeting my maker at the hands of my 5-bladed uber razor, or via the 3am hormonally-induced heatstroke that's out there with my name on it. It's highly likely that I'll fall and break something I need to maintain adequate ventilation and respiration while trying to beat my cat to the ringing telephone. I might choke to death on a piece of poorly masticated corndog, or strangle on my own spit while trying to get AT&T on the line.

ADT and Brinks may be worried about scary home invader types, but I'm convinced any home security system is just going to lock me in with the thing that's trying to kill me. The CSI team is going to take one look at me--lying there in a pool of Netflix envelopes--and then turn their tiny little flashlights to the room around me.

"Well," one of them will say,"I'm surprised she's lasted this long. It's a danger zone in here."

Then another one--probably the pretty one in white designer jeans, will say, "Hey, Mac/Gil/Horatio. Lookit this. Would you say these are two-day old pajamas, or three?"

Image, Elektroschutz, via Bre Pettis.

Punk love.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Night before last, I dreamt that my puppy died and I was sad all day. I don't even have a puppy, but dreaming about it was enough to hurt my feelings. What I do have is a 9 month old cat, and she's a punk.

She's selfish, destructive, and has no regard for my authority. I think she's been smoking in the bathroom. Last night she tore through the living room, kicking the legs of the furniture, and stopped in the hallway to turn to me and say, "What are you looking at?"

Then she tore down the driveway and stayed out past curfew. I think she was out racing for pinks.

"She's probably acting out because she's bored," I thought.

So I bought her a new toy--an expensive, stupendous, pink- and purple-feathered, sashaying, bird-in-Las-Vegas-drag toy. This toy was absolutely flaming. If this toy had a theme song, it would be "I will survive."

The toy, sadly, did not.

My punk cat loved that toy. She batted it out of my hand and had it in her jaws before it hit the floor. She rolled on it. She batted at it with her back feet. She sang romantic songs to it. Then she plucked it naked and left it--dead and forgotten--in the middle of the kitchen floor. Punk love is ferocious, vicious, and violent; punk love will leave you with nothing but pink and purple feathers and bits of neck and wing that stink of catnip.

photo, Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen, by Richard Mann.

Keeping it real.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Did you see this picture last week? A lot of you did--it made a fairly big splash for a photo measuring 3 inches square.

"The Woman on page 194" of Glamour is 20-year-old, plus-sized model Lizzie Miller. She's not plus-sized at all, when using real-girl calculations. In fact, Lizzie's picture looks unremarkably normal. It's a variation of what most of us see when we look in the mirror, and not at all what we've become used to seeing in the magazines. This is the kind of shot we wouldn't expect to see without a black bar thrown over her eyes.

And although Glamour editor-in-chief Cindi Leive says her "inbox was flooded" with positive messages and that she "pays attention to this stuff," I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you.

This isn't a look you can expect to see on the cover any time in the near future.

At practically the same time Lizzie Miller's picture was prompting an outpouring of affirmative responses, Self magazine's editor-in-chief Lucy Danziger was adamantly defending the photoshopping of singer Kelly Clarkson's cover shot. While striving to "capture the essence of [Clarkson] at [her] best," they shaved a goodly portion off the singer--presumably because her best just couldn't possibly be that heavy.

This much is true: virtually every styled photograph that sees publication has been photoshopped. (Have you ever seen an electrical switchplate in a room shot?) With the right software, even the perfect shot can be made more so. The same holds true for the perfect woman.

I've been in these meetings--the ones where the editor-in-chief looks at the photography director and demands to know why the 99-pound model looks so fat or so ugly. I was always thankful the models weren't privy to what was being said about them behind closed doors--usually by women nearer the exit door of the feminine ideal than the entrance.

It wasn't until I took my place at that conference table that I understood that the flawless standard being fed to us by "the media," could more accurately be described as the absolute as defined by the one or two people at the top of the publication's org chart. Make no mistake--the photostylists, photographers, artists, and writers all take instruction from the executive director and editor-in-chief. If those people wanted realistic representations on the pages of their publications, that's exactly what you would be getting.

And it wouldn't take an outpouring of positive responses from readers to make it happen.

photo, Walter Chin for Glamour

Ukulele with authority.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 22:51:00 +0000

Even dressed up and center stage, I guess they just can't help themselves.

Guess what song I'm figuring out how to play tonight?

via nothing to do with arbroath.

At least Ferguson had a cockney dinosaur puppet afterward.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 03:41:00 +0000

Muffin Uptown, you might remember, has been living in New York City since the first week of June, and yesterday she and her boyfriend had tickets for the taping of last night's show.

I assume that had Mr. Letterman asked her up on stage and quizzed her as to the origins of her awesomeness, the child would have afterward dropped a dime to call me with a report. Since I got no such call, my main concern last night was to watch the show and scour every audience shot in the hope of glimpsing a Muffin elbow or wisp of strawberry-blonde hair.

I didn't see her anywhere. It was just like not winning the lottery.