Happy Meow Meow
It’s purrfect, really.
Hello Kitty and I are…cough cough…roughly the same age. Animals born in the 70s. Both with white whiskers. And both animated.
Hello Kitty, on the other paw, has her own tv series, theme park, and restaurant. I must have missed the boat on the former. Unless you count my turn as a Ouija board cult killer on Unsolved Mysteries or perky party-goer in MTV’s Apartment 2F.
Speaking of parties, I first remembered meeting Ms. Kitty when we both arrived in New York . One night at Limelight, she was lit(t)erally everywhere: watches, t-shirts, backpacks, hats, folders. Who would have known that she would have been such a trendsetter? Limelight returns as a boutique mall, Limelight Marketplace, this Fall, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the stores sells none other than HK herself.
Happy Birthday, Hello Kitty. You’ve clawed a long way, baby.
If you happen to be in LA, check out Hello Kitty’s birthday at “Three Apples,” which runs through Nov.15 at Royal/T. More than 80 pop artists and designers including Amanda Visell, Frank Kozik, Natalia Fabia and Simone Legno will be at the FREE event showcasing their interpretations of the Feline Ms. K. Word on the street is that there’s even a mock-up apartment filled with Hello Kitty items.
Catatonic, anyone?
*****
Procrastifacing
I’m a fan of new words…whether they’re new to me or newly made. They give me a cause to celebrate…or procrastinate as the case may be.
Case in point: procrastifacing.
Procrastifacing occurs when you should be working on something more productive yet have somehow managed to refresh your news feed 5 times in 1 minute. Or updated your status. Or searched for a group that you wouldn’t join “live” if it started up a stone’s throw from where you live. Or searched for your ex’s ex “ex” before you. Or the teacher from 5th grade that said she knew you’d go far. Or the teacher you lusted after who knew you wouldn’t amount to much. Or Teach For America. Or American Idol results. Or results from the last thing posted in your news feed. It’s the circle of life – it stalls us all.
Please note that procrastifacing is not to be confused with procrasturbation….last year’s term for the MySpace set.
Next month, the term will just be “proc.” You’ll need the remaining 136 characters 4 ur other tweet brevs.
Now, Voyager
Who doesn’t love a good time capsule? Not to be confused, of course, with a good-time capsule (Cf: Ecstasy and Viagra)
A time capsule is, in some sense, our projection of what we, ourselves, consider to be nostalgic. What will ”others” want to see that we think best represents us? Is it our innovations, our pop culture, and/or our hope at immortality?
Maybe it’s a mix of all three. Here are some time capsules from days past:
- Voyager (communications, peace promoter, time capsule, and object of Star Trek: The Original Motion Pictire, I would argue)
- 1939 World’s Fair Time Capsule
- M*A*S*H Cast Time Capsule
What would today’s time capsule contain? What would best represent our current culture?
- A Twinkie – “food”, glorious “food”…and we may be hungry after the capsule digging
- Hot air – courtesy of Fox News and the Religious Right
- A Twitterific application – because we can say more with less.bit.ly
- A clone of Oprah – that woman knows how to build an empire, and that’s the Gospel truth
- Clone Wars – maybe someone in the future will understand why Lucas ruined the original trilogy.
We’ll return to this list after our Bette Davis movie, currently in progress.
And now…Voyager.
You Know You’re A ‘Mo When…
You cut out the bottoms of paper cups to use them to shield bullets on the way to your invisible plane…
You were in a handbell choir…for a year…
Your first full novel read as a child is “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret?”…
You get a body wave only to graduate to a perm (x2) in junior high….
You sit with a tape recorder in front of the tv to record Duckie’s final speech in “Pretty in Pink”…
You repeat said speech in front of the bathroom mirror yet afraid actually to look in the mirror…
You come out(ish) to your Honors English class not ex tempore but via a drafted letter…
Your PE credits in college were social dance and ballroom technique.
Your first professional acting role is a rabbit…that’s velveteen….
You know Chess lyrics and not chess strategy..
Your second day in Tokyo takes you to…Tokyo Disney…
You’re more moved by Jesus’ torso than Mary’s gaze…
You like the doughnut holes more than the doughnuts…
You’re selling “color down there” to the trendy gays and grays in Menhattan
Fizzgig, No!
Gone are the days of yore. You wanted to save the world? You grabbed your puppet girlfriend and drove a shard deep down into that crystal. Got rid of the Lord Chamberlain and had light for eons. Universe restored.
Have the actions down pat? Mr. Buchanan doesn’t. You want to restore the universe? You want to get ‘er right? Lock up the male coaches and guidance counselors. They’re paving the way to your son’s nature trail to hell.
Cue Pat, speaking candidly about a heart-felt one-on-one:
“Son, you know, here’s what the Bible says about this, and it’s called an abomination before God so I’ve got to tell you the truth because I love you.”
Personally, I prefer my “I love yous” with either a Hallmark card or a trip to Bavaria.
But like Chris Carter, Pat feels the truth is out there.
And the truth is, Pat is “not at all persuaded that..uh..so-called homosexuals are homosexuals because of…uh…biological problems…there may be a very few, but there are so many that have been made homosexual because of a coach or a guidance counselor or some other male figure who has abused them and they think there is something wrong with their sexuality.”
Biological problems? Really, Pat? A biological problem is being diabetic, or anemic, or perhaps having a mouth that seems to be performing the function of your anus.
Pat’s parting thoughts: “You’ve got to love them to rescue them.”
If Pat Buchanan is my deus ex machina, I’m losing my religion.
That’s me in the corner…That’s me in the spotlight…watching my Dark Crystal.
Where Is Love?
Does it fall from skies above?
Apparently, yes.
Last weekend, Love Land, China’s first sex amusement park, had its monuments torn from the sky.
CNN reported Tuesday that Love Land, scheduled for an October opening, was demolished after Chinese authorities discovered the park planned a photo gallery on the history of sex, naked human sculptures and giant replicas of genitals.
In essence, no tumescence.
It does get me thinking, however. What if the U. S. had some sex amusement parks? Other than The Rambles in Central Park, what form would these parks take?
My answer: we’re in a recession. Let’s go with what’s already on the ground and just re-imagine.
Close your eyes and picture:
Six Fags: Great Adventure (themed lands where the bears ARE real, Daddy)
S&M Place – more Avenue Q, less Children’s Television Workshop
Bush Gardens – a topiary wonderland
See World – an exhibitionist’s escapade
Dr. Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse – lunch and lecture series…hot plates and hot topics!
Amused, bothered, and bewildered am I…
Wait Watchers
That’s what it should be called.
Remember that song by White Lion? Now it’s sung by me…and Kirstie Alley.
“Wait, weight, I never had a chance to lose you.
Weight, wait, if only my bulge could show you.”
The road to Wellville is, unfortunately for me, paved with Rice Krispy Squares.
I need a Watcher…Giles, Wesley? Help me slay the evil Ham-pires.
I am Loaf-phelia…get me to a gym-mery….
There’s a skinny boy in me yearning to break free.
There’s a twink hidden in this Twinkie.
Weight, no more waiting.
Watch me.
That’s A Signpost Up Ahead
You unlock this door with the key of your MetroCard. Beyond the stiles is another dimension: a dimension of screeching sounds, a dimension of abhorrent sight, a dimension of out-of-mind. You’re moving into a land of both neglect and egregious abuse, of slow-moving things and non-forward ideas. You’ve just crossed over into… the MTA Zone.
*****
I am the last one to talk about strangeness when I become an active contributor to the process.
I storm my way into the 1 train and immediately lunge for the closest facsimile of a chair. It’s there, I know it is. I put the damn thing in my messenger bag this morning…yet when I got to the turnstile, my ticket to ride was gone.
What does that mean, my non New Yorker friends ask? It means that my precious piece of plastic…my unlimited MetroCard…was lost in the detritus of my bag. It also means, more importantly, that I had to purchase a pay-per-ride…the ghetto card. The card of Jersey commuters and shopping mall moms. Livid.
Back to the seat.
As I’m pulling out gym clothes (more for appearance than for use, let’s be clear), the Entertainment Weekly, the three books that I’ll have time to read on the lunch break that I never take, I see…nothing…no card…nothing resembling the card…nada. I decide to shove it all back in (the logic is clear, no?) so I can pull it out and start all over again.
That’s where the STOMP session of this blog begins.
To my left, a woman has pulled out some Pringles to balance her soda imbibing. I frown and sigh. Deep breath. Frown and sigh. She counters with a long-long-short rhythm, as follows:
Chomp, chomps, sip. (Brief pause) Chomp, chomp, sip.
I sigh again..louder.
She get hungrier and louder.
CHOMP, CHOMP, SLURRRRP….CHOMP, CHOMP, SLURRRRP
The younger woman to my right will not be outdone. This is the age of American Idol. We’re all stars, people, and every text message counts (if you’re above ground on the train, that is)
She pulls out her emory board and gives us both a quick…ch-ch-ch-ch-ch….(looks at nails and smiles)…ch-ch-ch-ch ch (blows the nails away)
And, thus, an urban symphony is born:
Chomp chomp slurp
CH CH CH CH CH
sigh
Chomp chomp slurp
CH CH CH CH CH
s-i-g-h
Free entertainment, you might think. Not for me, though. I paid $4 for that baby. Two MTA rides for nail snow and song.
For me, the Chadverb, I got off at 96th Street. For the rest of the passengers, it was only the beginning. They had just settled in for a ride into…the MTA Zone.
It’s All Greek To Me
In the beginning, the Earth was a stadium, which was ruled by Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith. Well maybe not the whole Earth, but the whole of pop culture. The year was 1981. Cineplexes seemed to be ruled by the Brits: Terry Gilliam and the Time Bandits, Dudley Moore and Sir John Gielgud in Arthur, and Ben Cross in Chariots of Fire.
I, however, was ruled by Harry Hamlin. Perseus: Pegasus-tamer, Medusa-killer…and my first crush. Looking back, I’m not sure if it was his full lips, his curly mop, or the barely-there loincloth. I do, however, at the tender age of 8, remember liking his circle of friends. When you’ve only grown up with a poodle, a metallic owl and winged horse seem pretty effin’ cool….and a poodle does not take too kindly to being saddled…or ridden, for that matter…especially by a child who hitherto had been happy immersing himself in Paddington the Bear books.
Perseus, and Harry, awakened something in me…some gnawing feeling that I was living in the wrong time. Somehow, I sincerely believed, I was supposed to cast in plaster and, like Perseus, picked from among the chiseled chess set to face my Fates on the field. The feeling of being dislocated abated over time, but it never disappeared. If only I could be a Time Bandit, too….Damn you, David Warner and your Evil Genius!!
Flash forward…
When I was vacationing in Greece in the late 90s, I found myself in a gay bar (faux shock) dancing shirtless (real shock) with a myriad of Mediterraneans. Looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bar, you could gaze in reverential awe at the Acropolis, awash in orange-tinted lights…Did it look this way by firelight “back in the day.” My pharmocologically induced mysticism led me to answer yes, and I found myself deeply believing that over 2,000 years ago, another bevy of shirtless of boys had hedonistically danced in the shadow of the Acropolis…and, of course, dear Perseus and Harry Hamlin came to mind. To me – they were one and the same. Beautiful men given the chance to partake in something far grander than themselves.
Yes, even a film, however mediocre, offers one a legacy….not as timeless as the Greek myths, but a celluloid column in the temple of pop culture is nothing at which to shake a Gorgon’s head. And the film, like the mythic movie, offers me the chance to see my own beginning….with form and celluloid…and remark “it is good.”
Arrrrrghot
A friendly public service announcement presents itself as a scene.
Act I
Curtain rises on a NYC coffee bar.
You, the coffee connoisseur, and Village hipster, have just entered the bar.
You are literate. You are tomorrow’s hope. You are thirsty.
Indie music and mash-ups awaken your ears…sounds from hipster heaven.
Rich aromas of ground coffee beans make love to your nose.
Baristas milk the udders of the stainless steel cows and deliver dairy froth to your fair-trade, organic coffee.
You have arrived.
Unfortunately, you have arrived too late.
You look around.
Seat after table after bench after couch after toilet is occupied.
You have fallen victim to the Lap-stops.
Lap-stops Beware
They prey on tables, feasting on their level surfaces all day, regurgitating data into their machines…hungry flies at the screeen.
Like your coffee, they are grounded…for hours…with no coffee cup, brownie bite, or cookie crumb nearby to stake their claim.
The steam from the coffee co-mingles with the steam emitting from your ears. These squatters have, quite successfully, sedentarily stopped all traffic flow within the establishment.
Exeunt
Act II
You came, you saw, you Yelp.
Curtain falls
Lesson to be learned:
There’s no fair trade in lap-stops, people.
Coffee can bring on more than one kind of movement.
Contrary to popular belief, you can cruise Manhunt and update your Facebook stati from places other than a coffee bar.
Roast your beans somewhere else, people
Think, drink, and go.
