by Carly
Fears I have:
bare feet on shag carpet Monday, May 19, 2003 (Note: Hi. Uh, sorry about the long absence. It's not that I have nothing to write about. I just don't want everything that's going in the zine to be 'previously published', so I've been trying to hold back.) Make Fast Cash There is a discount hot tub store in the south end of the city. I drive by it at least once a week. For the past year and a half, every time I drive by it, there has been a person in a polar bear costume standing outside the store by the side of the road. The polar bear carries a sign reading “HOT TUB SALE!” that is half-heartedly gesticulated about in one hand, while the other hand is committed to waving at the cars driving by. Driving past this site reminds me of all the times I have read suspiciously vague employment ads promising “make fast cash, no experience necessary!” The polar bear suit got grubbier and grubbier each time I saw it, as is bound to happen if one insists on wearing a polar bear suit while standing next to a road for eight hours a day. “One day, they’ll have to cave in… they can’t go forever without washing it, can they?”, I would ask myself. Then one day, I drove by, and the polar bear wasn’t there anymore. It had been replaced by a blindingly white dog costume, complete with Bermuda shorts. The dog wiggled its tail and waved at the cars. “HOT TUB SALE!” I felt slightly cheated. Tuesday, February 18, 2003 Tears of a clown: Chatting with Jennifer Love Hewitt This is from the Jennifer Love Hewitt article in the new Rolling Stone: The soup also includes carrots, which she leaves. She likes raw carrots, but cooked carrots have never been welcome past her lips since the day as a kid she walked into her grandmother's kitchen in Los Angeles on her tenth birthday so that she could get into show business - smelled some carrots cooking and threw up." Keep in mind that this article is only two pages long. What do you think this says about how completely boring she is that they have to take two paragraphs to describe how she eats her soup? That article is honestly the worst piece of celebrity journalism I've ever seen. Reading it makes tears of vomit bleed from my eyes. I think the one thing about Jennifer Love Hewitt that I can't stand is the incredible amount of false modesty she radiates. She spends all of every single interview she does constantly repeating what a big "dork" she is. She's nothing special! Shucks! She's just a big dork, everybody! She's like, "People, *sigh* stop gazing at me so lovingly and fantasizing about my luscious chestnut hair, and gigantic rack, and dark doe eyes that I bat demurely at you. Okay? Really. Don't." Because she means it. She's a plain jane, so you need to go worship someone else. Like, for real. An example of her introspective nature, from Jane: Do you get it people? Can’t you see her suffering? She’s not a pin-up girl, she’s one of those velvet paintings of a hobo clown with a tear running down his cheek. Wednesday, January 8, 2003 Women’s Magazines: A Primer I love reading women’s magazines. It’s my parents fault, I suppose, for getting me a subscription to Teen when I was twelve. I love the warm pink glow of benevolence they radiate. They just want to help you! They want you to be fabulous! I love walking away from a magazine feeling like if I just follow their handy hints, I too could learn to apply kohl eyeliner, give my hair “a sexy side part” *and* ask for a raise. Maybe it’s false hope, but its hope all the same, and that draws me to these magazines. Magazines that are mostly focused around fashion (i.e. Vogue, Elle) have never really interested me that much – why bother worrying about clothes that will be considered “out” in three months? Instead, I gravitate toward the so-called “lifestyle” magazines.
First, there’s Cosmopolitan – the mother of all trashy reads. If you’re the type of person that can’t go a month without learning a new way how to “BLOW HIS MIND IN BED!”, this is your magazine. Refreshing in the fact that they never really seem to care about fashion trends – the cover model will always be sporting a crop top and big, messy I-just-had-sex hair. Although I never go out of my way to read it, its lack of substance makes for a good read at the hair salon.
Jane is different from other mags in that its identity is so tied to the image of Jane Pratt. Hence, if you hate Jane Pratt and think she’s a sycophantic, self-involved name-dropper, you’ll probably hate this magazine. I’m sure the writers and editors love to tell people that Jane is just like Sassy, but for grown-ups. Sassy for grown-ups would be nice. I would read Sassy for grown-ups. This is not Sassy for grown-ups. Shamefully, I read this every month.
And then there’s Marie Claire. I have a severe love-hate relationship with Marie Claire. On the one hand, their human rights stories can be great. They seem to take a more global perspective on women’s interests stories, and articles like last month’s discussion on coming-of-age rituals for girls of different ethnicities was fascinating. On the other hand, they seem to have developed a niche for a certain type of article that could be toxic to one’s self-esteem. I’m talking of course about the “Men and You” articles. Every few issues, they’ll have a headline on the cover that says something like “What Attracts Him to You”, “How Does He Think Your Body Compares?” or “What He Really Thinks of Your Look.” Unfortunately, I’m just the type that would grab that issue off the newsstand and run to the cashier with it clutched to my chest. The writers know exactly how minutely you’ll be comparing yourself are when they publish a two page layout of different sized women in bathing suits and high heels and let men judge their physical attractiveness (see: Dec. 2001 issue). The giant rating out of ten hangs over their shoulders and comments like (re: Adina, age 34, avg. rating 5.5) “She’s wide on top, without many curves, but her legs are long and skinny” dance around their thighs. (The sad part is that I haven’t read that article for six months and I still know every line.)
It’s worth noting that every woman’s magazine feel obligated to put out a “Love Your Body!” special at least once a year. By centering an entire issue around the idea once every twelve issues, the editors get to hang on to their quasi-feminist credibility, while still churning out the same “Guide to Hiding Everything That’s Wrong About Who You Are” the other eleven months of the year. This would be bad enough if it weren’t for the fact that the same people who are telling you not to buy into these ideals are the same ones who propagate them in the first place. I have a fantasy that one day I’ll open up an article on how to love your body and the only thing written on the two page spread will be: Don’t Listen to Us. I’m not telling anyone not to read these magazines – hey, I like reading about lip gloss. Just consider the following. Years from now when you’re dead and buried and your friends and loved ones reminisce about you, are they really going to be clutching their Kleenexes and lovingly recalling, “She had such toned thighs….” Monday, December 9, 2002 Beautiful
I like indie rock. This can be problematic in certain cases. Specifically, when a commercial pop song comes along and steals my heart. Of course, all my vinyl-loving, denim-clad, shaggy-haired brethren always pride themselves on having an eclectic and open-minded taste in music, and of course some ironic appreciation of pop music is expected of you. But a sincere appreciation of, say, The Backstreet Boys? Oh come on now.
All of this made complete sense to me until recently. I was in a record store last week and I heard a song blasting through the speakers. Not just any song though. There were strings and pianos, and a female voice belting out that “You are beautiful, no matter what they say/words can’t bring you down.” And it sent a chill down my spine. It was good. Really good. Then I realized what song it was. It was “Beautiful” by Christina (or as I like to call her, X-tina) Aguilera.
Wednesday, December 3, 2002 I Think We're Alone Now I always was a dramatic child. I think that a lot of this can be attributed to the fact that I used to make a habit of watching opera on PBS when I was very small and first learning to read. My parents were confused more than anything (“Are you sure you don’t want to watch something else?”). I, however, just liked reading the subtitles, and soon became completely entranced by the numerous affairs, thefts, and strangely romanticized deaths by tuberculosis. As a result, I had a tendency to create an unnecessary amount of drama in my own life. Whenever I was playing in the backyard and I heard a car drive through the alley, I would run and hide. My fear was that there was a plot to kidnap me, and that the kidnapper’s henchmen were trying to spy on me so they’d know what I looked like when it came time for the actual kidnapping. When a new girl moved into the neighborhood and suddenly wanted to play with me, I figured it was because her parents wanted to kidnap me and they were using their daughter as bait to lure me into their sinister clutches. I was roughly six years old at the time. Fantasies were often about harboring boyishly good-looking fugitives.
Being as concerned about burglaries as I was, I would often take pleasure in finding tiny hiding spots around my house to cram myself into. Even when I wasn’t afraid of being burglarized (burgled?), I loved curling up in random alcoves and closets and pretending I was being pursued by bumbling quasi-villans, who - of course – would never be able to find me. “Blast it!” they would shout in my mind, “Where could she have possibly have gone? We’ve looked all over this house and we just can’t find her!” I would congratulate myself on my slyness and eventually crawl out, red-faced from the stuffiness but smiling.
One time, however, I was hiding in the bathroom by perching myself on the ledge of the bathtub between the shower curtain and the liner of the shower curtain (looking at the shower curtain now, I have no idea how I was ever small enough to pull this off). My grandparents were visiting. I had been sitting there for a few minutes when suddenly the door opened. Both of my grandparents walked into the bathroom. Just as I was about to pop out and announce my presence, they wrapped their arms around each other and started making out. I don't think I ever tried hiding anywhere in my house after that.
Maybe if they would have had subtitles...
Tuesday, December 2, 2002 Living on a Prayer
My first celebrity crush was Jon Bon Jovi, at the tender age of seven. I remember seeing a sign at the library saying “Slippery when wet” and telling my mother, “That’s the name of a Bon Jovi album!” I listened to my Bon Jovi tape every night before bed and whispered “I love you, Jon” to the black and white snapshot of him that was in Tiger Beat. He had the tousled hair, pouty lips and squinty-eyed-ness that screamed to young girls, “Baby, I think our common love of the color blue and strawberry Yop is what makes our love so special, and I’m going to pick you up from school in a helicopter in front of the popular kids and take you away from all this.”
When I was in Grade Four, something wonderful happened. Bon Jovi came to Calgary. My dad got tickets for the two of us, and I was breathless with excitement. Amid the sea of fringed leather jackets and mall hair, I was beaming to realize that I was probably the youngest rocker there. The opening band was Skid Row. I was mortified when I saw that their merchandise booth sold underwear that said “Rockin’ Little Ass” on it, and I made a mental note that any band that would put such a vulgar sentiment on a pair of underwear was a band full of Bad People. Bon Jovi, though, were magical. They played “Bad Medicine”. They played “Living on a Prayer.” There was a catwalk that extended from the stage, upon which Jon pranced back and forth. The best part though, was his jacket. He was wearing an acid-wash denim jacket with a rhinestoned Superman logo on the back. At the exact moment that I saw that jacket, Jon Bon Jovi was the coolest person ever to have graced our planet with his existence.
The reason that I mention all this, though, is that I was watching MuchMoreMusic one day and a Bon Jovi video came on. It was a live video, showing clips of the band performing, along with various shots of behind-the-scenes tomfoolery. In one shot, you see Jon storming down the catwalk from behind. And in that clip, he’s wearing the jacket. As I watched the rhinestones glimmer in slow motion, I felt strangely vindicated.
Monday, December 1, 2002
Tuesday, November 12, 2002 Hello, my lovely booty girls. I would like to say, because it merits a mention, that I received a copy of Teri's cd this weekend. And it's so good! I can't wait to show it off to all my friends and say, "I actually know her! Why yes, she is amazingly talented!" I anxiously await the day when Teri can star in her own version of "Glitter". An anti-"Glitter", if you will. |