Okay, so in case anyone's been checking back here and cares, I can explain everything. The rest of 2008 was spent working my day job and by night working my butt off on the Obama campaign. That's actually an immense exaggeration, since I'm not so good at team-based efforts, especially those I'm not getting paid for, because I spend way too much time trying to figure out the dynamics of the team in an effort to determine who's vying for the lead, the Top Dog Alpha slot, and way too little time focusing on a goal-at-hand. Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of organizational paradigms -- which is just a fancy shmancy way of saying what people do in groups -- knows that humans in a cluster will organically, and unconsciously develop a pecking order, if you will, wherein a multi-tiered system will evolve at the top of which one, and only one, of the teamsters will sit, perched atop the flagpole. And from that vaulted position, the leader will rule the minions. By the way, there really are no midlevel management positions, except in the imaginations of the wannabe's who believe the Leader favors them for things like timeliness or dedication to the cause. Har! And those of us willing to stay in the back row and keep a low, low, very low profile, let the midlevelers fawn and kiss-up, so long as we are allowed long, frequent coffee breaks and no real responsibilities other than showing up and wearing a nametag. Remember, every hive needs its worker bees, and the worker bees need the slacker bees, who do nothing more than buzz while the workers are busy, busy, busy gathering the pollen. Or nectar. You know, the pre-honey stuff. (I'm no entomologist, mind you, nor do I claim to be.).
So while other campaigners were canvassing, phone-treeing, and standing outside Whole Foods and other groovy, organic establishments, querying Joe and Janette Plumber about whether they're registered voters and who they'll vote for in the presidential election, the slacker bees were standing outside of the Mini-Mart and KFC, campaign materials in hand, asking passersby if they've got the correct time. Or whether they know where the nearest Starbucks is. Hey, we can't all be type-A's, and we can't all be promoters; we can't all embrace and thrive on conflict and challenge. And truth be told, campaigning is slow, boring business, and only the most driven, power-by-association personalities will bloom. You never -- and let me repeat this -- never get to see the actual candidate up close and in person. He or she does not phone your campaign headquarters and give you a warm "Ppreciate it!" pep talks to keep you going. It just doens't happen in real life.
As for me, I simply did my best, and my best turned out to be good enough, because instead of John "My Friends" McCain and Sarah "MediaWhoreHunterGathererBabyPoppinWolfSlaughtering" Palin in the Whitehouse, we've got Barack and Michelle and those gorgeous daughters. The Obamas are so easy on the eyes and ears that it's almost enough just knowing they're inhabiting the presidential quarters, sleeping on good sheets, eating wholesome meals, sharing with one another little snippets of their respective days, brushing their teeth and flossing without falter at the end of every first-family day. In fact, after the eight years we endured with Bush Cheney Incorporated, it would almost be enough if that was all Barack Obama did: just live in the Whitehouse, coming out onto the lawn occasionally and smiling his big, bright, beautiful it's-all-gonna-be-okay-Baby-Girl smile. Coupled with a few magisterial, serious-as-shit, deep-thinker profile shots. It would almost be enough.
Almost.
More to come, after the break. (I always wanted to say that.)
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, January 24, 2008
2008 - How Did This Happen?
Excuse me. I went to the women's restroom, aka the Powder Room, and got distracted. It's only been, what, a year and a half. So for those of you who likewise have been holed up in a restroom somewhere since 2006, let me tell you a few things about life out here America. And be forewarned, none of it is good. Nada. You may well want to put it in reverse now and seque right back into the shitter once I bring you up to date. Well, wait, I don't actually mean "right back." You'll want to shower first for Pete's sake, and get your hair cut (might I suggest a little color, too; by the looks of those 3-inch roots, time has not exactly stood still there in the The Throne Room). Maybe check in on the kids. Your ex. See what he's been up to lately, just for the hell of it. Just remember, you are a good, kind, beautiful person, inside & out, no matter who he's hanging with now, whether she be rich or gorgeous or thin, thin, pencil-thin with proportionately muscled calves, a wisp of a waist, bubble butt, or perky bosomed. None of that matters because you've got class. Remember that in those long, dark, dank hours in the stall -- when reading old New Yorkers by flashlight might seem like not quite enough. You have class. You chose isolation, it did not choose you. And that has made all the difference.
Okay, back to now. In this year of our Lord 2008, the Lord is not a happy camper and neither is 95% of the thinking US population. The other 5% -- that would be those in show business and politics -- are sanguine, either under the influence of designer drugs, sloth, and booze or tickled to orgasm by their own hubris and narcissism. A recession and an election loom. A black man and a woman are among those vying for the candidacy. It's a rainbow campaign. Speaking of rainbows, Radiohead let people pay whatever they wanted for their latest CD, In Rainbows. Now we're all wondering: does Radiohead have self-esteem issues? There is still a war in Iraq, and if President Cheney has his way, we will soon be at it with Iran, and none of the neighbors in the Middle East are having block parties or sitting out on their stoops at night, spinning yarns about the good old days. Because no one in the Middle East can remember even one good ol' day. It's just been one awful bad continuum for a godawful long time over there in Allah's homeland. Everyone hates the U.S. but Everyone Loves Raymond. Go figure. If we were a smart people, we would just package up Ray Romano, replete with a good supply of Vicoden, Zoloft and weed, and send him over to Bagdad to start a Fitness Center. Or a coffee house with free wi-fi. And a large battery pack and bottled water, because there is no reliable power source or potable water in Bagdad these days. Or operating restrooms! We've really made a mess of it.
On the upside. . . the fashion world is healthy and thriving. Reality TV is the only thing sustaining the networks because of the Writers' Strike, currently in Day 94, ballpark. Guys like Jay Leno and David Letterman have been forced to write their own jokes. As if they were comedians. Tabloids rule. Britney shaved her head and performed a Dance of Shame on the Grammys in an outfit from the 2nd-Hand Store for Whores and purportedly is an unfit mother to boot. Yes, the girl's complexion is bad and she wears cheap flip-flops, but it's so obviously just a cry for help. But do any of us step up and lend Britney a hand or offer to babysit? No, and I'll tell you why. Because we, as Americans, are a selfish group. We point at Lindsay Lohan in her 19th stab at rehab and think we are better. We care not about our brother or sister in the gutter. We care only about our own personal economy. Will I be able to buy those riding boots which so closely match my iPod's cozy? Is that a Bluetooth sticking out of your ear, or are you just happy to see me? Is global warming a hoax? Is it man-made or just another evil trick of Mother Nature? Or is it punishment, like Katrina. Were those polar bears paid to float on glaciers the size of ice cubes with that look of hopelessness on their furry faces? I swear I saw one wink at his buddy. The thing is, I just don't want to worry for nothing. If we're going to drown in the rising sea level, I'd just as soon spend my 401K now and go out satiated. If resources become scarce and I've gotta start hauling a gun, I want to know who the enemy is. Terrorist or pissed off Polar bear?
And this: everyone cool and edgy lives in Brooklyn now. Brooklyn! Who knew?
Oh look! Stall number 2 is vacant. Run for it, girl!
Okay, back to now. In this year of our Lord 2008, the Lord is not a happy camper and neither is 95% of the thinking US population. The other 5% -- that would be those in show business and politics -- are sanguine, either under the influence of designer drugs, sloth, and booze or tickled to orgasm by their own hubris and narcissism. A recession and an election loom. A black man and a woman are among those vying for the candidacy. It's a rainbow campaign. Speaking of rainbows, Radiohead let people pay whatever they wanted for their latest CD, In Rainbows. Now we're all wondering: does Radiohead have self-esteem issues? There is still a war in Iraq, and if President Cheney has his way, we will soon be at it with Iran, and none of the neighbors in the Middle East are having block parties or sitting out on their stoops at night, spinning yarns about the good old days. Because no one in the Middle East can remember even one good ol' day. It's just been one awful bad continuum for a godawful long time over there in Allah's homeland. Everyone hates the U.S. but Everyone Loves Raymond. Go figure. If we were a smart people, we would just package up Ray Romano, replete with a good supply of Vicoden, Zoloft and weed, and send him over to Bagdad to start a Fitness Center. Or a coffee house with free wi-fi. And a large battery pack and bottled water, because there is no reliable power source or potable water in Bagdad these days. Or operating restrooms! We've really made a mess of it.
On the upside. . . the fashion world is healthy and thriving. Reality TV is the only thing sustaining the networks because of the Writers' Strike, currently in Day 94, ballpark. Guys like Jay Leno and David Letterman have been forced to write their own jokes. As if they were comedians. Tabloids rule. Britney shaved her head and performed a Dance of Shame on the Grammys in an outfit from the 2nd-Hand Store for Whores and purportedly is an unfit mother to boot. Yes, the girl's complexion is bad and she wears cheap flip-flops, but it's so obviously just a cry for help. But do any of us step up and lend Britney a hand or offer to babysit? No, and I'll tell you why. Because we, as Americans, are a selfish group. We point at Lindsay Lohan in her 19th stab at rehab and think we are better. We care not about our brother or sister in the gutter. We care only about our own personal economy. Will I be able to buy those riding boots which so closely match my iPod's cozy? Is that a Bluetooth sticking out of your ear, or are you just happy to see me? Is global warming a hoax? Is it man-made or just another evil trick of Mother Nature? Or is it punishment, like Katrina. Were those polar bears paid to float on glaciers the size of ice cubes with that look of hopelessness on their furry faces? I swear I saw one wink at his buddy. The thing is, I just don't want to worry for nothing. If we're going to drown in the rising sea level, I'd just as soon spend my 401K now and go out satiated. If resources become scarce and I've gotta start hauling a gun, I want to know who the enemy is. Terrorist or pissed off Polar bear?
And this: everyone cool and edgy lives in Brooklyn now. Brooklyn! Who knew?
Oh look! Stall number 2 is vacant. Run for it, girl!
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
How Presumptous
Like most people, of course, I presumed I'd never have a blog....thinking I'd stick to ol' fashion real conversation, ya know, over a scruffy cafe table in an uncomfortable chair in an understated outfit that screams "Look at me, I'm so hip and understated."
Oh me, I'm a writer, a grammar geek, crafts- person, gal, art-ist, altruist, practical bohemian, who acts up sometimes, 50-something (uhm hmm), probably born way ahead of my time. By this I mean I'm generally the oldest person in any craft, writing, design, fashion, higher education or political action group I find myself in, and I find myself looking about, wondering...Well hell, where are my people? I like to think I'm still cool, young-minded and all, firm yet wisened. Other than that, I am constantly plagued by the thought that, by now, I should either be hardened to the violent warish nonsense going on in much of the world, or I should be able to rationalize it, rise above it, or sink far below it, but no, instead I scrape along the bottom of it, my head ever rubbing up against the stomach of the media beast. Well, I've worn myself out now, so I'll close with this: It's a good thing there are things ornate in the world -- things that are either by nature quite breathtaking, or which openly lend themselves to adornment -- a little foo-foo, flash, feather, sequin, boa, gardenia behind the ear....there are very few things or people you can't throw a pretty little scarf around and feel you've made an improvement. Pretty on with your special self.
--Zann
Oh me, I'm a writer, a grammar geek, crafts- person, gal, art-ist, altruist, practical bohemian, who acts up sometimes, 50-something (uhm hmm), probably born way ahead of my time. By this I mean I'm generally the oldest person in any craft, writing, design, fashion, higher education or political action group I find myself in, and I find myself looking about, wondering...Well hell, where are my people? I like to think I'm still cool, young-minded and all, firm yet wisened. Other than that, I am constantly plagued by the thought that, by now, I should either be hardened to the violent warish nonsense going on in much of the world, or I should be able to rationalize it, rise above it, or sink far below it, but no, instead I scrape along the bottom of it, my head ever rubbing up against the stomach of the media beast. Well, I've worn myself out now, so I'll close with this: It's a good thing there are things ornate in the world -- things that are either by nature quite breathtaking, or which openly lend themselves to adornment -- a little foo-foo, flash, feather, sequin, boa, gardenia behind the ear....there are very few things or people you can't throw a pretty little scarf around and feel you've made an improvement. Pretty on with your special self.
--Zann
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