A Single-Serving Bitchslap

Or, "I, too, have seen Fight Club"

Okay people, listen up. Your Unky Mary is going to tell you something very important--so take heed.

Basically every one old enough to see an R-rated movie--and many not old enough--has seen Fight Club. Yes, it's true. It came out in like 1999 or something. Wow! Tonight we're gonna party like that was six to seven years ago. Because it was.

So everytime you make your little "Clever...How's that working out for you?"* little cut at people--it's not really funny. It's not really original. It really makes you out to be a bit of a horse's ass is what it does. It's basically like, I don't know, telling someone they are the bomb, and then smugly asking them if they know what *that* means.

"Oh yeah? Well, I think Van Halen is the BOMB. How do you like them apples?!"

If you're going to be mean to someone, don't do a shoddy job. Make it a clean wound, you amateur hackers.

*This rant is not for my dear friend Tiger Jeff who asks people how things are working out for them-- because I don't think he's trying to be clever as much as he's sincerely inquiring how things are working out for a person. And I admire that kind of caring. This rant IS for a certain H-town bizard who has belittled Ms. Whit and is using it as her myspace headline. And it's for all the teens out there who forget that many generations of readers were onto Seventeen magazine YEARS before they were even born.

Words Can Never Hurt Me

More dispatches from purveyors of fine magazines

Well, the recent lapse in mail harassment from the magazines I once had subscriptions to must have been due to a holiday back-up of some sort because they came out swingin' this week--bringing with them the all caps "FINAL NOTICE!"

I think we both know 1) it's not really the final notice and 2) I would be HAPPY if it were.

However, I do enjoy reading these and marveling that, as KoF pointed out, people respond to these or they wouldn't send them out. So without further ado, the latest with my analysis to follow.

FINAL NOTICE!

THE FORM ABOVE MUST BE MAILED BY 02/10/06 OR YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE PERMANENTLY LISTED IN OUR 'EXPIRED' FILES. THAT MEANS:

JANE MAGAZINE WILL NO LONGER BE MAILED TO YOU. YOUR PREFERRED CUSTOMER PRIVILEGES, SAVINGS AND PERKS WILL NO LONGER BE AVAILABLE.

NO PAYMENT REQUIRED NOW TO KEEP YOUR PREFERRED STATUS ACTIVE, SIMPLY MAIL THE FORM ABOVE BY 02/10/06.

Analysis: Frankly, I want so badly to be offended by this, but it's just too absurd. They apparently think I am a trained monkey or a non-speaker of English (yelling always helps people to understand a language they don't speak, if you didn't know that). Secondly, I have no idea what privileges they're talking about. I mean, I guess I was privileged to receive a mediocre magazine: often late or torn or both--and unapologetically so. I have never received any perks. For example, no one has ever said: "Oh, you're a Jane Magazine subscriber? Well why didn't you say so?! Please step to the front of the line!" And savings? What savings? I mean, I either spend the money on the magazine or I don't. And frankly, the "don't" option is saving me more money than the "do" option.

The kicker of course is that they don't want me to send any money. Of COURSE they want me to send money. Just like the refugee Princes and Heads of State in African countries want me to send money. People are really hilarious the way they want money but pretend like it's the last thing they want telling you a million kinds of bull before they cut to the chase and ask for your cash. Here's a tip: just say what you want and I'll either give it to you or not, but if you waste my time, I've already paid you in irritation, so getting my money is a risky wager. And do you want to take that kind of risk? I wouldn't--this is your FINAL NOTICE on the matter. You can tell by that, I mean business.

Who am I to question a Dum-Dum?

So I've been a bit of a spitfire this week in other aspects of my life, so I'd like to turn to a more mellow matter.

I am currently enjoying a coconut-pineapple dum-dum. Despite having been a purveyor of fine dum-dums all my life, I have not had the pleasure of enjoying, or ever seeing this flavor before. Thanks to the label, I see that it is a special anniversary dum-dum flavor. Aha. The hundredth anniversary. Sounds good to me. 1906 eh? So why then does the banner say "100th Anniversary Flavor-1953". In fact, the 1953 is all over the place. I mean, I'm not so bad at math that I miss the fact that 1953 was like 53 years ago instead of a hundred and I think other people might notice that, too. Then I thought, maybe it was the anniversary in 1953...but why am I only seeing this flavor 53 years later? I'm confused. Dum-dums, you can have a 53rd anniversary flavor. I won't mind. But 100th anniversary is a deception: a dumb, dumb one. (Yeah, that was awesome how I pulled a pun there at the end wasn't it?)

This flavor isn't that good though. What ever happened to root beer? I never see them anymore.

Miso Annoyed

You know, nothing moves tolerance along like a culture selling themselves out for a big joke with whitey. "Ha ha--we all laugh at racial and ethnic stereotypes, just like you, The Man!" Charming.

I got a piece of mail today for a Japanese restaurant launch with an obvious play on the whole "Me love you long time/Miso horny" theme. The cover said "Miso hungry. Come for long time."

Thanks. I think all who received that just stepped back about 30 years. I mean, for God's sake, why don't we just start referring to all Asian people as "chinks"? That will really help people to notice that ethnic stereotyping will earn them a slap on the wrist--and a free sushi dinner! Not to mention a hearty backslap from some dude going "Oh,(Japanaese name), you old so-and-so!" Why stop there? Why not ask (Japanese man) if his wife gives happy endings to customers who spend at least $50?

It seems to me that there's a really strong backlash against politically correctness right now. Being "PC" has become the butt of so much contempt, I think because when it was popularized or came to being as a term--everyone acted like it was trendy and not sincere. It became a caricature itself when proplr stumbled over all the hyphenated ethnicities, not to avoid offending people (gasp! black people don't require being called the misnomer of African-American), but to emphasize the rigor and inconvenience that was apparently induced by adopting culturally sensitive policies and inclusive language.

And why am I so *damn* offended? Because jokes like this are not just about one silly-ass Japanese restaurant and some idiot PR people. They're about all people who have had setbacks in the world because of stereotypes (don't say this is everyone; it's not--though damn near close. Amazing that in light of that fact that discrimination and hostility is so openly practiced by so many!)--and in my case, it's about discrimination against women.

I don't like it. I don't like what I'm seeing or feeling or hearing. I will not sell out and be a traitor to others to fit in better with the old boy network. Maybe this will serve to prove to many that I am the embodiment of the stereotype of the feminazi and I will shift from one loathed category to another. So who cares? Fear me. I won't sell out.

P.S. I went to Mai's for lunch today and this is what my fortune cookie said: "You will be a dragon of creative fire this week. Watch your aim." Rarr.

Ich Liebe Mozart

Oh man. I lurve Wikipedia!

Here's a little levity I stumbled upon when looking for fodder for a Mozart festival.

It has been speculated that Mozart suffered from Tourette syndrome. Letters he wrote to his cousin Maria Anna Thekla ("Bäsle") between 1777 and 1781 contain scatological language and he wrote canons titled Leck mich im Arsch ("Lick my ass") or variations thereof (including the pseudo-Latin Difficile lectu mihi mars).

Soothing Words

On many occasions, I have recommended some of these poems to my friends to read. In general, they help ease fears and generalized anxiety about impending doom or people being a crapster to you and build confidence and you know, make you feel like you're not alone on the cold, spinning orb. In no particular order, a few of my favorites. Maybe they can bring a little comfort to you when you need it.

If by Rudyard Kipling

A couple by William Wordsworth:
The World is Too Much With Us
To A Butterfly I and II

When I Have Fears by John Keats

Ha ha! Bizard! Poisoned Tree by William Blake

Fear of the Inexplicable by Rainer Maria Rilke

Success by Ralph Waldo Emerson (?)

Any to add?

What a deal!

I just got this press release that is so absurd as to be almost endearing.

For one thing, the cost of the tickets to this "special event" is $75 per person. Or amazingly! $150/couple--in case you couldn't add 75+75 yourself. (Perhaps the value is that when you come as a couple, you are also bringing the Holy Ghost at no additional charge.)

For your $75, you get an *amazing* combo of prizes: including (and the quotes, I hope, will indicate the understood [SIC]) "a chef prepared meal with dessert" and "all you can drink wine, beer, or water". All-you-can-drink water? Dessert?! Oh man! Oh manohmnaohmanohman! This is so amazing.

I would also like to note that the tickets, which are not yet on sale, are going fast.

So hurry.

This probably counts as bragging, but...

Once again, I feel compelled to post my Yahoo! horoscope. As usual, it's not really a horoscope as much as an affirmation. I'd be curious to know if everyone, throughout the zodiac, got this little pick-me-up today. Hmmm.

You rock (and you know it), but don't brag. You'll alienate yourself from others.

I hope I have not alienated you, my fans. If I have, notify me and I will hook you up with a plate of plum puffs, post haste.

A Million Little Whiney Bizards

If I am hearing about this cafuffel about James Frey's memoir, than surely most of you have by now, also. As usual, I am last to know, first to open my rather large mouth. Ha. If you don't know, let me catch you up real quick. James Frey wrote the best-selling memoir A Million Little Pieces, about drug addiction, jail time, blah blah blah and then Oprah put her big fat seal of approval on it. Hrrm. The Smoking Gun web site, those wiley peops, have reported that portions of his memoir about hitting a cop car (a cop?) were fictionalized or um, you know--made up. And people are FREAKING OUT. They're calling random house and asking for their money back and stuff. And Random House is calmly refunding.

Look, I have always thought that returning a book was sort of marginal. Booksellers are not libraries, people. That said, I did return a GMAT book a couple days after i bought it because I said to myself "You just bought a $40 book and you have no intention of attending business school. Ever." "You're right, self," I agreed. And I returned it. But even so--if you read the book. And if you *liked* it, you're going to get a refund because parts of it weren't true?

Can I just say something? Shut the fuck up.

No, seriously.

It is a memoir. It's not a legally binding document. It's not a contract or anything. I was in a memoir writing class and half the time I wasn't even sure if I was telling the truth or lying about my own life! Anais Nin said "We don't experience things as they are. We experience them as we are." Sure, some things just aren't correct. Like I could never claim to have been married 14 times, but if I fudge a little on a traffic accident? Who cares? The spirit of the book has not changed. From all accounts, it is an unbelievable book, fiction or not. What is the problem?

P.S. Here's something that'll really rattle your cages, you ninnies: parts of the Bible aren't exactly what you'd call "true" either. Now seriously, please return to shutting the fuck up. Oh God. I think I just got on the Christian Coalition's hate mail list.

A Feather in Your Cap and A Flag in Your Tip Jar

Since 9/11 the American flag has enjoyed a sort of Renaissance. On cars (especially suburban s.u.v.s), store fronts, t-shirts and so forth. After the turbulent flag-burning 60s, this might come as a real relief to some and a bright spot of hope for future V.F.W. Benefits and such. But as a patriot, I find it troubling.

And the reason is not because of the prevalence of this icon of freedom, but the reason s for it. For many, as indicated by the mildly threatening mottos of "these colors don't run" and so forth, it is a banner of intimidation in the classic "ain't skeered" method oft seen on large pick-up trucks with Yosemite Sam gun-toting mudflaps. (Oh really? I'm not scared either. And I said that from the comfort of my compact economy car.) For others, it's a blanket of blamelessness. This especially applies to those who are foreign-born or even Americans who are guilty of the crime of living while brown. The American flags ubiquitous among this set seem to quietly remind, "We're not terrorists either. We're just like you."

The tip jar at Droubi's restaurant had a small American flag in it. And I thought to myself how (bitterly) funny it is that these restaurateurs feel that those who come to their restaurant to partake of an ethnic cuisine may be more inclined to tip them if assured that the operation is staunchly anti-terrorist. This is the fear at a major lunch venue in downtown Metropolitan Houston. Yes. Sure, this is Bush country, but it's still a city. What must the fear be like at its zenith?

Of COURSE they are anti-terrorist. Of course, *I* am anti-terrorist. I live in this country. Sure, there are terrorists within our borders, but who needs them to cause adversity with such derision among our own ranks? They are few terrorists relative to those infected--nay, plagued by this paranoia and witch hunt that has broken out with a "if you're not vocal about being with us, then you are clearly up to terrorism." As if shooting off your mouth about what you or are not about is the last word in your character! Tom Delay, I'm looking at you.

As I have mentioned to KoF, I am able to espouse these views with relative indignance and without fear because I have the luxury of being an educated, middle-class white woman. I have the *option* of being vocal about the absurdity that is the anti-terrorism sensationalism without being suspected of terrorism myself. Be that as it may, I only feel it even more my duty to speak out because I can. It should be that all can, as it is guaranteed by the bill of rights. However, what is true by the letter is sadly not true by the spirit.

Have you seen the bumper sticker "If you're not completely appalled then you're not paying attention." ? That's where we are. We're letting it slide because we're too interested (and I am guilty of this, too) in Brad Pitt knocking up Angelina Jolie. What upsets me most is how many hits my page will get because of the last phrase. But if it serves to educate, I guess the end justifies the means. Maybe. I'll think about it before I put a banner of it on my car.

Wretched Book!

"Mary, you look tired today."
"I stayed up until 4 am finishing a book."
"Oh, what book?"
"I don't want to tell you."
"Why?"
"It was stupid."
"Then why did you stay up all night reading it?"
"[silence/shifty eyes]"

The thing is, I was really engrossed in this book. But it was so bad. I do not recommend it. It may not pass go. I interviewed the author last week and he convinced me that his stereotypical people were not really stereotypical, if I'd only give them the benefit of the doubt. I gave them the benefit of the doubt for 500 pages. That's the level of generosity you're dealing with here.

To be fair, I was riveted. Riveted! At one point during the charade of a drug war that goes on in the book, I was even convinced someone was trying to break into my house by climbing into my second floor windows. All this during a book in which the narrator says his personal public speaking mantra is "be brief, be sincere and be seated." Oh really? Silly me for remembering that that is the public speaking mantra of WINSTON CHURCHILL. But it gets better! A man who is convicted of capital murder (which he didn't commit) shortly before his wife confesses to it says nobly that he will pay for her crime because of the sins of his heart or some b.s. His lawyer breathily describes him by saying "That is a man." A girl born in 1987 is the secret Ace in the hand. Are you kidding me?

I was riveted. Riveted. Until 4 am. Oh me. Oh my.

I've been exhausted all day by a book I cannot recommend to you and the name of which I won't even reveal. Wretched book. Someone throw me a Steinbeck or something for God's sake.

NO!

Sorry to swear, but I fucking hate it when people say New Braun*s*fels. New Braunfels, okay? A certain King of February goes out of his way to add the extraneous S in there because he knows it irritates above and beyond what it really should.

Further, it is NOT cool to say:
Wal-Marts
Targets
Brasils (for the Houston cafe: Brasil)
Nordstroms

I mean, do you (generic you, not you personally, as my readership consists primarily of smarty pants) know about plurals and possessives? Clearly not. I distinctly recall my 7th grade English teacher reviewing the rules of plurals and possessives with us and thinking: "WTF? We're 12 years old in here. We've been speaking the language for 10+ years. Why would we have a problem with plurals?" Clearly, I grossly overestimate the general population's (and frankly, that of my so-called "honors" English class) abilities. But they're plurals. Not foreign verb conjugations. Or even contractions or use of the subjunctive. WHY?!

Just so you know, I will kill you if you can't get a grip on your gratuitous S usage. I'm sorry to have to be the one, but it must be done.

An Act of Contrition

I offer you these words to make up for my crapster act of obsessively reading another's blog as a mean self-esteem booster.

Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great. -Mark Twain

Yes, I am now posting quotes on my blog, so you can make fun of how sad I am. Wait until I bust out the animated gifs? How do you like *them* apples?

Acceptance is the First Step

I have a new weird obsession. I am obsessed with the blog of the good friend of a good friend of a good friend. Perhaps my friend-in-law? The thing is, I've only met her once and it's not like the meeting was so memorable. We had a conversation about apartments. She's funny, but not really that stellar of a writer or anything. Honestly, I basically have no stake in her life whatsoever and her life is less than compelling. Don't get me wrong; there's *plenty* to psychoanalyze, but no more so than in your average teen diary. Probably less. So why do I hotly anticipate every update to her blog? Why do I excerpt it over and over in my head while going about my daily life?

I DON'T. Know.

Perhaps it's because I so delight in the eye-roll action it often induces. Perhaps it's because I feed upon her insecurity as a human being and that makes me feel better about myself in the way bullies get a high from belittling another. Only I do it in secret (until now).

Whatever is happening, it needs to stop. The jig is up. Now back to the regularly shceduled reading of her blog...

But before you ask: no, I will not post the link. For one thing, this is a private pleasure. For another thing, I may be a sometimes-bizard, but I am not an all-out asshole.

Only the King of February knows of whom I speak. And he will remain silent on this point. "'Else end up with a horse head in his bed,' she typed ominously."

Neville Gonna Get It, Neville Gonna Get it

I really like Aaron Neville. I saw him in concert at Austin City Limits in 2004 with his brothers and he really is some kind of satin-voiced falsetto (that shames a certain star of Glitter) savant. That said, I wouldn't consider myself a die-hard, by any stretch of the imagination (I only have one cd of his because I got it when this guy I know was throwing out a bunch of old cdsa). This is especially true considering the strange and unusual information I found about a "fan" when I looked A.N. up in Wikipedia just now.

There is a person who lives in Economy, PA who is considered to be Aaron's biggest fan. He has all of his albums and has never missed a concert. This person is homosexual and wants Aaron's hand in marriage.

First of all: what? Second of all, this sounds like the author's mean-spirited jab at his little brother or a classmate he didn't like. Or no? Is the author just simply stating that A.N. has a stalker in the most colorful terms possible? Whatever the meaning, I thank Wikipedia for including it. It brought sunshine to my life--just like A.N.'s love, love, love, love--craaazy love.

Do you (heart) Houston?

A new, for real post is now up at I (Heart) Houston. Links, info, comments and other design elements will be updated this weekend (and maybe this site, too!) so please leave feedback by commenting here or emailing me. I'm not going to use the blogger comments currently available at I(H)H. Also, if you want to be a part of the group blog and didn't receive an invitation, please email me.