A crush on Obama? That's so 2008.
No, now I have a crush on Stephen Colbert, and I'm telling the world about it. I think he'd want it that way. (Sorry, Evelyn.)
Why? It's not just because of the gleam in his eye, his lovely singing voice and his perfect hair. It's not even because of my admiration for his unabashed careerism.
It's because this is brilliant:
And so is this:
See what I mean? Crushiness.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I Want To Go To There
Speaking of advertising, Mad Men's Jon Hamm will be on 30 Rock next week. Apparently, he smells like frosting, as all the best cupcakes do. Watch a clip here.
In other advertising news: Trust Me cannot be trusted. And if I were responsible for the RGM website, I'd resign before someone fired me.
It's enough to make me yearn for thirtysomething's DAA. I found the show tedious at the time, but Michael Steadman, on his first day at work, definitely smells like frosting:
In other advertising news: Trust Me cannot be trusted. And if I were responsible for the RGM website, I'd resign before someone fired me.
It's enough to make me yearn for thirtysomething's DAA. I found the show tedious at the time, but Michael Steadman, on his first day at work, definitely smells like frosting:
Friday, January 23, 2009
Coincidence? I Think Not
I have had many careers, mostly in media, and sometimes they all seem to show up at once.
Yesterday, I was doing some research on a potential new client, and stumbled across a name I hadn't seen in years.
Then, I went to a meeting at a magazine I used to write for, long before any of the current staff were there. They've changed owners twice since then, and moved their offices, but they've consistently done a great job of understanding their audience, even as its habits change. I didn't mention my previous association with them, as I suspected that most were so young that their awareness of previous regimes was limited - and besides, it would have made me look old, which I don't tend to think of as a good thing.
On the subway going home, I was reading Ad Age and realized how many of the people on their "Agency A-List" I knew or had worked with.
I've always sought out the new, and enjoyed the many twists and turns on my path. But I often wonder what would have happened if I'd just focused on one thing, as most people seem to do.
I'd probably be wondering what would have happened if I'd done a lot of things, that's what.
Yesterday, I was doing some research on a potential new client, and stumbled across a name I hadn't seen in years.
Then, I went to a meeting at a magazine I used to write for, long before any of the current staff were there. They've changed owners twice since then, and moved their offices, but they've consistently done a great job of understanding their audience, even as its habits change. I didn't mention my previous association with them, as I suspected that most were so young that their awareness of previous regimes was limited - and besides, it would have made me look old, which I don't tend to think of as a good thing.
On the subway going home, I was reading Ad Age and realized how many of the people on their "Agency A-List" I knew or had worked with.
I've always sought out the new, and enjoyed the many twists and turns on my path. But I often wonder what would have happened if I'd just focused on one thing, as most people seem to do.
I'd probably be wondering what would have happened if I'd done a lot of things, that's what.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
1.20.09
Yesterday, my fashion statement was a long-sleeved MoveOn.org t-shirt with a halftone image of our 44th President and the date: 1.20.09. (I noticed that Sheryl Crow was wearing the same shirt when she performed at the Lincoln Memorial concert Sunday. You can have one too, free - see the end of this post.) I wore it as I watched the inauguration in my office conference room in the company of my co-workers, the vast majority of whom had never known a president who wasn't either named Bush or known for pursuing it.
For six minutes beginning at noon, I worried that there would be an assassination, somehow engineered by Cheney from his wheelchair, before the oath of office could be administered. But it turns out that according to Amendment 20 of the Constitution, the presidency started at noon anyway.
Then it occurred to me that it would be possible for someone with evil designs to do whatever he wanted in those six minutes because he hadn't taken the oath yet and blame it on Aretha and that hat or Yo-Yo Ma. (Speaking of whom, I loved the quartet's playing, but I must say that my low opinion of John Williams' arrangements continues unabated, and while I'd like to think the players' characteristics were simply a reflection of our gorgeous mosaic, the inclusion of an Asian, an African-American, a Latina and a disabled Jew was a little too calculated.)
It all turned out fine. The speech said what it needed to, and our new President said it well. The First Family looked fabulous, and while I had some quibbles with the First Lady's ensemble by Isabel Toledo (I thought it was a bit too long, the cardigan/scarf thing threw off the line, and the bow that closed the coat flapped too much in the breeze), I loved the color and shape and wish I could get pashmina linings and hand-quilted cotton, as she apparently did, incorporated into all my winter garments so I could go coatless.
I am proud to have supported President Barack Obama. I pray that the hope and desire for change that brought him into office has not been misplaced. And I am ready to do my part to help that change happen. Including sending an unworn, short-sleeved version of the shirt I wore yesterday, men's size L, to the first person who e-mails me to ask for it.
(The Obamas have an inaugural dance, and look good doing it (her dress by Jason Wu; photo from Michelle O. Style.)
For six minutes beginning at noon, I worried that there would be an assassination, somehow engineered by Cheney from his wheelchair, before the oath of office could be administered. But it turns out that according to Amendment 20 of the Constitution, the presidency started at noon anyway.
Then it occurred to me that it would be possible for someone with evil designs to do whatever he wanted in those six minutes because he hadn't taken the oath yet and blame it on Aretha and that hat or Yo-Yo Ma. (Speaking of whom, I loved the quartet's playing, but I must say that my low opinion of John Williams' arrangements continues unabated, and while I'd like to think the players' characteristics were simply a reflection of our gorgeous mosaic, the inclusion of an Asian, an African-American, a Latina and a disabled Jew was a little too calculated.)
It all turned out fine. The speech said what it needed to, and our new President said it well. The First Family looked fabulous, and while I had some quibbles with the First Lady's ensemble by Isabel Toledo (I thought it was a bit too long, the cardigan/scarf thing threw off the line, and the bow that closed the coat flapped too much in the breeze), I loved the color and shape and wish I could get pashmina linings and hand-quilted cotton, as she apparently did, incorporated into all my winter garments so I could go coatless.
I am proud to have supported President Barack Obama. I pray that the hope and desire for change that brought him into office has not been misplaced. And I am ready to do my part to help that change happen. Including sending an unworn, short-sleeved version of the shirt I wore yesterday, men's size L, to the first person who e-mails me to ask for it.
(The Obamas have an inaugural dance, and look good doing it (her dress by Jason Wu; photo from Michelle O. Style.)
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Stripper, The Wrestler And Me
Marisa Tomei and I share a birthday - December 4th. So do Tyra Banks, Jay-Z, Jeff Bridges and Wassily Kandinsky, but Marisa and I have more in common - we're New York City brunettes around the same age who, it says here, are risk-takers who never play it safe and who enjoy being different and living on the edge.
Which may be why Marisa chose to play a stripper in the very fine film The Wrestler, which I saw this weekend, and, as I've mentioned previously, I chose, briefly, to be one.
Mine was largely an economic choice. I'd gotten my first magazine editorial job, which I loved, but was making so little that I could barely pay my rent, so I needed something I could do to make money at night. I'd already tried waitressing, and hated it, but I saw an ad in the Village Voice for a place called the Go-Go Agency, which was looking for dancers.
So I went to their dusty offices near Times Square, where a mustached man in a loud shirt handed me a spangled pink g-string and asked me to put it on and stand on a round platform in his office while he walked around and inspected me.
"Okay," he said, after I'd put my clothes back on, "you can work nice, or you can work strong." The difference, I learned, was a back room and what you could do there - one-on-one work that went beyond lapdancing, which had not yet become widespread in the industry.
"Nice," I replied. He explained the rules to me, and the next night I was standing on a long platform behind the bar at a small place in the West 40s, wearing nothing but a black lace g-string (the only one I had) and high heels and gyrating to music while the men on the far side of the bar passed me dollar bills to tuck into the g-string's elastic.
Every few songs, I would climb off the platform, put on a short robe and sit down with customers, which was the real work - the dancing was the fun part. I was only allowed to drink "champagne," which meant that the bartender would open a split of Tott's, which I would sip from a champagne coupe. Then I'd spit the awful stuff into a frosted glass filled with ice while pretending extreme thirst. As I recall, after three bottles I got an extra $20 for the night; after 10 (by which point the bartenders were only pretending to open the bottles, refilling them with club soda instead), I earned $250.
I learned a lot from that work, which I only did for a few months, until a better-paying day job came my way. I learned how to talk to anyone about anything; how to make men feel good about themselves; and how to keep wandering hands away while still seeming enticing. And dozens of Tott's bottles later, I also learned that I had considerable sales skills, and was not shy.
But I did like that I was ostensibly getting paid to dance. And that's when Tomei's character in The Wrestler seemed to be having the best time too. She also looked damn good doing it. Which she apparently credits to hula-hooping, a pastime that's never interested me.
I also worked in the wrestling world for a while (which would take too long to explain now), and thought Mickey Rourke's already lauded performance was extraordinary, and worthy of many more awards, both because of and despite the role's parallels to his own career.
Everyone over 40 eventually has to face up to the idea that there are some things we used to do that we just can't or shouldn't do any more. What we do with that is what determines whether the rest of our lives is satisfying.
That's why I'll be taking a class at the School of Burlesque soon. There's always a way to channel that risk-taking stripper energy.
Which may be why Marisa chose to play a stripper in the very fine film The Wrestler, which I saw this weekend, and, as I've mentioned previously, I chose, briefly, to be one.
Mine was largely an economic choice. I'd gotten my first magazine editorial job, which I loved, but was making so little that I could barely pay my rent, so I needed something I could do to make money at night. I'd already tried waitressing, and hated it, but I saw an ad in the Village Voice for a place called the Go-Go Agency, which was looking for dancers.
So I went to their dusty offices near Times Square, where a mustached man in a loud shirt handed me a spangled pink g-string and asked me to put it on and stand on a round platform in his office while he walked around and inspected me.
"Okay," he said, after I'd put my clothes back on, "you can work nice, or you can work strong." The difference, I learned, was a back room and what you could do there - one-on-one work that went beyond lapdancing, which had not yet become widespread in the industry.
"Nice," I replied. He explained the rules to me, and the next night I was standing on a long platform behind the bar at a small place in the West 40s, wearing nothing but a black lace g-string (the only one I had) and high heels and gyrating to music while the men on the far side of the bar passed me dollar bills to tuck into the g-string's elastic.
Every few songs, I would climb off the platform, put on a short robe and sit down with customers, which was the real work - the dancing was the fun part. I was only allowed to drink "champagne," which meant that the bartender would open a split of Tott's, which I would sip from a champagne coupe. Then I'd spit the awful stuff into a frosted glass filled with ice while pretending extreme thirst. As I recall, after three bottles I got an extra $20 for the night; after 10 (by which point the bartenders were only pretending to open the bottles, refilling them with club soda instead), I earned $250.
I learned a lot from that work, which I only did for a few months, until a better-paying day job came my way. I learned how to talk to anyone about anything; how to make men feel good about themselves; and how to keep wandering hands away while still seeming enticing. And dozens of Tott's bottles later, I also learned that I had considerable sales skills, and was not shy.
But I did like that I was ostensibly getting paid to dance. And that's when Tomei's character in The Wrestler seemed to be having the best time too. She also looked damn good doing it. Which she apparently credits to hula-hooping, a pastime that's never interested me.
I also worked in the wrestling world for a while (which would take too long to explain now), and thought Mickey Rourke's already lauded performance was extraordinary, and worthy of many more awards, both because of and despite the role's parallels to his own career.
Everyone over 40 eventually has to face up to the idea that there are some things we used to do that we just can't or shouldn't do any more. What we do with that is what determines whether the rest of our lives is satisfying.
That's why I'll be taking a class at the School of Burlesque soon. There's always a way to channel that risk-taking stripper energy.
(Tomei onstage in a scene from The Wrestler.)
Friday, January 16, 2009
Who Wants To Be A Slumdog?
The very first cover photo of me was taken when I was four. It's on a book about the school for gifted children I attended. In the picture, I'm wearing a headful of curls, cat-eye glasses and an itchy-looking jumper, and my hand is raised so high that I appear to be in danger of dislocating my shoulder, because I knew the answer, and couldn't imagine not sharing it.
The biggest trauma in my life at that point was that the older boys on the long bus ride from the city to the school's manicured campus in a converted Long Island mansion teased me mercilessly, calling me "Squeaky" because of my high voice and doing icky boy things like putting fake vomit on the green vinyl seat next to me.
My childhood journey differed greatly from that of Jamal, the hero of Slumdog Millionaire with the unspeakably horrific young life who seemingly only knew his "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" answers by accident.
I had a head stuffed full of facts by the time I was on Jeopardy. But I lost.
Jamal won, not because he knew the answer, but because he knew The Answer. Which, as John Lennon said (see below), is Love. And with Hope around the corner, that sentiment, always appealing even if it's provably fictitious, is why I think Slumdog Millionaire will win the Best Picture Oscar. I haven't seen all the likely contenders yet, so I'm not sure it should.
(Video largely shot in my backyard. I especially like the little dance in the bandshell.)
The biggest trauma in my life at that point was that the older boys on the long bus ride from the city to the school's manicured campus in a converted Long Island mansion teased me mercilessly, calling me "Squeaky" because of my high voice and doing icky boy things like putting fake vomit on the green vinyl seat next to me.
My childhood journey differed greatly from that of Jamal, the hero of Slumdog Millionaire with the unspeakably horrific young life who seemingly only knew his "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" answers by accident.
I had a head stuffed full of facts by the time I was on Jeopardy. But I lost.
Jamal won, not because he knew the answer, but because he knew The Answer. Which, as John Lennon said (see below), is Love. And with Hope around the corner, that sentiment, always appealing even if it's provably fictitious, is why I think Slumdog Millionaire will win the Best Picture Oscar. I haven't seen all the likely contenders yet, so I'm not sure it should.
(Video largely shot in my backyard. I especially like the little dance in the bandshell.)
0
comments
Labels:
books,
hope,
love,
memoir-ial,
movies,
music,
oscars,
so smart I make myself sick
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Kawasaki Lets The Good Times Roll
I'm fascinated by Guy Kawasaki. We've been in many of the same orbits for years, yet somehow we've never met. Like Seth Godin, whom I also admire (and have worked with), Guy is a brilliant marketer who thinks clearly, shares knowledge happily, and wants to change the world by helping other people succeed.
I rarely talk about my work; I do enough of that, and that isn't what this blog is for. But every time I read anything by either Guy or Seth, I learn something I can use in work or life. Which is why I was so tickled when I became one of the nearly 50,000 people who follow Guy on Twitter - and found that lots of new people were following me, apparently as a result.
So thanks, Guy. And if you're reading this because you found me on Twitter, welcome.
I rarely talk about my work; I do enough of that, and that isn't what this blog is for. But every time I read anything by either Guy or Seth, I learn something I can use in work or life. Which is why I was so tickled when I became one of the nearly 50,000 people who follow Guy on Twitter - and found that lots of new people were following me, apparently as a result.
So thanks, Guy. And if you're reading this because you found me on Twitter, welcome.
Monday, January 12, 2009
How Red Was My Carpet
I will leave the commentary to the experts, but fashionwise there wasn't all that much to get excited about this year. Too bad, considering there was no last year.
However, a few things are clear:
January Jones of Mad Men in a dress with pockets! Easy posing, and no annoying clutch to worry about.
I never understand how Salma Hayek doesn't fall over. But she looks great.
Anne Hathaway: poster girl for sunblock.
I'd wear a dress like this, though in a less orangey red, and accessorized with a bodyguard who made sure no one stepped on my tail.
I didn't see In Bruges, and was surprised that Colin Farrell beat out Javier Bardem for the award. But he was all kinds of cute.
However, a few things are clear:
- As always, black is the new black.
- Some men need better tailors. I'm talking to you, Simon Baker.
- Some women do too. Ladies, if you are small-busted and wearing a strapless gown, the top really should look like it fits. Are you listening, Debra Messing?
- Seth Rogen looks good with a haircut.
- Tina Fey looks good with a statuette, though I like her better in glasses.
- Now I understand why so many men and women have a crush on Megan Fox.
- This will clearly be the month of Bruuuuuuuce!
- I have lots of movies to catch up on over the next few weeks.
January Jones of Mad Men in a dress with pockets! Easy posing, and no annoying clutch to worry about.
I never understand how Salma Hayek doesn't fall over. But she looks great.
Anne Hathaway: poster girl for sunblock.
I'd wear a dress like this, though in a less orangey red, and accessorized with a bodyguard who made sure no one stepped on my tail.
I didn't see In Bruges, and was surprised that Colin Farrell beat out Javier Bardem for the award. But he was all kinds of cute.Sunday, January 11, 2009
Bare Ruin'd Choirs
Walking in the gray light in Central Park today and looking at the bare trees in the snow, I thought of Shakespeare's Sonnet 73:
That time of year thou mayst in me beholdI do not generally think of myself as being anywhere near twilight; 2 p.m. maybe, with an espresso and some petits fours. But occasionally, the fire that's driven me seems self-consuming, and I can't remember why I lit it in the first place, or how to keep it ablaze.
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
What Year Is It, Anyway?
I'm sure I'm not the first to say this, but I keep thinking that maybe it's 25 years ago - in other words, that it's 1984 - and that George Orwell was spookily prescient, even if when he wrote the book 60 years ago, he thought it would all happen sooner.
If you've read the book, think about it: can you really tell at any given time if we're at war with Eurasia or Eastasia? Didn't the Patriot Act mean that Big Brother actually is watching us? (And we bloggers and twitterers are helping!) Hasn't our current administration essentially tried to outlaw sex? Despite our current economic woes, doesn't the Inner Circle have much, more more than everyone else? And doesn't Guantanamo have a Room 101?
I would like to believe that hope and love will change things. I am not sure they will.
If you've read the book, think about it: can you really tell at any given time if we're at war with Eurasia or Eastasia? Didn't the Patriot Act mean that Big Brother actually is watching us? (And we bloggers and twitterers are helping!) Hasn't our current administration essentially tried to outlaw sex? Despite our current economic woes, doesn't the Inner Circle have much, more more than everyone else? And doesn't Guantanamo have a Room 101?
I would like to believe that hope and love will change things. I am not sure they will.
(Image found here.)
Monday, January 05, 2009
Welcome To The Working Week
After a month of birthdays and other celebrations, as well as two very short weeks at the office, I'm now faced with a full, five-day workweek.
The only possible response: Elvis Costello. At least I don't have to go to Chelsea.
The only possible response: Elvis Costello. At least I don't have to go to Chelsea.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Mashing Up 2008
For some time now, I've been a fan of the incredibly talented DJ Earworm, whose Stairway to Bootleg Heaven is a perfect exemplar of the art of the mashup.
In his trenchant 1936 essay "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," Walter Benjamin foretold the culture of the copy and quoted Paul Valéry:
(Seen on Sasha Frere-Jones's blog.)
In his trenchant 1936 essay "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," Walter Benjamin foretold the culture of the copy and quoted Paul Valéry:
We must expect great innovations to transform the entire technique of the arts, thereby affecting artistic invention itself and perhaps even bringing about an amazing change in our very notion of art.Might I suggest that DJ Earworm represents that change (much more so than the overrated Girl Talk), especially now that he's added video to his repertoire, as you can see in this beautiful assemblage that works in the top 25 hits of last year?
(Seen on Sasha Frere-Jones's blog.)
Thursday, January 01, 2009
What I Learned in 2008, Part 2
Monday, I listed seven things I learned last year. Here are a few more, and how I plan to apply them this year.
- I realized it was time to write a book, and why, and started working on it. This year, I'll finish it.
- Nothing's more important than family, except maybe friends. In 2009, I'll be more connected to both.
- New York is the most-visited city in the U.S. for a reason. I'll be taking more advantage of all it has to offer.
- Poetry captures moments. And moments are all we have. So I'll be reading - and writing - more of it. Follow me on Twitter for the quotidian, haiku version of same. They really will be quotidian to make up for what the observant have noticed is my less-frequent posting here (book-writing takes time).
- My love for words is consuming. I will write many thousands of them in 2009, and get paid to do it. Some of them, strung together, will even be worth reading.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
