Archive for August, 2009
August 28th, 2009
I did an audition for Dove today.
It’s one of those “Real Beauty” campaigns where “real women” are featured as the actors. For real.
[Optional Rant Read: Yes, beauty standards for women in this country are obscene...Girls, fo'gettaboutit, it's at a point where idols are born out of the womb with belly shirts and navel rings, sexualized as the sexy sexy zygotes they are. Women are unable to age in the public eye without inflating their lips--like a tree, their age is measured in lip circumference--and eliminate unnecessary expressions with Botox like "happiness", "anger", or "OHMYGODABEARISEATINGMYFACE!!" While men on the other hand (she says, stepping on the second tier of her soapbox, bra and lighter poised for fire-magic), can age gracefully, shifting into character roles like Rumplestiltskin or Tom Brokaw.
Models are only models after hours of prep work, a 40: 1 ratio of shit:keeper, and an army of airbrushers. I know this because me and Tyra Banks are BFFs and ANTM is [insert text-speak equivalent of "cool."] The adjective “beautiful” seems to be saved for brides and red carpet celebrities and princess parties (which I do admit are really fun). I’m slightly ashamed that I subconsciously avoid using the word “beautiful” intentionally and instead say or hear my appearance described as “sassy”, “hot” or “cute.” All wonderful words, kind, complimentary words, but WHAT HAVE WE DONE TO OUR SELF IMAGES TO REJECT CALLING OURSELVES BEAUTIFUL AT ALL COSTS?!… Eh, you can read all of this on the liner notes of an Ani DiFranco album, you get the picture.]
So back to the day.
There were women with head shots and then there were women without sitting in the waiting room. The women with head shots went into one room and sang behind the closed doors, the other women brought their moms and sisters and were wearing more comfortable shoes.
“Okay, who here are my ‘real women’?” the casting director asked and separated the lot of us. Regular Women do not make their living as actors, apparently. In her defense, the casting director did come out after the audition and said, “Okay, I know that sounded stupid.”
Real Women are still commercially attractive. If god forbid this Real Woman is not completely symmetrical in her bone structure (which can be changed and shaped at an early age, so let’s keep that in mind, mothers who say you love your daughters), her look is considered “unique”–it’s different than normal, average, homely, handsome, freakish, or ugly. Real Women can sing, often quite well, even professionally maybe if you gave them twelve bars in an upbeat tempo. Real women are friends with their mothers and/or sisters and find comfort in bounding around in their undies together. Real women are real. Unless they are actors, and then, well… uh… quick, look at their boobies!
Also, don’t get me wrong. I’d love to get a SAG gig and run around in my underwear* promoting the idea that society’s image of beauty is skewed and we need to educate and talk to our daughters before MTV sucks the self esteem out of them. But it’s still the TeeVees. It’s still the Hollywoods. And that’s okay. Because these Super Real Women are nice people and we like them. Unless they’re not nice people and then we hate them, which we tend to do by default anyway because we actually hate ourselves.
For real.
*We were not told how much (if any) under-wearing will occur in this particular ad campaign.
August 18th, 2009
Let’s Get Out of This Terrible Sandwich Shop: Going Out of Business Show
Thursday, August 20th. 9:00 PM | The Abbey Pub | 3420 W. Grace
Due to the economy, Chicago’s least-favorite-eatery-that-is-also-a-band is closing its doors after 5 years, 4 records, and 3 comparisons to They Might Be Giants. Tony, Thea, Tom and Jojo will perform the musics and comedies that have kept audiences amused or bemused (depending on whether you like the band name or hate the band name).
A compilation of 2 new studio tracks and unreleased radio performances, demos, jingles, and strange skits will be made available at the show for early birds.
The Bitter Tears and The Columbines also play. It will be fun but it will also be terrible.
August 17th, 2009
There were five ducks.
Siblings that grew up in the lake over the past few weeks. Mama sounded her protective chirp as they scurried past my dangling legs on the dock in zig zag formation. I threw the broken pretzel rod in the water to coax them back and they eagerly darted for my offerings. Left, right, left, right. In the air they were a V. In the water, a W.
Within seconds of the pretzel hitting the water the bigger of the babies nearly levitated as he skimmed across the surface. He pushed through his siblings to reach the first bite, and the second, and the third. His neck craned to reach the small bit of food as if he was pushing himself to win the Olympic (Rold) Gold.
I ran out of food to give them. And as soon as I threw the last bite, they became disinterested in my presence and swam away. Damn ducks.
They swam away and the water blended with the night’s darkening blue.
***
I was coming home. My brain was in a knot. It had long shut down hours earlier from whatever irrational thing it decided to hook itself on and I was thinking with my heart instead. I took note of the changing scents from each individual spring tree that lined streets. Writing bad poetry in my head about streams and bridges. Biking at night down Wilson makes you forget that you’re in the city. There are sections of darkness. Pockets of quiet. There is a crossing by a small river that resembles a country village. The summer never hits until August, and on a Sunday night everyone turns in early. No one is out.
I arrived at my street and saw a duck. A damn duck in the middle of the street. A damn duck in the middle of the road with a baby duck huddling under her tail. I couldn’t figure out how she’d done this since there wasn’t a body of water for miles. But there she was, quacking in circles as if she’d been there all night. And after all my bad poetry and philosophies swirling through my mind examining the beautiful tragedy we call life and death…THEN THERE WAS A DUCK IN THE ROAD?! I wrote several trite stanzas in my head before I could continue.
I wanted to pick her and her baby up and take them to a lake and release them majestically into the wild. ”Everything will be all right, little one!” I’d say, and toss the duckling into the air. The duckling, not old enough to fly, would fall like a rock to the ground. That image didn’t change my course of action. Still motivated to convince the birds I was their friend, I slowly and pointlessly chased after the two with my camera. Rather than just walking after the ducks, I found it best to follow in an hunched over half-lunge. It made sense to pursue them like this because obviously the duck would mistake me as foul and not human by my stature. Ducks are short. Humans are tall.
It was going to be great. I’d sit with them by their nest. I’d invite people over and tell them of how I heroically rescued the ducks and carried them both home in my messenger bag. Nevermind the countless piles of goopy duck shit in the apartment, THIS WAS POETIC AND BEAUTIFUL.
Mama Duck didn’t have such goals. She settled under a vehicle’s large frame with her oblivious kin close to her breast and resigned herself to her urban fate.
Damn ducks.
August 3rd, 2009
Dear Maria, My Love, My Darling,
This is a marriage proposal. I’ll say that outright so you know what your answer should be at the end of this letter and my reasons behind writing it. So, here it goes. I guess I’m at a point in my life where I tolerate your presence enough to share in a tradition that will cost us fortunes while people who consider us their friends celebrate our camaraderie and more importantly, give us things of value. I hope that we’ll be able to stand each other and will have enough spark in our friendship–our sexual friendship–to put aside any differences that might come our way. I say let’s test the waters because I’m a good swimmer. I have more to lose than you do anyway, really.
As I’ve mulled over this this possibility of a life with you specifically, I’ve asked myself many questions. Do we cohabitate because that’s what we’re supposed to do? Are we as humans, like the penguin, supposed to get only one partner, or is that something we just say when we’re lonely and watching the Discovery Channel? Now, I like penguins. And I think about monogamous penguins in love and how romantic that is. Then I think of penguins doing it and can’t quite imagine penguins humping, so I assume that with marriage comes a life without sexual contact, or if it does exist, it looks funny or results in flipper babies. These are the conclusions I draw and why I think that you should agree with me.
I love you. I know before I’ve used air quotes to say that, but I think I’m willing to remove them now, or at least only use them in the privacy of our own home. I do not understand marriage or myself, or the idea of bringing another life into the world. That terrifies me more than being alone. It seems too easy, and dare I say tempting to ruin someone else. Just absolutely ruin. Mentally, financially…Not physically, because I’m not a vicious or particularly strong individual. But there are so many ways to damage someone just by doing the slightest of things. I’m not saying I would, but I’m just saying I’m human for thinking about it. So no, I do not want children.
I hope to not get in the way of your dreams, and I hope you will support me and my wishes so that I might get my way–at least a good majority of the time–so that I may not resent you for compromising my goals which may or may not involve you. Not that I think that you have any of your own, or foresee this being a problem.
I hope that underneath the surface of our love there is no animosity that will lie dormant until the other grows tired of the other’s presence. Then I assume we’d part, hopefully amicably. Or maybe dramatically with me riding a motorcycle away from the scene, you throwing my clothes out the window, a goat mysteriously walking through the yard, me, smoking a cigarette and throwing it behind me, the goat mysteriously bursting into flames. I’d take up smoking in our relationship so that this might occur.
Though I do not promise to be civil after the separation (because you know how I am with ways of jealousy and well, I’m just being honest, which is something you adamantly claimed I was not), I hope you will not hold my straying heart against me after I gave you so many years of complacency and filled the role you were looking for financially. I did hold a steady job for, well, a few years at least and you seemed to like being out of the house more than me. And you were the most charming crossing guard on the block until you started to fill out that vest. (Again, I’m working on my honesty.)
And even after I manage to completely skew the facts in the divorce hearings, I hope that you will appreciate my talent for the lost art of storytelling. Let us remember that these things, like money or a house that was once ours, these are just things. And you don’t need them. You don’t need these possessions that weigh you down. I need them. And I’m glad I can help you by lifting that burden.
I want you to have memories that include us. Now with that, I will await your return from work. I’ll apologize in advance because admittedly I could not control myself with a pint of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer that did have your name on it, but I figured that was in the metaphorical sense, and I just renamed it after myself.
As a reminder, this is a marriage proposal, and I look forward to hearing you say yes.
Yours,
Charles
