A Little Gossip…A Little Chat

My father is a therapist; he has three degrees in the study of people. It’s sort of like having a dad in the CIA or the mob: he doesn’t talk about his business, and he never introduces people who come up and speak to him. But his love of the innerworkings of humanity have been passed on to Pandito and me. We love to talk about people. My brother is fairly evolved and is able to talk about the actions and motivations of those around him with an enlightened viewpoint. My brother does not work in finance.

I think that men in finance get a bad rap for being dumb brutes. I have never had any of them be anything but civil and polite to me, both during and after office hours. But they do spend most of their time around lots of other dudes, reinforcing the bro mentality generated during college and business school. Today, I sit in the middle of a trading floor surrounded by men who, while nice to me, often forget I exist. This works for me. I didn’t become an assistant for the glory. If I’m very quiet and very still, I am treated to conversations that usually only happen when guys are alone.

Today, the big topic on the trading floor was the hotness of women they all mutually know. For this, I blame Mark Zuckerberg and the Facebook IPO fever infecting finance. If I took a shot every time CNBC said the word Facebook or made a pun out of “liking” something today, my liver would shut down within the hour. This constant repetition has subliminally driven me to check my own Facebook obsessively all week, and given the conversation around me, I’m not alone.

No one is saying anything despicable, just talking about general hotness, and club promoters, and people who used to be blonde and have moles. I don’t object to this sort of conversation as I’ve had my own versions with female friends and coworkers, albeit at a much lower decibel in a smaller group. It’s not the subject matter, but the method that intrigues me. There’s a general grunting that occurs when men gossip, especially about “hot ladies”. Looks are the main topic of conversation and who people are dating. There’s a lot more high fiving than when women gossip.

I don’t have any deep conclusive thesis to derive from all of this; I’ve always known that men love to gossip. I like to watch bros bro-ing out. Coming from a world of musical theater, I rarely get to see it. I feel a little like Jane Goodall, trying desperately to blend in, so as not to disrupt the natural behavior of the troop. Plus man-giggles are much more interesting to listen to than CNBC.

Till The World Ends

People love to hate Britney Spears. I know neither her body nor her dance skills are as on point as they were and that her unembellished singing voice would not enchant Prince Eric (PS Ariel, most straight guys don’t care that much about your voice). I know these things, and I love her in spite of them. Britney is a star. Even in a lessened state, her charisma, her x-factor if you will, stacks favorably against any pop star out there today.

Ke$ha has written and recorded some awesome songs. Blow made me fist pump for twelve hours straight. Rhianna has an amazing body and an edgy voice. Madonna is still a fierce performer with tight moves. Lady Gaga is the fastest rising star in pop today. She is inspiring to watch, and her voice is unparalleled in the world of leotard-clad booty shakers. It’s worth noting they’ve all collaborated with Britney, the epicenter of pop.

Ke$ha will go back to writing songs for other people as soon as the hipster moment passes. Rhianna, beautiful and talented, does not have Britney’s versatility, never changing wigs in a video and lacking the courage to use synthesized pan flute in any of her songs. Madonna will always have fans, but not because of vocal or dance skills or ability to be nice to people; her talent lies in her aggressive pursuit of change as a way to stay relevant and garner attention*. Britney doesn’t have to resort to these tricks. People love her just the way she is.

Lady Gaga speaks openly about the difficulties of maintaining the image she works so hard for. Eventually, I hope Gaga puts aside all the spectacle so people can appreciate her gifts as dazzling singer-songwriter. Lady Gaga is the most talented of the bunch, but her vulnerability is a cloak she wears, like part of her act. She doesn’t come by this openness honestly, like BritBrit does.

Britney fans bemoan the loss of her edge, but we are very lucky to still have her. Many stars with her early success and talent for adoration burn out so early. Britney’s music is as good, often better, now than ever. A friend once told me that the reason people love performers is because they feel like those performers need to be cared for. No one exemplifies this more aptly than Britney Jean Spears. Regardless of the direction her career takes, it’s clear that she’ll be around for decades to come.

*Would that she quit garnering attention through that dance move where she squats down and shows how muscular her inner thighs are.  I have seen far too much of Madonna’s post-menopausal lady business over the past few years.

I Can’t Rid Myself of My Christian Charity

I recently read an article on the Facebook about how more religious people in general, and Christians specifically, are less likely to act charitably in monetary situations than the less or not at all religious.

As a Christian, I want to be all sputtery and offended by this, but as someone who has waited tables in and out of the Bible Belt for years, I can tell you this is totally true. I wish I had a really interesting story illustrating my point, but it’s always the same. I walk up to the table, the dad makes lightly embarrassing dad-jokes; the whole family or group of people is super, extra nice. They all order with nary an alcoholic beverage between them (except sometimes, when the mom will get a glass of Chardonnay). I turn my back to go input the order and they all put their heads down. The backwaiter delivering bread and olive oil and I exchange a look: Every person in the service industry knows that if someone is bent over their breadbasket in prayer, your tip is going to be paltry.

Tipping isn’t charity; it’s a standard expense and Americans all know this. Christians are supposed to be beacons of kindness and generosity of spirit. I don’t remember the Bible instructing “When separating the wheat from the shaft, ensure your waiter always receives the latter”, but I went to a pretty liberal Church, so maybe we didn’t cover that in Sunday school.

 

…or maybe that was covered the same day as “Judge not, lest ye be judged”, which I obviously missed.

 

Dance Like No One is Watching

I always hate when athletes, musicians, and actors thank God for their trivial accomplishments, like Jesus is spending extra time making sure Tim Tebow catches a ball perfectly or that Justin Bieber pops and locks with precision, but can’t be bothered to stop drunk driving accidents. It’s the worst sort of egoism masked as devotion; it rankles me to my core. But I may have to change my stance on all of this, because on Friday night, God gave me the perfect subway ride.

I was coming back from rehearsal for the next installation of the Marvelous Meerkat’s and my cabaret with MM and our amazing guitarist, the Assiduous Armadillo. As we entered the train, I noticed a mom-like lady holding what looked like a dry erase marker while talking to two young adult daughter-like ladies. To my immense delight, moments after the doors closed, she began smoking from it. This lady was smoking from a fake cigar just like Alison Dubois, the crazy psychic from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

I do not understand these fake smoking devices. They smell like hookah, they look ridiculous, and people insist on smoking them in places where they haven’t been allowed to smoke a real cigarette in at least a decade. I have never seen anyone use one of these contraptions without looking like a crazy person or at least like someone who never grew out of thinking that smoking looks cool and sexy but doesn’t have the courage to follow through with the health risks that accompany it.

I had so many questions, but obviously would never break my number one rule of self preservation by approaching her and asking myself, which is where I felt the hand of divinity at work. A similarly mom-like lady facing her stood up and walked over. I forced my traveling companions to be silent as we shamelessly eavesdropped. Cigar Mom one extolled the virtues of the fake cigarette and encouraging Curious Mom to get one for herself posthaste, to which Curious Mom politely declined the necessity, because she was not a smoker (and, implicitly, not a crazy person). “Oh, neither am I,” declared the lady puffing on the end of a magic marker like a cartoon gangster in an insane asylum.

It took me hours to go to sleep that night; I was so hopped up. This train ride was the perfect storm of people watching. It had drama, intrigue, and at the end of the day, it made me think. I love these people on the streets and trains of New York, because they are so unself-conscious. I am narcissistic enough to think that people are always watching me, which is probably almost never true. But these people, like Cigar Mom, are completely uninhibited by those around them.  She’s just living her life, confident and self-assured. We could all stand to be a tiny bit more like Cigar Mom.

I’m Not Calling You A Liar…Zooey Deschanel

It’s been a heavy week here on this blog. I feel like we just relived Proposition 8, but at a pig pickin’. In the spirit of expediting the weekend, it’s time to put aside the politics and get back to my favorite hobby: judging with impunity.

I think it’s really important for women to support each other. I really value ladies who don’t denigrate other ladies, because we deal with enough of that from all sides. So why is it that Zooey Deschanel makes my teeth hurt? She seems like a nice person, certainly not someone who is outwardly hurtful or viciously stupid (ahem, Kardashians), but she is annoying. Her newest commercial for the iPhone4s only results in my distrusting Siri’s choice in companions. Zooey’s like that friend of a friend you get stuck next to at brunch, who’s like “Oh yeah, yesterday I just sat around playing the banjo in my pajamas and then I talked to a butterfly on my windowsill.” No amount of mimosas will cure that irritation.

She’s the girl who then corners you at that same friend’s party a couple of weekends later and tells you about her new banjo songs that she’s written, all about butterflies. So you lie to get away from her, and then you feel mean because you see her just sitting on the sofa after that, picking at a stray cigarette burn and looking too precious for the room. The cycle continues until you have to stop hanging around your mutual friend with because it’s too much social anxiety.

I only know Zooey Deschanel from magazine articles, commercials, movies, and Gawker nicknames. So not liking her is even meaner than being annoyed by banjo-brunch girl, who also buys her clothes specifically from second-hand stores to feel the weight of other people’s histories on her back, because I have never met her. But ZD projects that easy-going attitude that I both envy and distrust. She was, until recently, a vegan with allergies to eggs, dairy, and gluten. As a former waitress, I can tell you it is impossible that she is laid back.

Though I am not alone in my skeptical distaste for ZD’s hipster flower child aura, I do feel bad about it. She may be lovely to have brunch with, though I don’t know what kind of brunch you have with no eggs. Good for her for finding success as an actress/singer/songwriter. I don’t believe she’s as nerdy or free spirited as she wants her fanbase to believe she is, and I don’t believe anyone who really takes his or her music seriously talks in a constant glottal fry, but I respect her for finding a group of people who like what she does enough to make her a millionaire. I’m just not one of them, nor is anyone I know, besides boys who aren’t overwhelmingly familiar with womankind.

Ok, Now You Know: Life is Crummy. Amendment I, Part ii

Amendment One passed in North Carolina yesterday. It’s atrocious and inhumane. It sucks. But part of living in a democracy is that people are allowed to vote the way that they want to; it’s what makes America great. I guess America would be greater if it weren’t for all those Americans who don’t want big government involved in their lives, but are happy to vote for it to live between other people’s relationships and inside women’s uteruses, but I digress.

First, I would like to take a minute to defend North Carolina to all the citizens of other states getting super uppity on Facebook. Unless your state is one of the six that explicitly allows gay marriage, and especially if you live in one of the thirty other states that explicitly bans gay marriage, allow me to help you off your high status-posting horse and put a phone in your hand. Instead of angrily chattering about North Carolina, use the passionate disappointment you feel to call your own congressperson, or join a campaign.

The first time I voted was in the Kerry/Bush election of 2004, a close race that was incredibly disappointing to those of us who voted for the narrowly defeated Kerry, though it was nothing compared to the disgusting circus of the Gore/Bush race of 2000. These disappointments helped spur an enormous voter involvement and turnout and put President Barack Obama in the Whitehouse, where I hope and pray he stays.

When the Republicans took control of the North Carolina legislature in 2010, they decided a second amendment was needed to double ban gay marriage. Had more Democrats shown up to that smaller state election, the newly elected wouldn’t have had the power to put Amendment 1 into motion. Let this demoralizing defeat of human rights in North Carolina move you to be more actively involved in political campaigns and bring you to vote in every election, whatever state you call home. This is our generation’s chance to rectify the sins of our metaphorical fathers and take one step closer to equality for all American citizens. Don’t screw it up.

We Tried To Wash Our Hands of All of This: Amendment One

I have always been proud to be from the South, especially from North Carolina. I love the perfectly blue skies and having cardinals playing in dogwood trees in my backyard and actively participating in the tense Bojangles v. Biscuitville debates that regularly spring up between spirited North Carolinians. When Yankee friends make judge-face about my being Southern, acting like I can’t read and they’re amazed I’m wearing shoes, I shrug it off: they don’t know the South. They don’t know the Southern pride of manners and history. Of course it’s more conservative and there are racial tensions; these things are obviously not included in the aforementioned pride. Yet I comfort myself that people don’t know what it’s really like there, especially not North Carolina, where people are smart and educated and progress is slow but always happening.

But maybe I don’t know what it’s like there either. Today, the Old North State is voting whether or not to place a second ban on gay marriage; as if there were gays sneaking through the cracks of the first ban and managing to have their unions recognized by God and Blue Cross Blue Shield of North Carolina. Apparently, I have been deluding myself in the liberal oasis of New York City that the whole world is changing. The fact that gay marriage is still controversial, let alone illegal, in the year 2012 is so incredibly sad. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinions, but I can never grasp the outrage surrounding gay marriage. Gay people freak you out? You don’t have to go to the gay weddings or marry a gay person. Two people being able to legally express their love has nothing to do with you. Gays are against God’s plan? Agree to disagree, friend, but God shouldn’t have anything to do with people’s legal rights anyway: Separation of Church and State is, in its modern state, a concept originated by John Locke, furthered by Thomas Jefferson, and cemented in the First Amendment of this country’s Constitution.

I haven’t lived in North Carolina in a decade, but I am always a North Carolinian. The human rights of my fellow North Carolinians will always be personal to me. This law has put NC on the national stage for all the wrong reasons. It is a shame that it’s up for vote and it will be a bigger shame if it passes. I believe the state is better than Amendment One and I hope it gets voted down, lest we repeat the repressive habits of our predecessors.  

Has Anyone Ever Read You A Fairytale?

I am so into NBC’s Grimm. I was initially worried it wouldn’t be able to compete with my true television love, Once Upon A Time, but my fears were allayed, as the shows have gone in totally different directions.

Last week, Grimm used one of my all time favorite fantasy storytelling devices: They blamed the Holocaust on their antagonists. Nothing is more awesome than when the newly magic protagonist is learning about his enemies from a magical mentor or magical revolutionary and said mentor dramatically drops the phrase “Germany in the 1930’s” into the conversation, or includes a swastika in a magical education slide show. My spine actually tingles, it’s so titillating.

This rhetorical device serves three purposes. It establishes the level of evil our magical heroes are dealing with, legitimizes the world in which they are living, and it takes the onus off of humankind and foists it onto magical creatures, lessening the guilt and horror we feel at the fact that the event took place at all. I am the target audience for anything that scapegoats magic as the root of all human evil. I love high stakes, believing in magic, and hate feeling guilt and horror in equal measures. The fact that it desensitizes all of us to the idea of genocide and reinforces the idea that human beings are innocent bystanders, helpless to act in the face of true evil is something I try not to let ruin my fun.

I think Grimm might have jumped the gun, bringing the Holocaust into the first season. They might should have started with the Salem Witch Trials or Khmer Rouge; opening with the Holocaust to a Western Audience takes it really far, really fast. There are shows that can’t pull that off (True Blood did not benefit from its inclusion; Charmed wisely avoided it altogether), as it is a really horrifying event to bring into an otherwise fluffy entertainment vehicle. Harry Potter and X-Men probably did it best. I’m not sure Grimm has earned it yet. But they’ve definitely earned at least one more week of viewership from me.

It’s Not How You Fall, It’s How You Land

Everything I ever needed to know about aging gracefully, I learned from my Golden Retriever, Caleb.

We got Caleb from my dad’s receptionist because he was a terribly behaved dog. She’d gotten a purebred Golden with the intention of having a fierce accessory, and named him Kentucky Caleb. Even after he lived down that personal shame, he still couldn’t please her. She said he’d gone through obedience school twice and just wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t sit on the bathmat and warm it while she took a shower. Clearly a miscreant cur.

Caleb was the best behaved animal or human who ever lived with our family. Gorgeous and sleek , his fur flapped in the wind like Pamela Anderson’s did in the 90’s. He was slender and mild mannered. He was instantly a member of the family.

But like many of us, with age Caleb put on a little weight. He went a little white around the muzzle. Then he started getting cysts. The first one was behind his ear, so he just had to wear a cone for a little while. Then he got one in his tail.

Going from looking like the bikini model of Golden Retrievers to being a chubby puppy with half a tail is a character building experience. Even though some people made cruel jokes about how his tail looked like male genitalia as the fur was growing back, he never wagged it with any less enthusiasm. He never let the shame of his half tail keep him from being the sweetest dog.

When my mom shaved him for summer, that took the wind out of his sails a little bit, but that would have been the fatal blow for a lot of us.

Every Single Day, Every Game You Play

The other night, I was coming home from Queens with a couple of friends when a loud, round woman clad in a clingy Rangers jersey and her equally loud be-mulleted son charged onto the train. My polite friend nervously started talking to avoid staring at this unself-conscious woman. I marveled at that instinct, as I am oppositely inclined. I love to stare.

Staring has been a life-long passion, but moving to New York has helped me refine it into an art form. Staring on the street is nice, but nothing is as satisfying as a side-eye stare over a book I’m pretending to read while riding the subway. I like to stare at all the different people who enter and exit the cars, from the handsome guy in a tailored suit to the crazy woman I saw yesterday carrying a Viola Swamp tote bag while dressed just like Viola Swamp herself. I was transfixed.

In my defense, I never stare at the endangered or the potentially dangerous. Like sneak petting a dog on the sidewalk, staring undetected takes practice. I would never stare at the schizophrenic on the crowded rush hour E train screaming that someone broke his crank radio or at the old guy sleeping in torn jeans and a hospital gown with his sensors still attached, though I did tell the conductor about him before I left the train.

I stare because I care. I want to know things. It’s the same impulse that made me a horrible gossip in college, but a purer form. I will stare at the guy who is so drunk when he gets on the train that he has to ask the girl next to him if he’d wet his seat. Incidentally, he had and she was not thrilled to be sitting next to him. I will stare at the guy who brings his dog on the train and uses her to start conversations in baby talk with other adults. I will stare at the people sporting white jeans in January, the lady in sweatpants and platforms who asks her boyfriend to poke her stomach roll, the toddler who is fascinated by the tunnel rushing past the car.

I’m not staring just to judge. I want to know why people do what they do. Is the guy with the dog lonely, or does he just think his dog is that interesting? Does the woman know she looks like Viola Swamp, or is that irony? Are the people in white jeans European?

Someday, maybe, I’ll find a way to make a living off of my fascination with the minutiae of other people’s lives. In the meantime, I never worry if I leave my book at home, because I know there will be someone on the subway to read.