I have children, but I am so tired of "the children" being used as a reason to whitewash every blessed thing. Especially newspaper comics.
As a kid, I was a voracious reader. But while I remember being interested in the Sunday funnies, I was far more likely to be reading a comic book or something by Beverly Cleary. "Snuffy Smith" wasn't funny to me, even when I was 6.
Apparently some readers got their knickers in a wad over the March 9 "Brenda Starr" comic strip, which references a threesome. My local paper doesn't carry "Brenda Starr," but the threesome angle involves a sleazy senator's aide who's being set up by two women. I was thrilled when the strip's writer, Mary Schmich, told the Chicago Tribune's public editor: "The comics are not any more 'for kids' than the rest of the paper is 'for kids.' "
This issue crops up whenever a strip gets the tiniest bit edgy, like when a "Zits" strip — which revolves around a teenaged boy — used the word "sucks." Imagine that. Today's teens use the word "sucks" in conversation! And I remember when newspapers got complaints about gay characters in "For Better or For Worse" and "Doonesbury."
This is all so very silly. Not once has my 8-year-old son expressed a burning desire to see what "Hi & Lois" or "Garfield" are up to. He doesn't care. Even if he did, any references to sex would go right over his head. And, God forbid, if he actually had a question about the content, we'd give him an age-appropriate answer or tell him "That's grown-up stuff." The end.
Sometimes I wonder who these readers are and why they've got some newspaper editors so cowed. They're probably the same ones who think "Marmaduke" is on the cutting edge.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Keep Your Polka Dots Off My Pants
My sister, an under-30 clotheshorse who works in the fashion industry, once told me that I took shopping too personally. She's usually the first person I call when I score a particularly great outfit off the rack, which is rare. She's also the first person I call when I've gone to seemingly every store in my mid-sized city and been confronted with rack after rack of the tackiest, plus-sized crap ever.
I take that extremely personally, because it speaks volumes about what certain stores (or at least the clueless buyers) think of women sizes 14 and up.
Even though I've been working out with a trainer, I'll likely be shopping in the plus-sized department for a while. Thanks largely to luck, the Internet and a handful of fashion-forward, niche designers, I've managed to assemble a semi-stylish wardrobe that doesn't make me look like a church deaconess. But sometimes a girl's got to go to the mall, or to Target. And with a few exceptions, what I've seen isn't pretty.
For starters, the plus-size department is always located in the back of department store because it's, you know, shameful. But I could get past that if the larger clothes resembled the offerings in the Misses department. I happen to like simple, classic, grownup clothes — the kind of stuff you'd find in Ann Taylor. Flat-front pants with a modern shape, wrap dresses, pencil skirts, etc. Nothing crazy. And none of these things are hard to translate to larger sizes, especially if you have a reasonably proportioned figure.
But in most of the department stores where I live, "plus-sized" is interpreted as either "Thick 'n Sassy" (snaps!) or "Matronly and Fond of Embroidery." In the first category, we have clothes that are fine for certain nightclubs, but not so much for work: plunging necklines, eye-assaulting colors, an abundance of bedazzling. In the second, there are items (usually dumpy) with all manner of WTF elements — gigantic dragonflies on the pockets, sailboat anchors along the hem and polka dots. Instead of offering a simple, elegant shirtdress — like the one across the aisle in Misses — the designers of these clothes opt to slap cat faces or strawberries on their gear. It's as if to say, "We're going to punish you for being bigger."
Even at my beloved Target, the plus-sized clothes are mixed in among the maternity wear ("Plus, pregnant; it's all the same!). Worse, the cute designer stuff is just out of my reach, fit-wise.
I understand that fashion is all about aspiration, etc., etc. But this isn't about the latest, cutting-edge offerings from the catwalk — this is about middle America, where I'm told the average woman is a size 14. Some of us have read a fashion magazine in the last five years, and we'd like our wardrobes to reflect that. And we have money to spend. This is why certain online boutiques and catalogs have been so successful. (Thanks, guys. Seriously.) Still, it would be nice not to have to wait for a package to arrive before trying something on.
The antagonist might say, "You want to wear nicer clothes? Lose some weight." But that shouldn't be a prerequisite for "deserving" certain kinds of clothes. And even if weight loss is the goal, what's wrong with having something attractive to wear in the meantime?
I take that extremely personally, because it speaks volumes about what certain stores (or at least the clueless buyers) think of women sizes 14 and up.
Even though I've been working out with a trainer, I'll likely be shopping in the plus-sized department for a while. Thanks largely to luck, the Internet and a handful of fashion-forward, niche designers, I've managed to assemble a semi-stylish wardrobe that doesn't make me look like a church deaconess. But sometimes a girl's got to go to the mall, or to Target. And with a few exceptions, what I've seen isn't pretty.
For starters, the plus-size department is always located in the back of department store because it's, you know, shameful. But I could get past that if the larger clothes resembled the offerings in the Misses department. I happen to like simple, classic, grownup clothes — the kind of stuff you'd find in Ann Taylor. Flat-front pants with a modern shape, wrap dresses, pencil skirts, etc. Nothing crazy. And none of these things are hard to translate to larger sizes, especially if you have a reasonably proportioned figure.
But in most of the department stores where I live, "plus-sized" is interpreted as either "Thick 'n Sassy" (snaps!) or "Matronly and Fond of Embroidery." In the first category, we have clothes that are fine for certain nightclubs, but not so much for work: plunging necklines, eye-assaulting colors, an abundance of bedazzling. In the second, there are items (usually dumpy) with all manner of WTF elements — gigantic dragonflies on the pockets, sailboat anchors along the hem and polka dots. Instead of offering a simple, elegant shirtdress — like the one across the aisle in Misses — the designers of these clothes opt to slap cat faces or strawberries on their gear. It's as if to say, "We're going to punish you for being bigger."
Even at my beloved Target, the plus-sized clothes are mixed in among the maternity wear ("Plus, pregnant; it's all the same!). Worse, the cute designer stuff is just out of my reach, fit-wise.
I understand that fashion is all about aspiration, etc., etc. But this isn't about the latest, cutting-edge offerings from the catwalk — this is about middle America, where I'm told the average woman is a size 14. Some of us have read a fashion magazine in the last five years, and we'd like our wardrobes to reflect that. And we have money to spend. This is why certain online boutiques and catalogs have been so successful. (Thanks, guys. Seriously.) Still, it would be nice not to have to wait for a package to arrive before trying something on.
The antagonist might say, "You want to wear nicer clothes? Lose some weight." But that shouldn't be a prerequisite for "deserving" certain kinds of clothes. And even if weight loss is the goal, what's wrong with having something attractive to wear in the meantime?
Monday, March 10, 2008
Nightwing's Newest Fan
Certain readers of this blog know I have a thing for current and former residents of Wayne Manor. But I was never compelled to follow the adventures of Nightwing — the original Robin, Dick Grayson — until now. Major props to writer Peter Tomasi and artist Rags Morales, who have managed to pack the last three issues with engaging, multilayered storytelling and compelling artwork.
One of the best things about Tomasi's approach is the interplay between Nightwing, Batman, Alfred and the current Robin, Tim Drake. In particular, the scenes with Dick and Tim (in or out of costume) crackle. I'm looking forward to seeing how Tomasi further explores that brother-like bond.
How good is it? Let's just say that it almost makes up for Gail Simone exiting the much-loved Birds of Prey series. Almost.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Feeding the Warrior
Dick's Sporting Goods struck advertising gold with those Lance Armstrong "Feed the Warrior" spots. As funny as it is to see Armstrong run on a treadmill while barking at a meek customer to "kill the coward within," I'm not sure he's acting. I also can't get this particular line out of my mind: "Remember, pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."
So I thought of Lance when I went to the gym at 5:30 a.m. today to feed my long-dormant warrior.
My last excuse for not working out crumbled when a reputable gym opened up about a mile from my house. There was no point in pretending I'd go in the evening when dinner, homework and laundry called. If I was going to do it, I was going to have to go at an hour before the obstacles started piling up. I am not a morning person, so I fully expected to be miserable once the alarm went off.
But something surprising happened: I was kinda psyched. Not only was I doing something just for myself, but I was doing it in the absence of requests for water/juice/snack, fights over "Peter Pan" vs. "Spy Kids" and meandering conversations about my husband's disc golf hobby. It was dark and ridiculously early, but it was my time.
The workout was difficult (as it should be) but endurable, and when it came to that last, awful lunge, I just pretended that my trainer was Lance Armstrong. Can you imagine telling him that, no, you can't do one more curl or five more minutes on the elliptical machine because it's too hard? Quitting lasts forever. Forever!
Of course, the trick is to do it again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that for pretty much the rest of my life. That's not easy for someone who has always viewed exercise as the means to an end instead of a necessary constant. But I'm almost 40 now, and the consequences of not working out — especially considering my plump genes and high-strung nature — are pretty grim. A woman in my book club who is in her mid-50s and in fabulous shape laid it out for me this way: "I'm telling you; keep your body moving. Start exercising now. Otherwise, you get to be my age and it all just turns to mush."
So while my inner warrior is still slightly skeptical, it is awake. That's a start.
So I thought of Lance when I went to the gym at 5:30 a.m. today to feed my long-dormant warrior.
My last excuse for not working out crumbled when a reputable gym opened up about a mile from my house. There was no point in pretending I'd go in the evening when dinner, homework and laundry called. If I was going to do it, I was going to have to go at an hour before the obstacles started piling up. I am not a morning person, so I fully expected to be miserable once the alarm went off.
But something surprising happened: I was kinda psyched. Not only was I doing something just for myself, but I was doing it in the absence of requests for water/juice/snack, fights over "Peter Pan" vs. "Spy Kids" and meandering conversations about my husband's disc golf hobby. It was dark and ridiculously early, but it was my time.
The workout was difficult (as it should be) but endurable, and when it came to that last, awful lunge, I just pretended that my trainer was Lance Armstrong. Can you imagine telling him that, no, you can't do one more curl or five more minutes on the elliptical machine because it's too hard? Quitting lasts forever. Forever!
Of course, the trick is to do it again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that for pretty much the rest of my life. That's not easy for someone who has always viewed exercise as the means to an end instead of a necessary constant. But I'm almost 40 now, and the consequences of not working out — especially considering my plump genes and high-strung nature — are pretty grim. A woman in my book club who is in her mid-50s and in fabulous shape laid it out for me this way: "I'm telling you; keep your body moving. Start exercising now. Otherwise, you get to be my age and it all just turns to mush."
So while my inner warrior is still slightly skeptical, it is awake. That's a start.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Stewart Copeland: Midlife Crush
Sometimes I'm grateful that the Internet didn't exist back when I was a kid with endless hours of free time and white-hot obsessions. Otherwise, I'd have gone down the rabbit hole of Monkees dedication sites and "Family Ties" fan fiction. The only thing saving me now, frankly, is the need to hold down a full-time job and speak to my family once in awhile.
Still, every now and then, the most random thing or person grabs my attention and reduces me to a panting, Googling, 13-year-old fangirl. Which brings me to Stewart Copeland.
In an unusual streak of good luck, I got face-value tickets to see The Police twice last year — once with my best friend in Tampa and again with my slightly less stoked husband in Atlanta. Both shows were fantastic, which was not a surprise. But what did surprise me was how freaking amazing a drummer Copeland is. (I know; duh.) It's one thing to hear his beat-making on a CD; quite another to see it live. He played the hell out of their 90-minute set, and when he went to work on an elaborate gong display during "Wrapped Around Your Finger," the crowd in both cities went nuts. It was gangster.
And a midlife crush was born. The sight of this gray-haired, fiftyish guy — wearing a sweatband! — suddenly became, like, the hottest thing ever. Why did it take a reunion tour for me to fully appreciate his awesomeness? Maybe because like every other teenaged girl back in the day, I was focused on the handsome, media-anointed frontman. Typical.
This is not to slight Andy Summers, who is a guitar god and a fine writer. But there is something extra appealing about Copeland's unhinged, gangly energy. Remember that moment in the "Roxanne" video where it looks like he's going to fall backward off the stool and his arms just keep windmilling around? That's what it is. And as a former newspaper journalist, I'm a sucker for a celebrity who gives candid, insightful interviews. His now-infamous blog item about their "first disaster gig" on the reunion circuit is classic and very, very funny. Look it up.
Random? Yes. A quarter century late? Guilty as charged. But if digging Stewart Copeland is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Now, excuse me. I've got some Googling to do.
Still, every now and then, the most random thing or person grabs my attention and reduces me to a panting, Googling, 13-year-old fangirl. Which brings me to Stewart Copeland.
In an unusual streak of good luck, I got face-value tickets to see The Police twice last year — once with my best friend in Tampa and again with my slightly less stoked husband in Atlanta. Both shows were fantastic, which was not a surprise. But what did surprise me was how freaking amazing a drummer Copeland is. (I know; duh.) It's one thing to hear his beat-making on a CD; quite another to see it live. He played the hell out of their 90-minute set, and when he went to work on an elaborate gong display during "Wrapped Around Your Finger," the crowd in both cities went nuts. It was gangster.
And a midlife crush was born. The sight of this gray-haired, fiftyish guy — wearing a sweatband! — suddenly became, like, the hottest thing ever. Why did it take a reunion tour for me to fully appreciate his awesomeness? Maybe because like every other teenaged girl back in the day, I was focused on the handsome, media-anointed frontman. Typical.
This is not to slight Andy Summers, who is a guitar god and a fine writer. But there is something extra appealing about Copeland's unhinged, gangly energy. Remember that moment in the "Roxanne" video where it looks like he's going to fall backward off the stool and his arms just keep windmilling around? That's what it is. And as a former newspaper journalist, I'm a sucker for a celebrity who gives candid, insightful interviews. His now-infamous blog item about their "first disaster gig" on the reunion circuit is classic and very, very funny. Look it up.
Random? Yes. A quarter century late? Guilty as charged. But if digging Stewart Copeland is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Now, excuse me. I've got some Googling to do.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Guilty Pleasures, Vol. 1
I loathe hipsters, but I have been known to judge people based on their musical preferences. Still, I try not to overdo it by making unnecessary references to Wilco or Lupe Fiasco. As in the previous sentence.
But even the most insufferable music snobs have a list of Certified Guilty Pleasures, and I am no exception. A bad or challenging day demands my Guilty Pleasures Mix, Vol. 1: eleven cheese-powered anthems made for air guitar and tossing up devil horns. They made it possible for me to drive across town at 7:15 this morning, without weeping, to transport my rambunctious* 8-year-old to an out-of-school "refocusing" program. It would be a perfect compilation if not for the grievous omission of Night Ranger's "Sister Christian." Mistakes were made.
And just to be clear, there is nothing ironic about my affection for the following:
1. "Alive and Kicking" by Simple Minds: This is almost too good to qualify as a guilty pleasure, but the over-emoting sends it just across the line. Remember the awesomely generic video with the band singing on a random hilltop? Of course you do. Soul-stirring!
2. "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey: Show me the man who doesn't love this song, and I'll show you an utterly broken human being. Why did it take the final episode of "The Sopranos" to give this song the legitimacy it so richly deserves? Aren't we all just strangers on that mythical midnight train going anywhere? Steeeeeve!
3. "Oh, Sherrie" by Steve Perry: I'm not sure why Steve Perry needed to go solo to produce this, since it sounds JUST LIKE a Journey song, but whatever. Who is this Sherrie, and why does she keep on hurting Steve? Would she really be better off alone? Did she, indeed, hold on? It's a question for the ages, man.
4. "Panama" by Van Halen: How awesome are Eddie Van Halen's guitar licks in this song? Hagar, Schmagar. Even now, I would pay good money to hear David Lee Roth growl, "We're running a little bit hot tonight." Yes, David Lee. We are.
5. "Pour Some Sugar On Me" by Def Leppard: A filthy, bombastic, high fructose delight. I have yet to meet the person who doesn't secretly like this song. Because HE DOESN'T EXIST.
6. "Round and Round" by Ratt: If I were a stripper, this would be my pole-dancing jam. Still can't hear it without thinking of Milton Berle, though.
7. "Valotte" by Julian Lennon: It's the only ballad here, but it has enough pathos for an iPod Shuffle full of ballads. Damn shame that this wasn't the beginning of a long, successful music career for Julian.
8. "Wanted Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi: Because life is such a blur of gigs and groupies that we can only tell the day by the bottle that we drink.
9. "What a Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers: The only '70s song on this list is propelled by what sounds like a child's Casio keyboard and the soulful, indecipherable vocal stylings of Michael McDonald.
10. "You Give Love a Bad Name" by Bon Jovi: It just rocks. Okay?
11. "Working for the Weekend" by Loverboy: It's indefensible. The synthesizers. The fifth-grade lyrics that rhyme "start" with "start". It's the sound of dozens of telemarketers tearing out of the parking lot on a Friday afternoon, headed to happy hour at the nearest Applebees. Hell, yeah.
I've told you mine. Now it's your turn.
* Evil
But even the most insufferable music snobs have a list of Certified Guilty Pleasures, and I am no exception. A bad or challenging day demands my Guilty Pleasures Mix, Vol. 1: eleven cheese-powered anthems made for air guitar and tossing up devil horns. They made it possible for me to drive across town at 7:15 this morning, without weeping, to transport my rambunctious* 8-year-old to an out-of-school "refocusing" program. It would be a perfect compilation if not for the grievous omission of Night Ranger's "Sister Christian." Mistakes were made.
And just to be clear, there is nothing ironic about my affection for the following:
1. "Alive and Kicking" by Simple Minds: This is almost too good to qualify as a guilty pleasure, but the over-emoting sends it just across the line. Remember the awesomely generic video with the band singing on a random hilltop? Of course you do. Soul-stirring!
2. "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey: Show me the man who doesn't love this song, and I'll show you an utterly broken human being. Why did it take the final episode of "The Sopranos" to give this song the legitimacy it so richly deserves? Aren't we all just strangers on that mythical midnight train going anywhere? Steeeeeve!
3. "Oh, Sherrie" by Steve Perry: I'm not sure why Steve Perry needed to go solo to produce this, since it sounds JUST LIKE a Journey song, but whatever. Who is this Sherrie, and why does she keep on hurting Steve? Would she really be better off alone? Did she, indeed, hold on? It's a question for the ages, man.
4. "Panama" by Van Halen: How awesome are Eddie Van Halen's guitar licks in this song? Hagar, Schmagar. Even now, I would pay good money to hear David Lee Roth growl, "We're running a little bit hot tonight." Yes, David Lee. We are.
5. "Pour Some Sugar On Me" by Def Leppard: A filthy, bombastic, high fructose delight. I have yet to meet the person who doesn't secretly like this song. Because HE DOESN'T EXIST.
6. "Round and Round" by Ratt: If I were a stripper, this would be my pole-dancing jam. Still can't hear it without thinking of Milton Berle, though.
7. "Valotte" by Julian Lennon: It's the only ballad here, but it has enough pathos for an iPod Shuffle full of ballads. Damn shame that this wasn't the beginning of a long, successful music career for Julian.
8. "Wanted Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi: Because life is such a blur of gigs and groupies that we can only tell the day by the bottle that we drink.
9. "What a Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers: The only '70s song on this list is propelled by what sounds like a child's Casio keyboard and the soulful, indecipherable vocal stylings of Michael McDonald.
10. "You Give Love a Bad Name" by Bon Jovi: It just rocks. Okay?
11. "Working for the Weekend" by Loverboy: It's indefensible. The synthesizers. The fifth-grade lyrics that rhyme "start" with "start". It's the sound of dozens of telemarketers tearing out of the parking lot on a Friday afternoon, headed to happy hour at the nearest Applebees. Hell, yeah.
I've told you mine. Now it's your turn.
* Evil
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Pony Up
My daughter has terrible, terrible taste.
How else to explain her desire to attend the atrocity that was "My Little Pony: Live" on Sunday? Seriously, I paid 18 bucks to watch struggling actors in pastel-colored pony costumes talk (and talk and talk and talk) about putting on the World's Largest Tea Party. Except the party never really got off the ground. It was like listening to a bunch of cheerful potheads — who happened to be dressed like horses — go, "Dude, we should totally throw a tea party."
I understand that little girls like ponies and playthings with long hair to comb. But MLP is from my kid sister's generation of toys, and the appeal of it remains lost on me. I mean, why not just play with a doll? You can't really dress a pony except to put a tutu over its hind legs, which makes no sense. Plus, you can't work out your schoolyard relationship issues with toy ponies. You can't reasonably pretend that four-legged Minty is the bitch who came between you and your best friend Pinkie Pie — yours! — on the spring field trip.
I'd have been happy to take little C to a real farm to see real ponies, but she wanted a tacky drag show instead. Now I know how my mom felt when the book fair came to my school, and instead of choosing classics, I spent her hard-earned money on "Lee Majors: Bionic Superstar." Karma.
The show would have been unbearable had we not been accompanied by my hilarious friend Mark, who gets paid to write about legitimate cultural events. He also had the good sense to raise cats instead of children, so he isn't asked to do this kind of thing on a regular basis. Seeing scores of dead-eyed parents paying for pink and lavender crap surely proved the wisdom of that decision. I think he called it "The World's Largest Shakedown."
So a dragon with a Eurotrash accent came onstage and warmed up the crowd for the ponies. Much gamboling and singing ensued, including trips to the post office (to mail the invitations), a rap/disco mashup (with turntable scratching) and an in-depth discussion of streamers. After a LOT more singing, it was revealed that ringleader Pinkie Pie forgot to bring the Darjeeling. Um, if you're throwing the World's Biggest Tea Party, isn't that kind of the point? The ending was confetti-covered and abrupt. And I left thirsty, but not before shelling out another five dollars for an MLP: Live flag, which I've almost been stabbed with several times.
Apparently we got off cheap. Another friend of mine paid something like $49 for Thomas the Tank Engine tickets, and she's not even sure her son enjoyed the show.
Generation Z: uncultured AND ungrateful.
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