the beast of beauty

Beautiful women go through life as if it were a maze. They get trapped, sort of, but there's always a way out, and no door is ever really closed. It just leads someplace else. The maze is erected by so many, many people who so desperately want to possess beauty that they try and confuse it, tame it and make it stay. But really, beauty and the woman possessing it, just wants to escape to a place where it will be cherished and understood.

But nobody can understand beauty. And even those who claim to cherish it only want to possess it. Still others want to kill it off, cover it up, take it away, make it theirs.




There are women more beautiful than I, of course. But I have been fortunate to live my life with many open doors that I know I've walked through not because of my brains or my wit or connections but because of my face, my legs, my breasts, whatever a someone or someones deemed appealing at that moment. There have also been, at times, perplexing mazes with people waiting just outside them, hoping I've surrendered somehow, that I'd be putty in their clever hands. But I haven't. I've walked through those doors, found the one way out of their bewildering construction. All in all, yes, I've probably had it better than most but I've also been lied to, manipulated, loved for the wrong reasons, put on ridiculous pedestals, told to change, and made to feel less than.

But, most of all, still: I've had it pretty damn good, I'd say. I mean, a big smile or a flirty gesture and a lot's gotten done. Tables have turned in my favor from that crap.

As I've gotten older and deeper into my 30s and longed for the respect that can only come from accomplishment, intelligence and sophistication, I've learned to relinquish my hold on the fail-proof methods that once turned heads in my 20s. But, the funny thing is, now that I'm here, I've noticed that girls in their 20s are inappropriately vying for the same positions at work as I am. Or, well, they want to be right there near me, riding my coattails, sniffing me too closely. And I'm thinking: no way in hell. I've earned this position through my hard work and my talent.












And the worst thing I've noticed? These girls don't give a lick about hard work. Or talent. They're just busy doing the hair flick and giggle. The low top. The short skirt. The tarty 5-inch heels. Yeah, they're employing those methods. As pathetic, kind of trashy and obvious as they are. And you know what? It doesn't matter. It works anyway. Some people (not all, but definitely more than I'd like) are just gone in the face of all that beauty because they just want it around. They want to scoop it out and lick it like a big, pretty ice cream cone. Who cares if Miss Batty Eyelash isn't that talented or even qualified for the job? That ass alone can be enough.

Through this soul-numbing realization, I now know that I am beginning to be lost. Not that my beauty or youth is gone. (Well, I hope not just yet anyway. I'm pretty sure I have a few hair flicks and winks left in me). But my approach to getting what I want has changed. It no longer relies so heavily on my black eyelashes and just-low-enough blouse. Oh no. I've abandoned that. For respect!

Respect goddamnit!

Ha. Yeah right. What the hell was Aretha Franklin yammering on about anyway? Just a little bit? A little bit of respect? Can I get some please?

As I inch (creep?) towards the higher numbers on the slippery slope of the 30s, I'm reminded of a conversation I had just the other day with someone very dear to me. We were talking about fading youth, fading beauty and what it means for a woman of a certain age to still be, of course, attractive, but to no longer embody that alluring Bambi-like vixen who, with a wink or a flick of her thick, shiny hair, could have pretty much any man in the room.

What did all that mean when we were young? And how does it feel to let that go?

What I think is this: there are different kinds of beauty. I told this very thing to a friend years ago when I was living in Los Angeles: there is no one kind of beautiful. There are many. We were at Swingers on Beverly having some of their really great french fries and some chicken noodle soup, likely nursing a heavy-duty black russian, no cream please, hangover, and for some reason we were discussing the wide variety of bodies of strippers. Tall, willowy, small-breasted. Petite and curvy. Voluptuous, large-breasted and child-bearing hips. All of them so different yet all of them so beautiful in their own ways.

As I see it now, as women grow older, particularly beautiful women who've been so accustomed to doors flying open, or mazes erected for their entrapment their entire lives, they realize alarmingly suddenly that those same doors quietly close and nobody longs to trap or confuse them anymore. But, the thing is, they are still beautiful. They are still so, so beautiful.

Perhaps it is an equalizer in a way. It has a sad way of knocking them off their status and into a more "real" place. A place where they have to be, well, just a good person. And for all those unaware goddesses floating around out there with so many doing their bidding, and so much made easy for them, well, they have another thing coming. It's just that it's so hard to think that will ever happen while they are so breathtaking, while the world stops for them, bows to them, and paves the way for them, often a path of fragrant flowers. And outlined by a wall of shoes, diamonds and expensive vacations. But one wretched morning, bleary-eyed and wrinkly, over a cup of average joe, it will come in the form of a rude, blaring, wake-up call that the world ceases to adore them anymore. And then they will begin to wonder, after all, if they were worth anything at all? And if they weren't, if all they were was beauty, well, they had better get around to making something worthy of their lives.

How can that, in the end, be such a bad lesson? I mean, hey, at least they got all those doors opened, and mazes erected that let them know they were wanted and special.

And shit, that wake-up call: it's also just hard to accept that nobody needs them for procreation anymore. Yeah, it's biology in part, too.

As for the weaker sex, sorry guys but it's you (come on, you know it's true, you live 7 years less than we do and you need us around in order to live longer, read the studies), you still like to have those sweet, young (and clueless) things around to remind you that you were once pretty beautiful, too.

Let's face it: it's bullshit that men get "distinguished" while women get haggy. Come ON. All I seem to see are jowly old farts trying to reclaim their youth, too. In SL 500s. In trophy wives. In cigars. Oh, and let's not forget the truckloads of Viagra and Cialis letting them know they can keep up like the stallions they once were.

It's everywhere. This getting old thing. And it is what it is.

It's a mad world.

I'm just glad we have such excellent plastic surgery available to us all.

Because no way in hell would I want to go back to being 23. I was a full-on idiot. Yeah, my hair was thicker and I didn't have to diet. But shit, I was a moron.

Ha!

Signing off....in all non-serious, oh but serious, contemplation as I head to the mall.

The MAWL. Say it just like that: THE MAWL.

I want an iPhone. Stet! (anyone listening? No, I don't want to wait forever for them to pass it off to T-Mobile or Verizon. I want it now).

And some new lingerie. La Perla damnit, not that trashy Victoria's Secret crap. I can't even find my way around in there. And those sales girls: lame! No, thank you, I do NOT need a bra fitting. I think they just want to feel me up. Ick!

At least my Christmas tree is decorated extra pretty this year.
I have my sense of humor and I'm not letting anyone take it from me.
Oh, and let's not forget: I have a pile of cat barf on my new rug waiting for me when I get home.

Life's alright.

Peace!!!!!

Love y'all! (Paula Deen makes the best fudge pie. Yep, fudge PIE).


;)

City of brotherly...liberty bell?

Life, liberty and...you?

What happened to "the pursuit of happiness"? Why is that not a part of all this?

Is this all Philadelphia has to offer? That stupid cracked bell? After all these years?

I am from this old city. I was born in the tiny western town of Chambersburg but my whole family is from this city. Born and raised. It's a good city, oft-underappreciated, with great culture, a laid back, and sometimes edgy, style that's warm and welcoming as well as surprisingly cool and mysterious. I love Philadelphia. Love the place. There is a lot to love about it. You can find anything you need, more than you might expect, and, of course, things you don't ever want to find, either.

Like any great city, it's always about ever-present Descartian dualities, and a dose of Spinozan determinism that makes being there so electrifying. Maybe that's just me and my sophomoric (literally) outlook on things, pontificating here for my own amusement. I thought I might once be a Philosophy major in college because I found myself sitting in class listening to one of many lectures on these great thinkers and meanwhile my mind had escaped the confines of that little, flourescent-lit room to float out of myself in a way I'd never known in my life and to explore nature, the universe and the notion of god. And it is probably there, in that small midwestern town of Lake Forest, Illinois that my taught beliefs and all that newfound exposure to an entirely new realm of possibility led me to question every fucking thing I would ever see, feel or hear ever again.

Everywhere I've lived since that time has been put to this existential test. And I can tell you, my friends, that Philadelphia passes with flying colors. Old places have housed old souls, many of them, and those energies are still there, in all their sickness and health, in all their doing and non-doing. And when you're there, if you listen, if you look, if you touch, you will hear, see, and feel just about everything. Great places possess this. And those dualities of good and bad are held together. And fate is a key player. Like you were just meant to be there for some reason.

Ah, Philadelphia.

Unfortunately, I have been attacked for the unsportsmanlike conduct of voracious Eagles fans (batteries embedded in snowballs and thrown is not something I condone) and my animal lover reputation has been called into question for defending Andy Reid's decision about Michael Vick. Tony Dungy says he's ok. I like Tony Dungy even if he is a god-fearing man. Tony Dungy says he's ok, alright by me.

Remember, before you pass judgement: Second chances are one of the best things about being a human being.

Philadelphia. This is a good place (and even a great place, really) so let's get back to the subject at hand:

It is a place definitely deserving of a better logo. That'd be a nice start anyway.

I was listening to NPR last night and the genuis that is Tom Ford, fashion designer and now film director, was explaining, very eloquently, about how everything in our globalized world has become "branded" to the point of insanity. And the point of non-impact. We're all just a bunch of copycats, following each other's trends and fads around the world.

In this case, however, oh thee rare and unbranded Philadelphia, you are in so much need (you always have been, it seems, stuck between New York and DC) of an identity that does you justice. An identity that tells all your stories in one quick glance. One quick glance that makes people want to pack their bags and book a ticket to meet you.

Now that would be something to see. Hear. Feel.

holiday chubbage

Got on the scale at a neighbor's Christmas party last night. 138.6.

One hundred and thirty-eight point six.

Pounds.

Granted my clothes were on, and shoes, and I'd already eaten something with Velveeta in it. But still. No bueno. :(

Sad face on.

I know there are more important things to worry about in life.

But the holidays. So chubbage-inducing!

Please pass the spinach and artichoke dip.

No, not that one.

The one with the water chestnuts in it.

Oh and some of that, whatever it is, cheese pizza sauce and cracker thingys.

Yeah, those.

Thanks.

Sure, why not, another glass of Montoya red wine something or other.

Sure.

Oh, and some of those mere-nothing, wafer-thin cupcake things.

The ones with the happy little sprinkles, like colorful icicles in white frosting.

A veritable snowstorm of calories in my mouth.

Mmm....mmm....good.

Ah, holidays.

So tasty.

So fun!

So chubbage-inducing!!!

Idiots in the Woods

It's none of my business so why do I care?

Two Sundays ago at our local watering hole---before all this non-stop daily trash-talk--- a friend of ours who isn't one for gossip but was merely relating the incident to us about Tiger Woods' car "crash" told us he heard from a reliable source that Tiger had been "doing the Red Bull rep for years." Yes, doing.

Many people don't know this but Orlando is a small town. Sure, there's sprawl and lots of it but just like New York City, people stick to their neighborhoods. And the same types of people patronize the same places. Over and over again. We are all, most of us for the most part, creatures of habit. Like Sam and Diane and the rest of the crew on Cheers, we like a place where "everybody knows [our] name." It's comfortable. It's easy. And, as it happens, we all kind of know each other. At least within a few degrees of separation. And that's especially so here in Orlando.

So anyway, about Tiger. I didn't really care. I figured it was nobody's business. It sounded to me like his wife was chasing him around and bashing his car with golf clubs. Passion'll do that to you. Not that I'm speaking from experience. OK, fine, maybe I am. If you love someone deeply and totally and they betray you, you might just lose it a bit. Or maybe even a lot. And if the damage is a busted car window, that's not the worst thing in the world. Go Elin. Fight for your man. Let him know that you won't put up with this shit.

Anyway, so when the news very officially broke and this Rachel Uchitel broad was suddenly forced into the spotlight, I studied her, too. Such a classic illustration of too much plastic surgery at too early an age. The telltale "bass lips" channeling Lisa Rinna (yikes, so scary, all puffed up like that) and, of course, the pulled cheeks and eyes. I mean, the girl's only 34. Ease into your age, don't scare it off with scalpels. Because you end up looking like everybody else who's done the same thing. A tribe of the Pulled Tight & Mighty. Not very hot. Her body, however, was smoking hot and, beyond all that plastic surgery, well, I could see what a typical guy would see. And, even more so, I used my active imagination and I imagined Tiger, oh-so-famous and oh-so-rich and maybe a teeny bit lonely and feeling a little randy out there in Vegas and ok, fine, he cheats with this sassy, plastic chick. Who's business is that but his and his family's? It's certainly not mine. And, by the way, at least the Uchitel woman is keeping her mouth shut and denying the whole thing. Who cares how much they're paying her and the reasons. Keep your mouth shut. I respect that.

And so, on the drive to work the following day, the radio chitchats endlessly about Tiger, Elin (who knew her name was pronounced "Eel-in," I always thought it was a stupid spelling of "Ellen"), his broken window, the embarrassment, yadda yadda yadda. And I start to actually feel kind of sorry for the guy. Sorry for him, his wife, their kids and anyone else close to them. And I really start to wish the media would just shut up about it. As one guy so astutely said on 104.1 The Monsters, "he's a great golfer, that's it. Why do people think he's a god or good at everything? He's just a great golfer. Period."

True that. It's just that we're so enamoured with celebrity and wealth in this culture that we expect the rich and the famous to be the ubermensch. We expect them to be better somehow, to be something we strive to be, that we'll perhaps model ourselves after or tell our children to be "more like."

And then the names of more of these women come spewing out like so much smelly garbage. And all seemingly cut from the same mold. Plasticky, cheap and with great bodies. But pretty forgettable overall. Clingy, climbing, slutty, and now throwing their trashy stories out there to get money and hurt people. I'm disgusted. Jamie Grubbs, you're a lil pig. Oink oink. And the Perkins waitress. If there was a "Come on Man" for this Tiger Woods spectacle, it'd be all these woman, and especially that one. The parking lot? And, excuse me while I laugh and throw up in my mouth a little, but she "fell in love with him" and yet he "was selfish and heartless"? How dumb are these women? Smart women learn in high school or college that men, all of them given a chance, will screw you if you let them. It's how things are wired. It's biology, baby. Sex ain't got nothin' to do with love.

So now this whole slutty debacle has become a statement of our age. The times we're living in. Plastic tramps. And the rich and famous. And everybody looking to cash in. It's foul and appalling. I do think Tiger has to get his shit together, if he can at all. But maybe he's destined to be just another rich "whale" with a big sex drive, fucking plastic whores until he dies just like Wilt Chamberlain. I met Wilt Chamberlain once. He was sweaty and old and he hit on me. He died not long after that. But I remember that disdain in his face as much as his desire, that I was just one more. I was just another possible body he could fill, and he was just like an addict seeking a fix.

Tiger = Wilt someday? Yuck. That's just gross.

I hope that Elin packs the kids and goes someplace for a good, long while.

You're right, it's none of my business. None at all. I wish this had never been broadcast to these masses. There are entirely too many people making too much money off this thing. And too many people humiliating themselves (plastic girls, you make us all look bad and stupid. So stupid).

You fuck a guy who's insanely rich, married to a beautiful woman, with two beautiful kids and expect him to what? Love you?

It's so much more than embarrassing.

It's sad.