Putting The Free In Freedom
For the second year in a row (that I have noticed), Austin’s Chapman Motors gave away free watermelons on Juneteenth.
Easter’s Follies
I believed in The Easter Bunny a lot longer than I believed in Santa Claus. For some reason, the Easter Bunny just made more sense. He didn’t get talked about as much, for one thing, so there were fewer loose lips to sink that particular ship. Plus I read the hell out of The Country Bunny And The Little Gold Shoes (which still makes me cry) and my mom always took me to “Breakfast With The Easter Bunny” events at the local mall wherever we happened to be living at the time, and The Easter Bunny seemed like a good egg, so to speak. Since he didn’t actually talk, there was an ethereal, other-worldy quality that appealed to me more than the phony-hale-fellow-well-met thing Santa had going on. And instead of worrying about what toys you might or might not receive, you always knew you would get candy, with the dyed eggs (never eaten) and piles of fake plastic grass, so it was less stressful. (Although a couple of times I got to go to some fancy egg hunts with rich friends at their country clubs and if you found a gold-wrapped egg, you won money or sometimes a chocolate bunny the size of a small child. The competition was intense. I usually became severely anxious, as I also did whenever there was a pinata involved, that I might not get the big prize.)
When I was six years old, I woke up very early on Easter Sunday because I had to go to the bathroom. I was about to get up and go, but then it struck me that The Easter Bunny might be in the house at that very moment. (We usually did indoor egg hunts.) What if I disturbed him? What if I scared him away–and I didn’t get my FAIR SHARE of Easter treats? (I have always been very concerned, a la Sally from The Peanuts, that I get what is coming to me.) So that left me stuck in bed, paralyzed with indecision. Eventually, I made up my mind that wetting the bed was the superior option. I am fairly certain that I made the right decision.
Looking back, the guys in giant Easter Bunny costumes were kind of creepy. But at the time I found it all so delightful. Maybe it’s because we didn’t go to church.
I’m Old
Overheard today:
Teenage boy: “Look, a Men At Work tape!”
Teenage girl: “I don’t know who that is.”
Teenage boy: “You know, ‘Safety Dance’!”
Diagonals’ “Clones”
Austin’s own Diagonals. Starring resident genius Steve “Used To Look Like John Waters” Garcia. Directed by Nick Smith. Some lyrics NSFW.
Krafty
This ad from Kraft Singles fills me with rage:
I posted a rant about it on Felt Up. Here’s a sample:
Kraft Singles are not cheap. In fact, many “processed cheese products” are surprisingly pricey–such as sweet, delicious Velveeta–but Kraft Singles are especially expensive, especially compared to in-store brands. Sure, they will survive a nuclear winter along with the cockroaches and Twinkies, but I’m always a bit shocked when I loiter around the American cheese section of the grocery store, as is my wont from time to time, and see how much a package of 16 slices of Kraft processed cheese actually costs…
As for the nutritional value of processed cheese, well, we all know that Kraft Singles are death in a wrapper. And I’m ok with this. I like American cheese. I’m no food snob–I drink Diet Mountain Dew, for God’s sake. But I don’t try to fool myself that that processed orange goop is good for me, anymore than I try to pretend there’s not a giant glowing neon green Diet Mountain Dew globule taking over my spleen.
Does this ad make anyone else violent or is it just me? Any other seemingly innocuous ads that drive you up a wall?
Real Housewives Make Me Question My Morality
“The Real Housewives of New York” premieres tonight, and once again I’m left wondering many things: Which city’s show do I like the most? (“Atlanta” had me at “jury” for “jewelry,” but makes me feel like the same icky guilt I used to have watching “Flava of Love,” and though I used to think the original “Orange County” series was the gold standard of terrible rich people on television, this last season has been really boring. So that leaves New Yawk and its braying, preening society climbers. Huzzah!) Does Bravo mean to present these horrible women and their lifestyles as “aspirational” or as a cruel joke that no one but the audience is in on? Am I part of the crime for watching?
I feel the same disorientation when watching MTV’s “My Super-Sweet 16″–am I meant to smugly mock the over-the-top vulgarity and greed or wish wish wish I could afford my own pink Ferrrari driven to me on a rose-petal-strewn red carpet while Miley Cyrus sings and I’m gowned in a custom harem-girl outfit, eating a piece of $10,000 cake and whining that I should have gotten a Maserati?
My friends think these shows are presented to us with a very large wink, that the viewers are supposed to be appalled at the gluttony and spending, even if the “stars” are completely unaware that they’re being mocked. But the New York Times clearly does not buy the “it’s just a big joke on these people” explanation:
Money is the only currency: the status markers understood by a huge faction of the privileged class figure not at all in the “Real Housewives” universe. Here there is no premium placed on education or refined tastes, and a businesswoman is someone who makes cuff bracelets at her kitchen table. The whole enterprise, like so much else on Bravo, the “affluencer” network, feels like a moldy leftover from the pre-Obama age; the currently fashionable values — humility, intelligence, restraint, style — are eclipsed by money-grubbing witlessness and big-carbon-footprint living.
“The Real Housewives of New York City” continues to feel especially yucky in this regard — and fraudulently offensive to a certain kind of New Yorker who would never actually envy someone like Alex.
I don’t know if I agree. Bravo is savvy enough to know that its audience likes to watch (and judge) the freaks in their freak show while perhaps feeling a tinge of jealousy that so much money is being wasted by people with no taste. It’s a guilty pleasure, and Bravo knows from guilty pleasures. At least I think they do.
At any rate, I totally have a love/hate relationship with these trainwrecks and I CAN’T STOP WATCHING. I just can’t!
Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough
Michael Jackson has finally been forced to put a bunch of his belongings from his Neverland ranch up for auction to pay off some of his creditors. Although it’s all rather sad, the auction catalog is worth a look.
Here are a few of my favorite things. If I had a few extra thousand dollars hidden in my sparkly sock drawer, I might pick up one of these specialty items:
The King of Fop
This might be nice in my living room. It would go nicely with my ermine Corgi coverlet. Also, humbleness is a good quality to immortalize, especially in these troubled times.
Peter Pan Golf Cart
Now this is both economical (great gas mileage!) AND inspirational (what mature adult doesn’t fantasize about being Peter Pan while driving around the golf course?). A sound investment any way you look at it.
Hands In Glove
I like that E.T. is in the same pantheon as Lincoln. And of course Michael himself.
There is something for a variety of budgets in this auction. There’s a rhinestone crown brooch for an estimated $80-100, a fire engine tea kettle for $100-200, and of course a Snow White and the Seven Dwarves figure set in a glass case for $1,000-1,500. Perfect for the little boy in everyone’s life!
A Few Werds About Basterds
Here’s the trailer for the new Quentin Tarantino Nazi-ploitation movie Inglorious Basterds:
It looks a teensy bit too silly for my blood (I would much rather see a bona fide Dirty Dozen homage rather than a farcical one), but I have to admit I love an Aldo Ray shoutout. Also, I can’t fault any movie that has Cloris Leachman in it, unless that movie is Spanglish.
Waiting For Good ‘Ho
Here’s a wee morsel from my recap of the most recent episode of the continuing saga that is Bret Michael‘s “Rock of Love Bus,” a reality dating show on VH1 that haunts my dreams:
Whassa goin’ on with Bret Michaels? Throughout this season of “Rock of Love,” despite–or perhaps because of–an onslaught of trashy skankitude previously unknown outside of a Joe Francis bachelor party in Tijuana–he’s been ambivalent, morose, and consumed by ennui. BRET MICHAELS. I think he’s aware of the problem, though, because on last night’s “Rock of Love Bus” he dropped by the stripper store and picked up some fresh blood to liven up what I can only describe as a train wreck of a bus tour. Desperate times call for desperate measures, people!
Let me back up a bit. The buses pull up to Larry Flynt‘s Hustler Club outside of St. Louis, and at first some of the very few non-strippers on the show (ie, Beverly) are rightfully worried they will have to do some kind of lap dance in Larry Flynt’s wheelchair in order to make an emotional connection with Bret. But, no, it’s a makeover challenge. I love makeovers! Bret brings out three obviously dowdied-up women with baggy sweaters, glasses, no makeup, etc. The idiotic skanktestants clearly believe that these ladies really look like this all the time. The challenge is to trash ‘em up the way Bret likes it. Makeover teams are formed and Natasha, Farrah, and Mindy are the captains. Each is assigned a girl to transform from drab to scab. The winning team captain gets a romantic dream date with Bret.
To read the rest, and for all of your trashy tv recap and occasionaly urgent celebrity gossip needs, please run on over to Felt Up. Select future posts will be available on both Felt Up and Clusterflock. There’s no escape!
When Inauguration Inebriation Goes Wrong
A true story of hope and change.
Around 4pm on Inauguration Day, I was walking my elderly Corgi about a block from my house in central Austin when I heard a woman’s voice call out, “WHO WANTS TO PARTY?”
A middle-aged blonde woman in a robe stepped out onto the front porch of a house across the street. She looked at me and clearly didn’t think I was party material. Let me reiterate: It was 4:00 pm on a Tuesday.
“Did you vote for McCain?” she asked, in a surly voice.
I kind of half shook my head “no,” half did the “don’t engage the crazy person” head tilt. The woman apparently took this gesture to mean “Yes, I voted for McCain and I’d do it again if I could!”
“I KNEW IT!” she slurred/yelled. “I could tell just by LOOKING AT YOU!” (I was wearing sweat pants and a hoodie with owls on it. Not matching. Just the hoodie had the owl print.)
I kept walking, a bit more quickly. I thought our interaction was over, until I heard behind me, very loudly:
“YOU WHORE! YOU FUCKING WHORE! I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE! WHORE!”
Oh, god, I thought. I was very close to my home. What if she really did know where I live? What was she planning on doing? Burning McCain in effigy? Puking in my yard?
I practically dragged the Corgi down the street. There was an ominous silence behind me. Then I heard:
“IT’S A NEW WORLD ORDER!”
cute overload
My friend Lucinda posted a link to this page on Myspace today, and it is well worth checking out, for the site is exactly what its name says it is: Cute Overload. The Cute Overlords scour the internets and reader submissions for photos of animals and whatnot that meet their stringent “Rules of Cuteness,” such as Rule #8, “You’re cute if your furniture doubles as a meal” or Rule #5, ” Fisheye lens + baby animal is always cute.”
Here is my personal favorite:
Especially the caption: “Am I funny to you? I’m funny how? Funny like a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh?”
fashion tragedies
Is there anything sadder than a chubby Mod?
If you must devote your life to a strictly revisionist/retro subculture, I suggest that Rockabilly is more forgiving, at least body-wise. Not that anyone asked me.
caioneach is “kenneth” in gaelic. sort of.
Kenneth Holland, aka CAIONEACH, is an international man of mystery. He walks with the shadows. He is silent like the wind. He has been known to wear a jaunty deer mask on festive occassions. And his artwork is showcased on the website of the ever-evolving Austin megaband Attack Formation, of which Kenneth is a sometime member. Here’s a wee taste of the lad’s work:
To see more, go here and enjoy.
wooster
I first heard about The Wooster Collective several months ago, when a Wooster-affiliated British artist named Banksy was discovered to have hung his art surreptitiously in several big-deal NYC museums. When asked why he did it, Bansky replied:
“I thought some of [the paintings] were quite good. That’s why I thought, you know, put them in a gallery. Otherwise, they would just sit at home and no one would see them.”
The Wooster Collective is a site dedicated to all manner of “street art”–from graffiti to posters to Bansky-style “subversive” art–from around the world. My favorites are the photos of “billboard liberations,” such as this one from Sacramento:
I’m also partial to Invader, from Paris, who works in Rubik’s cubes:
The site has also devoted a ton of space to long rants against the Sony corporation, if you’re into that sort of thing. And, really, who isn’t?
transitions
In honor of the new movie “Transamerica,” the pre-op-transsexual-on-a-road -trip movie starring “Desperate Housewives” star Felicity Huffman, here’s a link to a real life person going through some of the same issues. On the blog Life, Law, Gender, author Denise shares her thoughts on being a male-to-female transexual. My favorite section is the photo gallery, which shows Denise in various stages of her life, from a young boy named David, to navy man, to married man and eventually, to being a woman.
In the navy:
The blog is well-written and fascinating. An excerpt from a recent post:
It is tough to live in a two gendered world when you don’t fit the model. I can only imagine how tough it is to be the child of such a person. How does one brag? “My dad looks better in a mini-skirt than yours does?”
pour some sugar on me
The NY Times has a delightful article today about Will Cotton, who makes art out of candy. I love candy! I love candy colors, and candy corns, and candy canes, and just about anything having to do with candy. I watch shows like “Follow That Chocolate!” and “Unwrapped” (which goes inside candy factories) on the Food Network. I also like art, although not to quite the same giddy degree. So it tickles my fancy to see Cotton’s fantasia of fanciful food:
Like any sensible young artiste, he went to France to study macaroon-making:
Lately, Cotton has peopled his Candy Land scenes with girls clad in panties, various underpinnings and hats made from fondant icing. They sit perched odalisque-style, naturally, on cotton-candy clouds.
I only wish I could miniaturize myself and live amongst those lovely macaroon trees and fluffy marshmallow lagoons and fondant icing hats and cotton candy clouds…and…and…eat them.
heyd and seek
Heyd Fontenot is so beloved by his fellow man that he causes an outburst of spontaneous applause whenever he walks into a room. I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes! The man is adored, and I’m part of his ever-growing fan club.
Besides getting standing ovations for his sunshiney-with-an-edge personality, Heyd is an accomplished artist, designer, and director. Check out his drawings and paintings at heydfontenot.
Here’s a sample:
heavens to etsy
Looking for some hand-made items for Kwannakuh gifts that make it look like you care more than you actually do? Try etsy, the eBay for the DIY set. The site is easy to navigate and is well-organized; unlike eBay, everything is for sale and not up for auction.
For the person who has everything, you can pick up this delightful fleece hambone, crafted by one SweetMeats, for $27.
I don’t know exactly what it’s used for, but it sure is cute. And you can totally act like you worked your fingers to the hambone to make it. Who’ll know?
