Monday, February 27, 2006


My own fingernails: bitten, crumbly, bleeding wrecks. Been biting them since I was 8, and, although, they sometimes surface in moments of great calm and look sorta normal-like, they can only be kept presentable with the help of regular manicures, which I have deemed an unconscionable luxury.

Our dog's fingernails: strong, long, healthy, capable of putting deep grooves in the lovely pinewood floors of our apartment.

One of us is getting their nails trimmed and filed professionally tomorrow.

The other one is bringing the dog treats.


[So, I should have posted this like 8 months ago, but I didn't, so I am now.]

I had been going to a fair number of baseball games this past year. Orioles/Red Sox, and then Nationals/ everybody. And baseball games as Richard Greenberg and everyone else knows can be kind of mesmerizing and kind of really boring. And, during the boring bits, when you're not drinking beer or eating hot dogs or pretzels or ice cream or cotton candy. But not nachos. Never nachos. Anyway, when you're not eating and the game is a wee bit boring, you start looking around the stadium, and if you're me, you notice something weird.

Chicks are wearing pink baseball caps.

And, at first, I'm really annoyed. Now, I'm actually pretty annoyed already by the fact that you can get multiple versions of the same team's cap -- red on blue, blue on red, etc., but at least within a realm of possibility delineated by the team's official colors. Baseball caps are an expression of allegiance, they let people know from far away what team you're on -- they can provoke instant sympathy or else, they can provoke something like when our next door neighbors made Beloved Husband's friends move their car, b/c of one of them was wearing a Sox cap.

But pink?


First, there's the total utterly unsexiness of the pink baseball cap. Unlike a real baseball cap, which, if you're a girl, has a kind of "I'm wearing my boyfriend's too-big t-shirt kind of thing," the pink cap attempts femininity. And then fails. Because it's not actually flattering at all. And, unlike real baseball caps, which get cuter the more worn and dingy they are, the pink caps only look gross when they're not brand new.

But even more importantly, they are undermining the entire point of a baseball cap. Unless you are right up close to someone, you can't tell whether she's Cubs or White Sox, Angel or Devil Ray, it's all a pink blur. This is important information, ladies, this is why you wear a baseball cap, and now you're not broadcasting anything.


After mulling it over, for a couple of games, though, and getting progressively angrier at the pink chicks, it finally dawned on me what was going on. The baseball caps were doing what they always did; I just wasn't getting it. The caps weren't there to show team allegiance, that was just a secondary benefit. They were there to show something far more important: membership in Team Girl. Instantly, gazing out on a stadium, I could identify the girls. There they were, a whole pink-capped sea of them. And, maybe when cap-wearing girl passes another cap-wearing girl, they exchange a small nod, an acknowlegment, that yes, before their team-fandom, comes their gender-fandom.

I could finally relax. I comfortably into my seat. I accepted the pink caps. I even smiled at the Spice-Girls-faux-feminism of it.

Until I saw the them.

A smaller subset of chicks was wearing lavender caps.

I give up.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Why you don't put a guy with Asberger's in a prominent public position . . .

Larry Summers is finally out of Harvard, and, while there's not a lot of love lost between us, I'm also pretty pissed about the way the whole thing went down. Was LS a boor/oaf/jerk with a permanent case of foot-in-mouth disease? Abso-freakin-lutely. Would I have picked him were on on the committee? Hells no.

But was he also right about Harvard's doing a number of retardo things, justified solely by "I'm Harvard, bitch!" ? Um, yeah. To wit, unlike 99.9% of all other educational instutions, unlike Summers arrived, Harvard used a 14-point grade scale. Thus, when applying to oh, say, a job, or an internship, or grad school, or pretty much anything on which your GPA was required, you had to convert your 14-pt grade into the 4.0 system. And it took boorish, oafish, jerky LS to say "Hey, that's dumb. Stop doing that." Which is pretty much how he interacted with everybody.

The best summary I've found of the whole shebang is here.
And the worst news from my perspective is that the #2 candidate is rocking Columbia's world while we're back to the drawing board.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

O'Malley, stop looking at my vah-jay-JAY

So, "The Vagina Monologues." It's V-Day (or it was a week ago, I'm catching up here) and colleges around the country are performing Eve Ensler's woman-parts-positive monologue-fest. Is it a good play? Eh. Is it a good thing to be doing? I'm not sure, but I think so. When I saw it in college, I was deeply moved, not just by the actors onstage but by the sense of community. This giant group of women, none of whom were part of the usual "theater scene" all came together because they believed in the project, and, (in contrast to such goals as "make connections" "establish my career" etc) to have fun.

Ten Red Hen, whom I met, oddly, at a wedding years ago, makes some excellent points about the whole V-Day deal, but I also think she misses several important vaginal boats.

Yes, it's not that great a play. Yes, it's probably more about therapy in some ways than truly amazing art, but so what. I don't know if Eve Ensler was gunning for the Pulitzer, so much as trying to hit a chord with women, and, like it or not, the chord hitting.

'Hen criticizes The Vagina Monologues for being "your mother's feminism" and not "challenging," while at the same time, recounting stories of college-age women who have a hard time talking about their own sexuality. Which, to me, raises the question: is this really so generationally removed, or do many women, even now, need to reclaim the word, reclaim the idea of "Hey, I have a vagina and I like it." Hell, when Ensler wrote the piece, there were no Brazilian bikini waxes, there was no "labia reconstruction surgery." Just being okay with having the vagina God gave you seems even more revolutionary now than it was 10 years ago.

I'm not sure what "your mother's feminism" is (and, frankly, the tone of it is pretty anti-woman sounding to me -- but maybe that's just because I like my mother). However, the V-Day movement as I saw it was student-directed and student propelled, not a lot of aging boomers with gray pigtails storming the campuses and demanding that we all get down on the floor with hand mirrors.

Finally, 'Hen's final point seems to me, the most off-base. To quote:

Ensler clearly has a schtick she doesn't mean to change. When one of the actors from the above my friend's production actually attempted to write her own vagina monologue, about the misogyny of her religious background and her own exploration of her sexuality--Ensler called up and reamed the producer out for daring to add anything to her precious text.

I'm sure she did. Because she had a union contract with the theater. To produce every word she wrote, without changing the old ones or adding new ones. Because the posters said "The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler." Because that's how plays get produced in this country. And, if your friend's actor wanted to write about her own vagina and perform about her own vagina, that's fantastic. The 'Monologues as currently written are lacking in diversity and depth. Great. Fabulous. Call it "The Vagina Show." "Vaginas on Parade." Sell tickets. I'll be there. But don't use feminism as an excuse to break copyright.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006


So, I'm supposed to write a play.

This is, after all, why I decided to go to playwriting school. However, I am in rehearsal and in classes and running around like a crazy person and trying to fill out my financial aid information and occasionally trying to see friends and family and loved ones and dog, not to mention go to church, exercise, or eat meals, and it begins to dawn on me that I am too busy with drama school to write my play.

So I will write my blog.

Problem = unsolved.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Goodnight sweet Nick

So Nick got the "Out." And, not without reason. His suit was weirdly girly. And mauve. Mauve is rarely the right answer. Stoner Kara, therefore, is mysteriously still "In." But the bigger mystery, really, is Santino. He is not that good. He has not won a challenge in ages. In fact, he is routinely almost booted out and then miraculously saved from the chopping block. Why? Well, the judges will insist "Oh, Santino is so talented, he just [fill in the blank]" "He just went too far." "He just doesn't know what works on a woman's body." "He just made the flowers shiny." No, Heidi, Mugatu, Nina, and Special Guests, he just doesn't design very well! He just doesn't! He keeps making the same dress over and over again!!!

Now, for anyone (hello? hello?) out there who doesn't routinely follow Bravo, this may all seem like the irrelevant bitchy picking of nits (and, I mean, okay, it is). BUT, there's a larger issue at stake, I think, which is the "Assholes must be fabulous artists" disease. Satino stays on Project Runway not despite his digusting derogatory comments and unflappable arrognance but because of it. Blame it on Van Gogh or Liam Gallagher but we're still in the twitches of Romanticism, and people love them crazy madmen artists. And, I think it's only fair to point out, I mean madMEN.

I really think that if the Project Runway designs were presented to the judges with no knowledge of who designed them our balding, bearded Missourian friend would be long gone. And, frankly, as a woman artist who tends to show up places on time, make sure everyone's eaten properly, and send thank-you notes, I'm a little peeved when I see being a jerkwad equated with being that much closer to the gods. I want a pantheon that appreciates "please" and "thank you," dammit, and, especially now that we're missing a famous "nice girl artist," shit like this makes me mad.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

As you know, in fashion, one day you are IN, and the next day . . .

So tonight's the almost-pre-ante-penultimate "Project Runway" and I just gotta say that if Kara doesn't get the high-heeled Teutonic boot, I am going to be extremely surprised. Daniel V. and his elaborately greasy hair are clearly not going anywhere (well, okay, partly just because he has immunity, true) and Chloe and Nick should hang on by virtue of their tastefulness and general good spirits (although, Nick's been having a rough time recently ever since the motherf***ing walkoff, poor dear). The judges still seem to have a soft spot for Santino (although, if he designs another detail-saturated, butt-enhancing baby-doll dress don't say I didn't warn you.) But Kara, I mean, why are you still here? Your danger dress was so, so lame.

Anyway, if it's not Kara, then I guess it would be Nick, because Santino is just too good for TV and Chloe has been a reliable second-place for way too many challenges. And, without the ability to say "Andrae" will Santino continue the Tim Gunn impression? Or will it just be too sad? Sigh. Only 4 more weeks left and then what will I do with my Wednesday nights? Not watch Mugatu Kors, that's for sure.

In other news, the dog passed obedience school tonight. He even got a little special toy for having done his homework well. I give the toy a week, tops, before he rips it open to devour its squishy plush innards, varmit hunter that he is. But really, as long as he's not eating my slippers, I can't complain. Until 5am this morning, when he wakes me up to step on my neck and whack his happy tail in my sleepy, sleepy face. Then, I can complain.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Art meets life

So, I'm home alone with the dog watching "Skulls" on channel 149 and "Legally Blonde" on channel 26. This is either the trashiest Ivy League thing I've ever done, or the Ivy Leaguiest trashy thing. Either way, the Harvard/Yale + Reese/Joshua Jackson doubleheader is pretty great.

Also, there is a character in "Skulls" named Caleb Mandrake, which is hysterical. He should totally hook up with Vivian Kensington from "Legally Blonde."

And I should get a pen with purple feathers on top.

And a pink rhinestone-studded dog collar.

For the dog.