Wednesday, October 18, 2006

No Effing Way!

Ok, Michael Knight's collection may not have been perfect, but there is no way that Jeffrey should have won on Project Runway. Did the judges feel bad because his workmanship was questioned?

He was always too over the top. And maybe I feel that way because I am a woman, and I'd like for the people who design clothes to take into account that real women tend to wear those clothes. We are not experiments.

I have to admit, I knew going into the finale tonight that Michael did not win, but that did not really bother me too much. I had accepted the fact that he probably over-thought his line (in much the same way that I have over-thought my book into non-existence). But as they said, he is still finding himself, so it is okay that he will get a chance to grow into greatness.

And, I really liked Laura, but I definitely saw her as a one-note tune for most of the season. Even as I watched her collection go down the runway, I knew without any prompting that only she could view lace as fashion and not simply as a table accessory. I guess when I grow up, I could buy one of her dresses.

Uli threatened to be a one-noter as well, but I consistenly liked her designs. I guess that limits my range when it comes to clothes, but because I fancy myself as a sophisticated beach bum anyway, I totally saw myself in her clothes. Either that, or I really need another vacation.

But Jeffrey...well there is no denying that he is talented and innovative, and I get that those are pre-requisites for a career in fashion. But I think those elements are precisely the reason why most women get their clothes off the rack. We just don't live on the runway. We need clothes that function and I'm sorry, but pleather leggings do nothing for me (and I bet the average woman feels the same way). I also hated his first design with the feathers and the ragged hemlines. Insane.

Oh well, I knew this was coming. If things were fair, this contest really would have included Allison in place of Laura. Additionally, they would have given Vincent the axe the first weekend when he sent that fruit basket with a light fixture pull down the runway as a fashion accessory. That was more bizarre than a sci-fi alien costume. And I never liked the fact that he got turned on by his own wacko aesthetic, but immediately backed down from his self-congratulatory stance each time the judges told him that his stuff was looney.

I would have loved to have seen more from Milan. He and Allison got the shaft too early in the process, even when it was clear that both of them were far more talented than their worst designs suggested. Even their mistakes were more interesting than some of the successes of the finalists (I thought the Minnie Mouse paper dress was strange, but not that terrible. Kaine's macaroni project was way worse).

Can't wait for season four. Auf Weidersen!

Monday, October 16, 2006

Bad Taste in My Mouth

I am ashamed, so I must confess: I watched the finale of "Flava of Love 2" tonight.

Honestly, I could have cared less about the outcome. I saw the entire season last year, and that silly rabbit should have known better than to go back a second time on the same show...but that takes me off topic.

I should not have watched a single minute of this show. Last year, a radio personality lamented that he lost brain cells each minute he watched, and while I agreed wholeheartedly, I still frittered away an entire hour when I had way more important things to do.

I don't need to describe the ways in which this show goes well over the boundaries of taste. Other more eloquent people have written about the degredation, the humiliation, and the pure senselessness of the show. It makes black women look bad (blah, blah, blah), but that isn't even the half of it.

If this was even possible, this show actually redeemed Flava Flav! Here is someone who, for all practical purposes, (1) posesses no real talent; (2) is, well put mildly, unattractive; and (3) is a crackhead! Why would anybody go on national TV to compete for his affections?

Sisters, is it that hard to find a good black man? Is Flava Flav--the original clown prince of hip hop--the best a sister can hope for? Have we lost our damn minds?

I get that this show is simply a parody of "The Bachelor" and that Vh1 has set out to prove that has-been celebrities are far more entertaining than the current bunch of so-called reality show contestants. But come on, Flava Flav?

God help us if this man needs another installment to find his "true love" (which I thought he had found with Brigitte Nielson a few years ago). Apparently there are all sorts of women who are willing to do almost anything in order to enjoy 15 minutes of fame. And there are millions of people like me who enjoy car wrecks.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Conflicted Feelings

I did not want to dwell on this issue all day, but I saw something on TV that made my blood boil. It was a skit done in blackface.

I consider myself to be sufficienty enlightened enough not to give in to knee-jerk reactions to racial ignorance. After all, I am educated, and I tell myself that educated people can look upon these incidences and deconstruct them without allowing any emotions to take over.

Well, I've been lying to myself for far too long. I saw that skit, and it launched me on a two and a half hour crusade that has left me mentally drained and emotionally conflicted about my so-called rational approach to racism.

It was an episode of "Are You Being Served?", one of the Brit-coms that airs in the afternoon on the local public TV station. I was not actually watching the episode because I was on the computer, and it was on because I had been watching the previous program. Anyway, I overheard some foolishness (which is typical for this particular show) so I went into my bedroom, watched for about 2 minutes, and then returned to my work at the computer. A few minutes later, something else compelled me to go back into my bedroom to watch the end of the show. The ending was a musical number that was set up as a performance representing the ethnic heritage of one of the characters.

And then out came the smiling, dancing blackfaces. My jaw dropped in horror.

All of the main characters were made up in grease paint and wore black wigs except for one, a younger female cast member. I can only assume that for whatever reason, she chose not to go along with the make-up, but she still shuffled along with the rest of them. I could not believe it.

I immediately returned to the computer to gather research on the show and the episode so that I could send a strongly worded rebuke to the station. My angle was that I was offended not only by the content of the episode, but also because it aired without any warning. I suggested that in the future, the station should insert a commentary or disclaimer to explain the context.

I have gone through a kaleidescope of emotions since I sent that email this afternoon. This whole incident has me reeling, but I also have had to confront my beliefs about responding to racial insensitivity and ignorance. It has caused me to question my reactions when blacks also use racist imagery as an entertainment tool. What right do I have to get offended enough to fire off an email to PBS when I simply change the channel when I see something just as bad on BET, MTV or Vh1? Am I a hypocrite?

Do I feel more within my rights to hold PBS accountable because it is a public television station, and as such is owned by the viewers? Am I invoking white guilt because I know they will respond to an allegation of racial insensitivity raised by an African American viewer? Am I making a mountain out of a mole hill...after all, the program at issue is a 25 year old British import?

The thing is, I should be just as indignant with my own people for similar offenses. After all, if I can't expose the shortcomings of artistic expression within my own community, then what right do I have indicting the shortcomings of others?

I have waged my own internal war against so-called negative images in the popular culture since college when I made the choice not to purchase or participate in any art form that denigrated black women. I have struggled to remain consistent all these years, and when I have tried to recruit others to my way of thinking, I have been accused of being self-righteous. Few of my peers agree that this stuff is garbage and that it caters to the lowest common denominator of commercialism.

I am going on and on, and realizing that this struggle for responsible images will persist for as long as I live, I just wish that I could convince more people that this is not so much about negative images as it is about negative intentions. The real distinction between art that uplifts and art that denigrates is the intention of the artist. I am not convinced that those old racist cartoons and blackface movies were attempts by whites to pay homage to black culture. If they were, then why was it necessary to include certain overt racial cues such as watermelons and fried chicken? And those who suggest that the modern imagery is merely sophisticated satire obviously ignore the fact that many of these actors are paid good money to make fools of themselves. Again, the real proof lies in the intention. Just ask Dave Chappelle about that thin line between a biting satire and a mocking insult, and he'll explain why he walked away from $50 million.

I don't know what to expect from PBS in response to my email. I probably will not be able to enjoy another episode of "Are You Being Served" without a knot in my throat, because I cannot believe that blackface was an acceptable joke in 1981 Great Britian. That was barely twenty years after black folks on this side of the pond supposedly overcame, and less than three years after the ground-breaking mini-series "Roots" aired (which was the name of the offending episode). Clearly, the intention was ridicule, and I'm sorry but racism isn't funny when expressed in southern twang, in inner-city Ebonics or Spanglish, nor when it is dressed up in an English accent.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

And the topic of my next regularly scheduled outburst is...

this damn war!!!

I HATE THIS WAR!!!

I teach a lot of military personnel, and it burns me up that some of the nation's best and brightest are headed off to a country to fight a war that we have no business waging. I hate the fact that I have to accept the possibility that I might be teaching future casualties of this mess.

AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!

Tonight I had a wonderful encounter with the sweetest guy--the type of young man that I would set my daughter up with (if I had a daughter). We talked about his desire to attend school, but then he dropped the D-bomb (deployment in January). I had another favored student detonate that same d-bomb on me just a few weeks ago, and he is probably on a plane headed to Iraq right now (if he isn't there already).

Damn this war. Damn it!!!

I don't know why we are sending these kids to Iraq. I understood when some of them had to go to Afghanistan, but I have never been given a satisfactory explanation for this Iraqi quagmire (it can't even be called a war anymore, because we supposedly won it back in 2003). All I know is, I can't stand the thought of my former students--someone's son or daughter--on a battlefield fighting over this load of Bushit.

Damn. I can't even articulate my anger and disgust. I just pray to God that this is not all in vain. One day, it could be one of my nieces or nephews. Or if the draft gets reinstated, it could be one of my brothers. It could be me (I'm not yet 35, and I don't assume for a moment that women would be exempt).

God help us.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Feeling Misunderstood or Un-Appreciated Lately?

Good, tell me all about it. But in a minute, I need to get some things off my chest:

I have had it up to here (imagine that I am raising my hand above my head to reach six feet) with you needy people! You useless bunch of...

NEEDLES!

Everywhere I go, there you are. In my family. At my job. Across the street. Crowding my inbox. My life is full of needy people. I imagine myself swimming at the deep end of a pool surrounded by needy people, only I am not drowning in neediness because I am the only one who can swim.

And depite the fact that I have reached my daily recommended intake of neediness, I am not allowed to say what I really think. Just once, I want to look one of you little needles in the eye and respond after some typical heart-breaking outpouring, "not my problem." That would be so nice.

But no I can't do that because I have been cursed with an over-abundance of empathy which requires that I sit patiently and listen to all your tales of woe, then politely excuse myself later to retreat to my computer to vent my feelings:

AAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

There. All better now. You may proceed.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Where Have I Been?

Apparently, I've been gone long enough to forget which buttons not to push on my computer while preparing to blog. I accidentally pressed return, and suddenly my title was published without any words to accompany it.

But as you might have guessed, I'm mixing blogging and merlot, so mistakes are bound to occur when one's judgement is slightly impaired. I'm celebrating my 5th wedding anniversary! And while I'm blogging, my husband is downstairs watching a baseball game.

Yup, we are a typical happily married couple.

And I really mean it. We are happy. I gave him an Ipod for the occasion, to make up for the pathetic birthday gift I did not give him two months ago. And although he genuinely seemed pleased, apparently I was more excited about the gift than he was. But that was because I spent four hours on Tuesday programming songs into his gift so that I wouldn't have to continue to share my Ipod with him when he goes to work out.

Yes, that is the secret to staying married--share only when absolutely necessary.

Ironically, just as we are celebrating the 5th year of our union, we find ourselves at that age when some of our friends are transitioning from a stage of married bliss. One of his friends who celebrated with us five years ago just got divorced. Other compatriots of mine are contemplating separation. And yet, we press on.

We are lucky because the secret to our marriage has been to stay true to who we were on the day we said "I do" (by the way, the vows technically require you to affirm "I will", but no matter...). I am still the same pain in the ass I was before we got married, and so is he. He hasn't changed, and in spite of myself, I have learned to live with him, warts and all. And I guess if you asked him, he would say the same thing.

I was listening to Chris Rock's most recent HBO special today and he had some interesting observations about marriage. Things change, and yes, marriage is terribly boring. I have endured dinner party conversations with other married folk about such riveting subjects as water heater repairs and dulahs. We probably had more sex before we got married (and yes, I am distracted by at least ten other things that seem more important). But I am happy because every night, I know where to find my husband and I have very little to worry about.

But as we celebrate this milestone, I am starting to worry about the next one, which is not another year of wedded bliss, but the increased frequency of the "when-are-you-going-to-have-children" queries. I think I need another five years to come up with a suitable response...

Hasta!