Dancing and Lady Gaga

It’s Sunday evening, and I’m watching Bringing Up Baby and hoping for someone else to make dinner. ;) I might throw together a frittata after finishing the movie. Last night, a bunch of us went to the Ivory Room (downtown piano bar) and then to Plan B. The latter had a good crowd, and it felt good to dance, but I’m very ready for an early bedtime.

Yesterday, I finally got around to watching some of Lady Gaga’s videos. (I've been hearing people talking about them, so I was curious.) “Just Dance” is less impressive, but “Paparazzi” and “Bad Romance” were intriguing.

Fashion hate

Walking around on campus these days makes me cringe. On the street, I confront awful ankle boots with crazy, spikey heels, skinny jeans, slouchy boots, and side ponytails. The other day, I saw a girl wearing denim cut-off shorts with tights and then saw the look repeated in Urban Outfitters' window. The mall--when I risk entering that creepy realm--is populated with rack upon rack of neon, graffiti-inspired prints, and American Apparel was displaying shiny, spandex leotards ala Jane Fonda. Even peplum has reared its ugly head in the pages of catalogs. Peplum, for the love of god! What's next, those football player-caliber shoulder pads?



What the hell is going on? I understand that fashion is cyclical, but why bring back such hideous specimens? I’m not sure why this disturbs me so much. Perhaps I don’t feel old enough to witness a revival of trends from my childhood.

Lindsay's date from hell

Ladies and gentlemen, we've got another horror story from the dating trenches. This one comes to us from Ms. Lindsay, and it tops any of my so-called worst dates. Hell, I couldn’t even imagine anything this bizarre—and I’ve got a pretty good imagination. Thanks for sharing, darlin’.

Lindsay met him for the first time on a Friday night. Within 10 minutes, he had berated old girlfriends and opined that all women are clingy and needy. (Who leads with that? He couldn’t think of a single topic other than past girlfriends and negative stereotypes about women? I mean, talk about the weather. Discuss current events. Ask about her day or her hobbies, for goddess’ sake.) Despite the awkward beginning, they played pool and darts and had a great time. He seemed fun and smart.

At the end of the night, he asked her what she thought of him, which is a wee bit weird in itself. She said she was still deciding. Put off, he asked her why. She explained that she was unimpressed by his sexist and chauvinistic oratory at the evening’s start. To his credit, he apologized and clarified that he had been speaking of his own past girlfriends and shouldn’t have extended his nasty generalizations to all female humanoids. I believe he said, “Oh, not all women [are clingy and needy]. Just the ones I’ve dated.” (Lovely.) In a fledging bid for sainthood, Lindsay decided to see him again, and they made a date for the following weekend.

Before the weekend arrived, however, he said he couldn’t possibly wait that long to see her, so she saw him twice in that week. During one of these mini-dates, he requested to spend the night at her apartment and to “sleep next to her in bed.” (Does this smack of complete b.s. to anyone else? Based on personal experience, that statement coming from most men is akin to Augustus Gloop—the gluttonous, grossly obese* boy in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who falls into the chocolate river and is sucked into a chocolate extraction pipe—contending that he will only eat a tiny sliver of chocolate.) Lindsay’s response was that he needed to slow down.

At some point during one of these little interludes, he also announced that he didn't like her seeing other people and demanded that she decide whether or not they were exclusive by the next date. (I would’ve been done here, despite the deeply ingrained Midwestern niceness. The older I get, the less crap I’m willing to take. I mean, I’m not off-base here, am I? It is rather strange to request that someone decide on exclusivity after a few paltry dates, right? I’ve taken longer to decide on purchasing shoes—and those are sometimes more practical than some relationships.)

The weekend arrived and it was time for the second official date, which took place at an Italian restaurant. In the car, he announced that he didn’t want his partner to get pregnant because “women get fat and bitchy when they’re pregnant” and “the sex is never the same." (Again, why begin with comments that make your date contemplate the logistics—and potential pain quotient—of hurtling herself out of the moving vehicle? How does that topic even present itself?) After arguing a bit about the veracity or appropriateness of his comments, they agreed to disagree.

I hope y’all are still reading because this is where the juicy stuff begins. Here’s a sample of some interesting he shared with her in the course of the date:
· “I want you to be the mother of my children.” (Lindsay and I are utterly baffled as to how that would transpire without her being “fat and bitchy” and decimating their future love life.)
· “I am ready to exchange promise rings.” (Lindsay’s comment: After a week?)
· “I would want to get married in six months.” (L. again: Again, a week?)
· “You should come with me to Arizona to meet my parents.” (L.: Yikes!)

Next, he launched into more…explicit matters. Lindsay doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, which she had divulged, and he had said he was fine with it. Alas, he next told her his last relationship was predominantly about sex and then proceeded to explain how dating resembled “legalized prostitution.” You see, “I bought her things and she gave me sex.” Since Lindsay wasn’t going to sleep with him, he relayed his immediate expectations on this front:
· “I need to sleep next to you.”
· “Well, can I go down on you?”
· “Would you at least give me a blow job?”

Next, he asked her to send him a naked photo. (You gotta give the boy credit for perseverance.) When she refused, he inquired how he was supposed to show his friends how amazing her chest is without a photo. (Because men never discussed women’s breasts before the advent of photography.) And then he came up with a brilliant solution: “You don’t have to include your face in the picture.”

Needless to say, Lindsay was finished by this time. In retrospect, she fully admits that she should've run screaming from the restaurant (or perhaps tossed a drink in his face. I’ve always wanted to do that if the circumstances justified it. Very Bette Davis.) before the full-on crazy set in, but for whatever reason, she didn’t.

She finally made it home, and this last little snippet was conducted via text after she’d arrived at her apartment. She told him he made her feel like a piece of meat and that she was not okay with his behavior and ideas. His response: “I can’t settle anymore. I’m done.” (Heaping dose of melodrama, anyone?)
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*Roald Dahl’s original novel describes Gloop as an enormous boy who has “fat bulging from every fold, with two greedy eyes peering out of his doughball of a head.” You gotta love Roald Dahl.

Kansas trial

Although I'm sure most of you have heard about this case (http://bit.ly/cQYxzA), I still want to mention it for those who haven't. I feel that the judge made the right decision in not allowing the jury to consider voluntary manslaughter or second-degree murder. In permitting a lesser sentence, he would have set a dangerous legal precedent for similar cases. In fact, some anti-abortion activists, including Operation Rescue founder Randall Terry, were advocating a justifiable homicide defense. This decision strongly supports women's control over their reproductive health.

L.'s challenge

Alright. The time has arrived for L.'s challenge. To remind y'all, my charge is to connect a personal experience on a trampoline to any of Quentin Tarantino's films in three paragraphs. And I will vanquish this worthy adversary. Oh yes. She is a wily opponent, but she shall fall in the end. Wow. Apparently, red wine makes me talk like Athos from The Three Musketeers.

Shall we begin?

The last time I jumped on a large trampoline was at a summer cabin owned by my father's boss. Said boss always dressed like someone from the past. To be more precise, he looked like a guy straight out of the 1950s. He could've easily been thrown into a Grease revival. He wore black polyester pants and white muscle shirts, and sported slicked back hair.

That reminds me of Pam Grier, who was featured in Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown. Grier had achieved success starring in blaxploitation films in the 1970s, but her starring role in 1997's Jackie Brown marked a major comeback in her career. So, like my father's boss' mode of dress, Grier's career seemed stuck in the past until she appeared in Tarantino's film.

(Dang. I need a third paragraph to complete the challenge. Here goes nothing.) The eponymous character Jackie Brown* reminds me of another Tarantino film, Reservoir Dogs. In it, Tarantino plays Mr. Brown, whose last name is shared with Grier's character.

*On an interesting side note for the cinephiles, the film Jackie Brown was based on Elmore Leonard's book Rum Punch. In the book, the lead character is named Jackie Burke, but Tarantino changed it to Jackie Brown as an homage to one of Grier's earlier films, Foxy Brown (1974).

Hot, buttered popcorn, red wine, bean dip, and Quentin Tarantino

Instead of doing pilates at the gym, L. and I are eating buttered, air-popped popcorn and drinking red wine. We also had a first course of bean dip and chips. The full array of non-cable television that Wednesday has to offer is at our disposal.

I did not spend the entire night camped out in front of the TV. Before L. came over, I paid some bills, cleaned the litter box, washed the dishes, took out the trash, and folded some laundry. Oh, and I worked all day. :)

Also, L. has posed a blog-writing challenge. I am to write three paragraphs about how an experience on a trampoline is intertwined with a Quentin Tarantino movie. Stay posted.