The True Price of Beauty

I’m not sure how to set this up or how to begin, so let’s just come out with it: I love Jessica Simpson’s new show. It’s insightful, meaningful, thought provoking; every time I watch it I feel like I’ve learned something, but even better, like I felt something. Yes, I have my doubts about Jessica Simpson as anything other than “blond with outrageously big boobs” – but she’s found the right forum for herself with this show, she doesn’t have to carry it, she just has to exist with it, if that makes sense.


Women face a daily challenge that men just can’t, nor will ever, understand. Forget self or societal-imposed pressure, the level of daily competition between women is absolutely staggering. That’s not necessarily groundbreaking of course, we’ve had enough Sex and The City episodes and Gwen Stefani songs to tell us this, but it’s certainly eye opening to see how these types of pressures extend across borders and cultures. As Ken Paves said in the closing of episode three: “when can a woman feel free to ever just be a woman?” A few years ago, actually a few days ago, I would’ve laughed at the statement and made a joke about Ken’s butthole and its diet, but I feel different now. I feel changed.


The show is worth watching for so many reasons. Some of the supporters are championing Jess as a new breed of feminist, I think we have to go further than that: Jessica Simpson is a humanist. This show doesn’t merely show the plight of the female in the harsh light of multi-faceted competition, the show demonstrates how the struggle of the modern woman affects us all. That is something worth cheering. I hope you’ll join me.


(*Note: not a word of this is true. Fuck Jessica Simpson and her dumb fucking show. However, claiming that I love it is decidedly less embarrassing than admitting that I love this Duke team and am pulling for them to win the championship. So there you go.)


JR

Thanks for the idea asshole

I have a confession to make.

I gave up drinking for the month of March. No, I’m serious. I’m not Catholic, this isn’t for health reasons and this isn’t for some documentary on torture. I did this because I wanted to see if this is something I could actually do. That’s all. Let’s call it testing my ‘will power.’ Or ‘a really boring idea’, either will work just fine. (I actually gave up eating sugar too but that’s easier than making fun of George Clooney’s hair at the Oscars.) Giving up drinking for a month is, and will be, really fucking difficult. Let me give you a quick glimpse into this past weekend. A sober weekend if ever there was one.

Friday night our office left at 4pm for drinks around the corner from where we work. I ordered a club soda. Everyone snickered. But let me say something. I’m a grown ass man. I don’t give a fuck if the waiter or my co-workers make fun of me for ordering a soda at a bar. I do however give a fuck when the waiter brings my drink in a tall, curvy, “made for a pina colada with tiny umbrellas” glass. Why can’t I have a tumbler with a few cubes of ice like everyone else? It’s like the waiter wanted to celebrate my personal struggle outwardly. Dick. He’s lucky I was surrounded by work people. (I’m not sure what that means. It’s not like I would’ve done anything if I wasn’t. Maybe a headlock and a noogie, but nothing more than that.)

And honestly, though it was the end of the work week and a drink sounded nice, I didn’t need one. The sun was still out and though I could feel the momentum of the weekend building, I was ok with my water. I’m an athlete, remember? Hydration is key.

The walk home was actually one of the most noticeable differences on this particular Friday night. I don’t always go out for drinks on a Friday night, but when I do, I feel like the best part is the walk home. Give me my iPod and a light buzz and my walk home suddenly turns into my own personal music video. “Last name Ever. First name Greatest” takes on a whole new meaning when you’re walking with your swerve on. This time? I put on some Yeasayer and dodged tiny Asians with pink bags, chicks from the Financial district in knee highs and skirts, and trade show attendees with gigantic name tags around their necks. It was far less cool.

Friday night was the worst. Seriously. My wife and I couldn’t figure out what to do. Should we watch a movie? No. Should we walk to our favorite local bar and just have a soda? Awkward. Should we go get a coffee or a tea or something? Lame. I decided to text my friend Morgan. He was the one who gave us the idea to give up drinking. Him and his wife gave up sugar and alcohol for a month and raved about how great they felt. This was his stupid idea anyways.

Me: Dude. What the fuck are we supposed to tonight?

Morgan: Go see a movie.

Me: Sweet. Thanks for the idea asshole.

Morgan: Too bad you don’t have kids.

This was his response? Too bad I don’t have kids? Don’t you think that’s something you might want to point out BEFORE you suggest a good buddy goes sober for a month?

We wound up watching a movie. I think we saw The Informant with Matt Damon. No, that was the next night. We watched Wall Street from the 80s with Michael Douglas and Charlie Sheen. Then we had really great sex and went to bed. Oversharing? I don’t care. I’m sober now. I gotta take risks somehow.

The rest of the weekend went a bit smoother. I got up at 8am and went for a run. I felt like Icee, the most sober and most athletic guy I know. Saturday night we basically repeated the activities from the night before. That bottle of Jameson was staring me down all night. I kept calculating in my head how many steps it would take me to grab a glass, grab some ice, and crack that bottle. With some creative maneuvering I figured around 14-15 steps. My mouth is salivating as I type this post. I am not joking.

Do I feel better today? A little. Were my workouts a bit easier? Sure, but who cares. As one co-worker said to me Friday night, “I admire what you’re doing, but I’d never do it.” Sweet.

Only 23 days to go.

Anyone wanna catch a movie?



III

I want some of your brown sugar...

By Magglio and Jericho -


Apple
Is it just me, or does Big Ben just keep getting cooler and cooler?


Moustache
We have an enormous black lady that waters the plants in our office. why do we pay enormous black lady to water our plans when all we have is one little tree and a few ferns? I have no fucking clue. The better question: am i allowed to say "what up, Precious?"


Apple
Say what you will about Lady Gaga…her music is overplayed, she wears toilet paper on her face and she makes up words in her songs. But I’ll tell you something. In the ‘Bad Romance’ video when they show her standing there in that white thong…curtains. That bitch can keep doing whatever she wants as long as we get more shots of that candy ass. And if you’ve seen the video then you’re definitely nodding your head right now.


Moustache
At the oscars last night we got introduced to a new kind of fat: Precious fat. This is when someone is so fat they can't even open their eyes. It also helps if your cheeks are so big they look like Julius Peppers' knees. The Precious Fat era is off to a great start.


Apple
David Carr and Alex Smith together again. Like when Paris and Nicole had a reality show where they milked cows.


Moustache
Let me put it this way, when a woman has never won best director before and they announce that the award will be presented by Barbara Streisand, that's analogous to wondering if your kid might be gay and then having Elton John pick him up for a date. Barbara Streisand! Why not just cut the chase and have an enormous vagina present the award.


Apple
One of the most underrated aspects of the Oscars: the stereotype shot. When someone makes a joke and they immediately cut to someone in the crowd that fits / represents the punchline. Make a womanizer joke: cut to Clooney. Make a Jewish joke: cut to one of the Coen brothers. Make a botox joke: wide shot of audience. Make a black joke: cut to either Denzel, Sam Jackson, Don Cheadle or Da Queen in that order of preference. Make a hot old lady joke: cut to Helen Mirren. Make a "hide your children joke, she's got that hungry look on her face even though we can't really see her eyes: cut to Precious and her buttcheek-cheeks.


Moustache
There are two kinds of people at the cream and sugar bar of a coffee shop. Those that box out to establish their position and then proceed to touch every stirrer, creamer, sugar, and cup holder possible while babying their drink like it’s as precious as Angelina Jolie’s vagina. The other does the dip and dive. Where you’re constantly dodging and ducking other people to just get a dash of this or a shake of that. I’m more of a dip and diver. My vagina knows its place in this world.




*

Back Into The Pool...

What a terrible year for film. If that sentiment sounds familiar, it should, it’s the exact same thing I said at the start of my Oscar post last year. 2008 was a down year overall but still had some major bright spots (Dark Knight, Wall-E, Milk, Rachel Getting Married) and a few noteworthy if not ultimately memorable movies (Gran Torino, The Wrestler, Vicky Christina). What does 2009 have? Avatar has had carnal relations with the box office, but are we going to be talking about it in 5 years? The Hurt Locker was the exception to the “Hollywood simply can’t make a good movie about Iraq” rule, had some incredible moments, but the parts were much better than the whole. District 9 was completely original, the most creative movie of the year, but it really fits the definition of “it’s a thrill just to be nominated.” Inglorious Basterds was brilliant, daring, exciting, everything you want from a suspense movie, it’s the best movie of the year, but is it a best picture?

Well, fuck it. Just because the films were underwhelming doesn’t mean we can’t still fleece our friends for cash at the Oscar party (yes, that's a double negative, but so was 2009). Good luck, hopefully we’ll have a lot more to talk about this time next year.


Best Picture
Will Win: The Hurt Locker
Should Win: Inglorious Basterds


Best Director
Will Win: James Cameron
Should Win: Quentin Tarantino

I can easily see this flipping by the way, with Avatar winning best pic and Kathryn Bigelow taking director. Regardless of how it ends up, I definitely think that the two movies will spilt these; one film won’t win both. The big question: does the Academy want Avatar to win best picture? This isn’t Titanic mind you, which was a very Oscar-friendly theme, this is a movie about nine-feet tall reptilian Smurfs with a language that sounds like Ewoks fucking. It’s Iraq v. Pandora, and I think Iraq wins. Cameron will take director as his consolation prize.


Best Actor
Will Win: Bridges
Should Win: Bridges


Best Actress
Will Win: Streep
Should Win: Streep

Sandra Bullock has been gaining some momentum lately, but I still think Streep takes this home.


Best Supporting Actor
Will Win: Waltz
Should Win: Waltz

Waltz winning this category is a lock. Also a lock: the longest, strangest acceptance speech in Oscar history (which is saying something). During his speech at the Globes, he referred to himself as a planet and Tarantino as the golden sun, and talked about how he’d been orbiting that sun for his whole life but hadn’t dared get close enough until now. What’s possible at the Oscars? I’m thinking something like this:

“52 years ago I was in my mother’s womb. Growing. Bursting with life. Taking nutrients from her fluids. But then a man appeared, a man who had the wisdom of many centuries. He mounted my mother and made love to her. Generous love. Impactful love. He entered her, navigated beyond her many tubes and channels and found me, young, vulnerable, wanting to learn but not yet knowing how. He imparted his knowledge, his passion directly into my placenta. It was this transfer, this sharing of love and creativity that brought me here. Thank you to the Academy. And to Quentin, thanks for traveling back in time and fucking my baby face.”


Best Supporting Actress
Will Win: Mo'Nique
Should Win: Who'Cares?


Best Original Screenplay
Will Win: The Hurt Locker
Should Win: Inglorious Basterds


Best Adapted Screenplay
Will Win: Up In The Air
Should Win: Up In The Air

My heart pulls for District 9 here, but Up In The Air is really an enormous achievement from a writing perspective. Three completely identifiable, three-dimensional characters, don’t underestimate how difficult that is. District 9 is the most creative, but from a pure skill standpoint Up In The Air deserves this trophy.

Good luck in your pools.



JR

And life is good again….

Apple:
I don’t have to travel this week. That makes me, my johnson, my waistline, my dog, my bowels, my hetero life mate Jericho, my bus driver* and my doorman very happy.

*Trick. I don’t do public transportation.


Moustache:
I ran into my ex-girlfriend from High School not too long ago. We exchanged pleasantries. My first thought was ‘damn I’m having a great hair day today.’ Yes. That was my first thought.


Apple:
I caught a total of 11 minutes from this season’s Bachelor. What a stupid fucking show. The way I saw it the dude had 2 pretty mediocre choices. Go with the skinny bitch that looked like she was 14. Or go with the other skinny bitch that has had so much plastic surgery done she looked like a robot. I think if it ever comes down to this in the end the Bachelor should have the option of hitting a ‘do over’ button and then Lady GaGa drops from the sky and does a dance where she dick whips the host Chris in face. I think it’s called Frapping. Then a whole new set of chicks walks in and we start over. Done and done.


Moustache:
I’ve watched the NFL Scouting Combine every night for the past 4 nights. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. My only complaint; why don’t they show the bench press? They would show 30 second clips but why not focus on the whole competition instead of the 3 cone drill or even the vertical jump? I’d love to watch some overgrown dudes get all fired up and bang out 22 reps at 225 a piece. Hey Trindon Holliday…10 reps? 10 lousy reps? Shit. I call that a Tuesday.


Apple:
Best idea I’ve heard this week: They should allow the Jersey Shore kids to compete on next season’s RR/RW Challenge. Are you fucking kidding me? Could you imagine watching Ronnie go up against Wes in a homoerotic game of let’s tackle each other and flail all about? I think they should do a Jersey Shore vs. everyone else competition. You’re telling me this wouldn’t be the highest rated show ever?


Moustache:
First day of Giants baseball officially kicks off today. Timmy’s pitching. Nuff said.




III

Take A Look At This Fucking Shit (But Not For Too Long)

I hate to do this to you. I really do.

But if having a blog has taught me one thing it’s this: never suffer in silence. When something so atrocious happens, something that could literally end the world, it’s my duty to share my explicative-filled rant with the tens of you.

Are you ready? Are you sitting down? They’re remaking Karate Kid.

(Letting you take this in)

OK, that’s actually not the worst news. Jackie Chan is playing the Miyagi part.

It gets worse. They’re remaking it as a kid’s movie, making Daniel-san 11 years old.

It gets worse. Jaden Smith, Will Smith’s son is playing the Daniel-san part.

I’m sorry, but you need to watch this. It hurts. It’s not fun. It might melt your eyeballs, but I need everyone to watch so you can share my pain and join my cause.

(Waiting)

Terrible, huh? I sat in stunned silence for about 15 minutes after the clip ended. Since there are no possible words to describe it, here are a few fun facts about the production. Odds that the following happened:

- Chances that he gets to fuck the little Asian chick at the end: 89%.

I mean, if he didn’t get to touch little tiny Asian boobies why else would Jackie be involved?

- Chances that Ralph Macchio makes a cameo at some point in the movie: 95%

I’m thinking he’s the pilot and has a really bad line of recycled dialogue like “whoa, whoa, slow down, Son. First learn to stand, then you can learn to fly.”

- Chances that the first time they filmed that scene they had to cut when Daniel-san inexplicably turned to Jaden and said, “Your Dad is paying me in cash right? My concern is, uh, and I have to check with my accountant, that this might bump me into a higher tax bracket.” 7000%.

- Odds that “take the jacket off, put the jacket on” becomes part of the daily vernacular of every 10 yr old the same way that “wax on” or “sand the floor” did twenty years ago: -43%

Take your jacket off!? This guy’s not a sensei, he’s a fucking maître d'!!!

- Odds that this movie will kill anyone who watches it in full: 0. Yes, zero, Vegas wouldn't let us bet on this one. It's like taking odds that Lindsay Lohan will still be a virgin at 30.

What can we do about this? Should we get an online petition going or something? Thoughts?



JR

Tell me anything you want...any old lie will do...

Today I traveled from San Francisco to Greensboro, North Carolina. I decided to keep a running diary of the day. All times listed are whatever the local time was when I made the note.


8:20am
My bag is packed and I lean down to give Patch a kiss on his head. He seems disgruntled that he’s being disturbed at such an ungodly hour. I do some quick math and figure I’m about 12 hours away from being in my hotel room in Greensboro, NC. Which is when I’ll publish this post. It's gonna be a long day.

8:30am
Cab shows up. His name is Mahmood. I know this because it says so on the dashboard. He comments on the sunshine. I ask how his day’s going. He says fine. The conversation ends there.

8:55am
I’m getting better at business travel in the sense that I know how to pack. I’m strictly carry-on these days which is a huge feat for me. I like to have outfit options, which makes carry-on difficult, but this being a 48-hour trip it’s completely possible.

9:05am
Security is standard. It takes 4 buckets to get my stuff through. I’m quickly thinking this post might be the most boring ever. No seriously, ever.

9:25am
I call my mother. I call my mother every time I fly. She’s already got the flight tracker up on her monitor at work waiting for takeoff. She’s a Jewish mother, what are you going to do?

9:48am
I stop by the newsstand to stock up on magazines. Luckily, all the new monthlies are in so I have a slew of stuff to read. I grab the latest GQ, Esquire, Details and Rolling Stone. I’ll read the GQ first. It’s far and away the best magazine out there.

10:36am
Flight is airborne. They have wireless on the flight. I quickly sign on to IM so I can talk to Jericho. He asks how my weekend was. I say fine. The conversation ends there.

10:44am
I’d love to describe the other two people sitting in my row with me but they’re being nosy and computer screens are hard to hide when sitting side by side. I describe this situation to Jericho. He says, and I quote, “fuck em.”

10:55am
The captain comes on to explain “we’ve reached our cruising altitude of 36,000 feet.” He then goes on to describe a few of the natural wonders we can see from the plane, our flight route and the temperature in Dallas/Ft. Worth. I love this. I stop my iPod to listen. I wish the captain would talk throughout the entire flight. I’m completely serious. I want him to explain every single bump we encounter. I want him to do a complete dissertation of turbulence. I want to know if he packed a lunch or opted for the $10 Boston Market Chicken Carver Sandwich. He concludes his announcement with “we’ll check back in with you in a bit” and I am literally counting down the moments until this happens.

10:58am
It should be worth mentioning I have a routine down when it comes to music on flights. It started a couple months back when I flew SF to LA. That flight is insanely short. Actual time in the air is about 55 minutes. So I’d put on Bright Eyes ‘I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning.” And I knew around song 8 they’d tell us it was time to shut down personal electronics. (please note, when flying, I fast forward the first 1 minute and 23 seconds of the first song on this album. Check it out and you’ll know why.) So I continue this approach whenever I fly. Regardless of the flight length I always start with this album.

11:16am
We’ve reached song 8, “Land Locked Blues”. Fuck. This would be a lot cooler if we were landing in LA.

11:22am
Having wi-fi on board, I send my mom an email from the air. She thinks this is the coolest thing ever. She writes back about 5 emails in the span of 45 seconds. Half of them center around the other ladies in the office amazed at technology these days. Within 90 seconds I get an email from my dad asking how the flights going. I half expect them both to show up out my window in a 2-seater so they can accompany me the rest of the way.

11:29am
The fasten seat belt sign has been turned on. The bumps are getting worse. I can’t help but think this is it for me. I’ll have to stop typing for now. And reflect on my life.

11:36am
Seat belt sign is off. I take my first breath in 7 minutes.

11:39am
Seat belt sign is back on. I'm convinced my world is about to end. (I do appreciate a pilot who is accurate in his communication though)

11:46am
Seat belt sign is back off. I’ve put Fleet Foxes on my iPod. I update my Facebook status with a line from one of their songs. The line I post is “Tell me anything you want. Any old lie will do.” I’m anticipating 1 fan of Fleet Foxes will give it the thumbs up. One fan will actually mention Fleet Foxes in the comments. One chick who ‘likes’ any status update I do will also ‘like’ this one. And my friend Drew will tell me an actual lie that equates to how miserable his life is. He has never heard of Fleet Foxes. I'm feeling good about this prediction.

11:51pm
The pilot makes a quick announcement to tell us something about somewhere in Arizona which we’re currently flying over. I don’t hear a word he says. Instead I focus intently on his voice. Is it calm? Is he hiding something? Does he think we’re about to go down but is tricking us? He sure sounds confident.

11:54pm
The chick next to me gets up to pee. I too get up to pee. Let me tell you something about me on a flight. I will get up at any opportunity. I prefer the window, so I can stare outside, but do better with an aisle seat since I like to get up so often. Even if I don’t have to pee, I’ll squeeze out a few drops. Whenever I look in the mirror I immediately think of that one scene in Cast Away…a scene which I’ve never actually seen only heard while my eyes were closed tightly in the theater. Neurotic? Paranoid?Um, yes.

12:10pm
Jericho informs me that he’s going to a meeting and is signing off for the day. Just like that. Can you believe him? What a dick.

12:57pm
Hunger sets in. I’m determined to not buy anything on this flight. Over salted processed turkey slices wedged between two thick soggy pieces of white bread and plastic lettuce sounds awful. Looking forward to seeing what the Dallas/Ft Worth airport has to offer. Hell, I have an hour or so to kill when I’m there.

12:58pm
Powered threw Bright Eyes, Fleet Foxes, Yeasayer, Them Crooked Vultures and now onto Hot Chip. I listen to albums start to finish. Except for that one song on Hot Chip. It’s super gay.

1:20pm
On our decent into Dallas I stare intently out the window. I’m always fine on the decent. As soon as we get low enough to actually see the cars, I’m confident if necessary, I could tuck and roll and land safely. Only if necessary.

3:55pm
There’s basically 2 types of people in the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport today. First, native Texans. Big. Lots of facial hair. Lots of mid section. Lots of big logos in various places including their mid section. The second is the business traveler. Loafers, sport coat, lots of blackberry checking and sighing. Lots of Bluetooth talking and selling. I am not this guy. I fear if I continue to travel like this I will turn into this guy. I will never be this guy.

4:01pm
I check the results of my Facebook posting. So far only 1 comment. It’s from a chick I used to go to High School with. She responded with ‘One time at band camp…’ Not sure how to take that one. She obviously isn’t a Fleet Foxes fan. Maybe she’s trying to tell me she likes putting foreign objects in her cha-cha. Interesting.

4:40pm
Explain something to me. How can Dallas be so awful at Mexican food? Aren’t they 10 feet from Mexico? Fuck I just had the worst Chicken Quesadilla in my life. Ez cheese, microwaved chicken bits, generic salsa that tasted like a crayon. I did however tip the waitress 5 bucks on my 14 dollar order. I felt bad for her. She was a lady boy, half-Asian, wannabe hipster working at the Tequillaria in the airport. Nowhere to go but up.

5:20pm
About to board. Two hours and twenty minutes until we land in Charlotte. Wish me luck. (Fuck that was gay. Stop being so gay Magglio. I’m going to get a coffee.)

5:22pm
Just before take off I check my Facebook status again. Lo and behold, my friend Drew responded. I’m literally panting with excitement to see what he’s said. “I have a full head of hair” it reads. Fuck I totally called that one. Sadly this makes my day.

8:07pm
We’re about 45 minutes into the flight. The wi-fi isn’t working. I’ve sorta peed twice. The stewardess reeks of self tanner. The dude next to me is reading a book called ‘Helping you understand your emotional abuse.’ I’m exhausted. Did I mention I got in to SF last night from Boise at 9pm. What the fuck am I doing to myself? I decide I’m going to buy a pack of cigarettes when I get to Charlotte for the long drive ahead. I don’t even smoke anymore. But fuck it, I do tonight.

8:10pm
I’m secretly excited for the 2 hour drive from Charlotte to Greensboro. Yes, 2 hours. I’m excited because I’m banking on my rental car having satellite radio which I never get to listen to. I’m going straight to Shade 45 and whatever the other Hip Hop Nation station is. This truly will be the highlight of my day. You want to hear good rap music? Put on satellite radio.

9:05pm
Unfortunately this marathon day will not end. The asshat at the Avis car rental place must get paid hourly. There are 8 people in line and he’s taking his sweet fucking time. Fuck my car had better have satellite radio.

9:40pm
Ball sack! We all saw this one coming. No satellite radio. But I did grab some smokes. Fuck North Carolina.

10:05pm
Four other people responded to my Facebook status. Nobody caught the Fleet Foxes reference. Who cares? Facebook is stupid. Can you tell this day (and this post) has gone on a bit too long?

11:58pm
I finally pull into my hotel. Here’s the final stats for the day:

Total travel time: 12 hours and 28 minutes.
Number of flights: 2
Number of miles traveled: 2,717
Number of cigarettes smoked: 3
Number of times Lady GaGa played on the radio: 14
Number of times I want to do this trip again: 0
Number of days until I do this exact trip again except in reverse order: 2





III