Tuesday, November 01, 2005


Forget Louise Brooks, I dressed up as a fantasy Asian stereotype. Vulcan hair, smoky eyes and fake lashes, v. rouged lips and my sister's pink cheongsam with thigh-high black stockings (held up cleverly with ... *sigh* elastic bands). A Madame Butterfly incarnate sans the tortured affair with an American rake. Uh huh.

I told NorIda's boyfriend that the Great resembled a cross between a middle school talent show and a Suzanne Sommers workout video.

"No charisma," was how NorIda summed up this opening act. "They flew all the way from Australia to do this?"

I agreed. Then the Go! Team appeared.

And it was beautiful.

The driving guitars, the pounding percussions, and the ubiquitous melodica. I was in dance dance heaven, jumping beside a dude rigged out as a tampon (whom NorIda mistook for a light). I told him his costume was so structurally correct, he must be quite familiar with the product.

The problem I have with these shows is the amount of indie kids who are 6'2" plus and think growing out their hair like Fabrizio Moretti is a good idea. Buddy! I can't see over your already enlarged cranium, you think I can scan above your bush? This isn't a Supreme's audition: trim your tree!

And the old geezers who sport shirts that would've fit them in the womb. They mosh like spastic preteens on a slurpy high and grind against women decades their junior. It's harder to watch than Fox News. Oh, you think your graphic tee will be mistaken for tongue-in-cheek vintage chic? No sir, we all know you got that thing when it was brand spankin' new and all the rage in novelty beer marketing. But it's no secret they'd still get some early bird poon by the end of the night because there's always that one dopehead who'll fall for their patchy beard and paint-splattered jeans from Jordache because she never had a dad growing up.


Love life is picking up again. Who knew men were such shy creatures? You approach them and suddenly, they're no longer crustaceans with monosyllabic vocabularies. I watched my first episode of Oprah today about -- don't act too surprised -- the labyrinthal mind of men explained. Jay Leno, Brian McKnight, and Sports Illustrated's Rick Reilly were the O's panel of oracles. Watching it, I convinced myself of something between the sexes. Maybe Lord Byron was on to something when he wrote in Don Juan:

"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange;
Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone" (Canto I, stanza 193).

I'm trying to agree with what Byron says without coming across as a Victorian reactionary. In the modern context, I think it unabashedly declares that we, as people grouped in camps of cake and candles, are naturally different and will approach life thus. It (almost) goes without saying that neither gender consciously tries to undermine each other (though by certain individuals, I'm damn sure) and perhaps our intrinsic contrarieties are what make us equals in the realistic, as oppposed to politically correct, sense. To be a product of a social condition is not a mistake so much as a visible example of unquestioned superstitions and maybe, just maybe, unconscious biological urges not yet understood. And when they are fused to the already undemanding division of pop discourse, another social norm is reinforced and relegated to being yet another superficial creation fought over by movement mouthpieces ...

Thanks a lot Oprah. I'll stick to CSI from now on. Mmm ... cadavers.

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