Sock it to me.
The first thing I did when I got to work this morning was start up the freelancers' computers. We bring in a team to close the magazine every week. They sit in a cluster in a large "pit" behind my desk, which also accommodates fact-checkers and interns.
While I was logging into a computer two desks away from two chatting interns, I caught wind of their conversation:
FEMALE INTERN: I mean, I'm almost 22. I'm gonna be 22 soon.
MALE INTERN: Yeah.
FEMALE INTERN: I've only been turned away once. In Vegas. But, like, it sucked, but I could just go somewhere else, you know? I wasn't 21 yet, so. It doesn't always work.
MALE INTERN: Yeah, I know.
FEMALE INTERN: It's just a problem because, like, I still have some friends who aren't 21 yet, so if they can't get in, it's like, we have to, you know, go somewhere else. And, like, the fake doesn't always work.
I'm going to be 34 in June. I felt aged. It reminded me of an incident about two years ago when another editor and I had to explain to an intern what Dallas and Dynasty were. What is a life without the shoulder-padded Bob Mackie rainbow that is Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan, I ask you? With the pot of Krystle at the end?
And yet, some part of me wanted to chime in about my old fake ID, and how the person whose ID it was was 5-foot-6, had straight brown hair, brown eyes, was super-tan and lived in Florida. (I'm 5-foot-3. I have blue eyes. Curly hair. Pasty. Detroit.) And it worked every time. Once I turned 21 and renewed my license, the same bar that had been letting me in for two years with my fake started asking me to sign my name to test its legitimacy before they'd let me pass through their hallowed gates. Did I mention the bar is called The Landshark? ("Candy Gram.") Anyway, it never really mattered anyway, for in East Lansing, Michigan, you can get past any door if you have boobs and a working knowledge of beer pong.
Ultimately, what right did I have to attempt to relate to the trials and tribulations of the early-twentysomething set? In contrast, this is a conversation I had with Lisa this weekend, just before we headed out to see Aretha Franklin in concert:
ME: I know I'm getting old, because I'm so glad she's playing Radio City. There's seats.
LISA: Oh, you know how I feel about seats. I hate standing shows. Remember when we saw Crowded House last summer? You were all, "Let's go stand in the middle!" And I was all, "Ugh."
ME: Radio City is carpeted, too. So if we have to stand, it's cushy.
LISA: That's what I'm talkin' about.
Did I mention I saw ARETHA FREAKIN' FRANKLIN this weekend? At Radio City Freakin' Music Hall? Oy, was it divine. The Queen walked out in a dress that was a veritable kiln explosion, all black and silver foofy beaded tulle that she still managed to navigate behind the piano so she could play it. And Aretha moved and belted and Queened her way around that soul — and CISSY FREAKIN' HOUSTON was one of her backup singers! a backup singer! — and that voice effortlessly rose from inside of her, letting her man know that he better respect, that she's not his fool, that she may have lost her heart but she still has her head, and then, the night before Easter, she took us to church, and holy crap, Aretha. I don't know if I've mentioned it here on this forum, but I've truly believed for years now that, while I may be Jewy Jew Whitey on the outside, I'm Aretha on the inside. The whole thing made me unreasonably happy at a time when my life is, well, let's just say I've been challenged and I need emotional release.
And as expected, Aretha took care of us. We got to sit and rest. And when we stood, our feet were cradled. And I felt ageless and my tone-deaf voice soared and I was sitting next to a guy who looked exactly like Nile Rogers but I didn't want to ask him if he was indeed he, and Aretha saved my old, temporarily songless soul.
While I was logging into a computer two desks away from two chatting interns, I caught wind of their conversation:
FEMALE INTERN: I mean, I'm almost 22. I'm gonna be 22 soon.
MALE INTERN: Yeah.
FEMALE INTERN: I've only been turned away once. In Vegas. But, like, it sucked, but I could just go somewhere else, you know? I wasn't 21 yet, so. It doesn't always work.
MALE INTERN: Yeah, I know.
FEMALE INTERN: It's just a problem because, like, I still have some friends who aren't 21 yet, so if they can't get in, it's like, we have to, you know, go somewhere else. And, like, the fake doesn't always work.
I'm going to be 34 in June. I felt aged. It reminded me of an incident about two years ago when another editor and I had to explain to an intern what Dallas and Dynasty were. What is a life without the shoulder-padded Bob Mackie rainbow that is Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan, I ask you? With the pot of Krystle at the end?
And yet, some part of me wanted to chime in about my old fake ID, and how the person whose ID it was was 5-foot-6, had straight brown hair, brown eyes, was super-tan and lived in Florida. (I'm 5-foot-3. I have blue eyes. Curly hair. Pasty. Detroit.) And it worked every time. Once I turned 21 and renewed my license, the same bar that had been letting me in for two years with my fake started asking me to sign my name to test its legitimacy before they'd let me pass through their hallowed gates. Did I mention the bar is called The Landshark? ("Candy Gram.") Anyway, it never really mattered anyway, for in East Lansing, Michigan, you can get past any door if you have boobs and a working knowledge of beer pong.
Ultimately, what right did I have to attempt to relate to the trials and tribulations of the early-twentysomething set? In contrast, this is a conversation I had with Lisa this weekend, just before we headed out to see Aretha Franklin in concert:
ME: I know I'm getting old, because I'm so glad she's playing Radio City. There's seats.
LISA: Oh, you know how I feel about seats. I hate standing shows. Remember when we saw Crowded House last summer? You were all, "Let's go stand in the middle!" And I was all, "Ugh."
ME: Radio City is carpeted, too. So if we have to stand, it's cushy.
LISA: That's what I'm talkin' about.
Did I mention I saw ARETHA FREAKIN' FRANKLIN this weekend? At Radio City Freakin' Music Hall? Oy, was it divine. The Queen walked out in a dress that was a veritable kiln explosion, all black and silver foofy beaded tulle that she still managed to navigate behind the piano so she could play it. And Aretha moved and belted and Queened her way around that soul — and CISSY FREAKIN' HOUSTON was one of her backup singers! a backup singer! — and that voice effortlessly rose from inside of her, letting her man know that he better respect, that she's not his fool, that she may have lost her heart but she still has her head, and then, the night before Easter, she took us to church, and holy crap, Aretha. I don't know if I've mentioned it here on this forum, but I've truly believed for years now that, while I may be Jewy Jew Whitey on the outside, I'm Aretha on the inside. The whole thing made me unreasonably happy at a time when my life is, well, let's just say I've been challenged and I need emotional release.
And as expected, Aretha took care of us. We got to sit and rest. And when we stood, our feet were cradled. And I felt ageless and my tone-deaf voice soared and I was sitting next to a guy who looked exactly like Nile Rogers but I didn't want to ask him if he was indeed he, and Aretha saved my old, temporarily songless soul.
Labels: childhood, friends, pop culture, work
posted by Marla at 10:43 AM
3 Comments:
Okay, all this is well and good and everything, but Marlagarla I am disappointed in you. This is an election year and I have no idea where you stand. How can I form my opinion if I don't know the opinions of those who have opinions I value? Are you PrObama, a McCainiac or a Hillary-o-phile? Do tell, Dolly, do tell...
I'm putting it out there: I hate politics. Hate hate hate politics. I don't talk about politics because I hate politics. I don't hate issues — I actually feel quite strongly about many of them — but I hate politics. I don't enjoy arguing about them. I don't need that stress. It upsets me too much. I see the purpose of such arguments if they're done well and with fair intentions, but ugh, hate politics. And I think I hate politics because politics make me panic. I don't get a rush off the anxiety. If that makes me weak-willed, then I have to accept that. I hate politics.
Needless to say, I am a dissatisfied voter who is frustrated with our options. The people who really should be president are too smart to run. So I'll vote for the democrat, but I'm of the opinion that presidential candidates (and most high-level career politicians) are pretty much the same — you never know how they really feel about an issue because they're fashioning their stances according to majorities and money and focus groups. And then it all changes once they're in office anyway, à la Spitzer (even discounting getting himself caught up in a prostitution ring, he was a huge disappointment and a far better attorney general than governor). It's different than just changing one's mind based on a shift in opinion or available information, which I think a person has a right to do. A person is allowed to change her mind. But I feel like I don't know how candidates truly feel to begin with.
I'm going to admit right here and now that I haven't done enough research about the candidates specifically because I feel so lukewarm about all of them. Maybe if I did some research, I'd feel SOMETHING. Must get on that. So I offer apologies for not providing a very informed response.
Here's what I do know:
Elections are always much more fun when Al Sharpton runs.
I'm not dissuaded by Obama's inexperience because I am dissuaded by the status quo.
I don't particularly like Hillary, though I don't hate her. Comme ci, comme ca.
I'm not voting for McCain.
That said: I'm spearheading a write-in campaign to get Tina Turner elected. This country needs some Tina in charge. Tina takes care of her shit and does it in style, which is a lot more than we can say about our current administration. AND she can pull off wearing metallic pants, which is also a lot more than we can say about our current administration. Hence, Tina. Vote for Tina!
hey, she survived ike. what could the senate possibly do that would be more abusive? sign me up - VOTE TINA!
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