Archive for March, 2005

Your Moment of Zen

Imagine holding smiling babies who look just like this, and then handing them right back.




March 26, 2005 at 9:17 pm Leave a comment

The Constant Wife

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Saw it last night at the Walnut Street Theater with Andy The Boyfriend. It was interesting on so many levels: the time that it was set in (1920s, the transition from the Victorian to the modern era), the ideas of feminism, marriage, fidelity, and how they play themselves out, then and now. Constance, the constant wife in question, ended up getting exactly what she wanted through coolheaded pragmatism and being the ultimate feminist, still working her way through the system, whch didn’t easily afford economic and and sexual independence for women. The costumes were amazing. My two fave fashion eras are 1920s flapper and ’60s mod, which have very similar sensibilities.

On a personal note, seeing Andy The Boyfriend dressed up makes my heart soar. He really knows how to wear a black jacket and pinstripe pants (which frequently happens in reverse on lots of men). He never dresses hipster, he just looks timeless and classy in a 1940s/50s sort of way. One of his neighbors referred to him as “a gator,” which is a high compliment at 4th and Girard. After six years, I still love greeting him when he’s dressed up (and not). In his smile, I feel like the woman in that famous WWII photo embracing her sailor husband coming home from the war.

March 26, 2005 at 8:50 pm 1 comment

The Girl So Nice They Named Her Twice

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Penn’s paper of record momentarily redeems itself by talking to the Thursday night girls. Not a work of genius, but it’s a start. The author, unlike many Penn students, or most mainstream media outlets outside the GLBT community, actually treated them like humans and not a freak show, and allowed them to tell their stories.

March 26, 2005 at 8:19 pm Leave a comment

Waltzing With Moby

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Newsflash! The asexual Moby apparently makes Joe Levy want to drink Red Bull and fuck. That sentence alone makes me wonder if it was written by Rolling Stone’s frequent stroke material Britney Spears. But the thing that got me was Molly Ringwald-as-stripper. I don’t take issue with the countless dudes of a certain age and sensibility who probably share that fantasy, but in Levy’s sticky hands, it sounds like the review was written by Steph instead of Ducky. And in the bigger picture, Rolling Stone marginalizes or flat-out ignores the Molly Ringwalds of the music world, from the sausage party high atop its masthead to articles about Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan instead of women with actual guitars, making up for it once a year by jamming a bunch of disparate female artists into their annual apology, “Women Who Rock” issue.

One of the most interesting thing about 80s revisionist nostalgia in middle-aged male culture critics is the fetishization of women they would have ignored and then ogling the 22-year-old version of that fantasy, who has no history or baggage, only fashion. Grown-up Stephs who want to slum with barely legal nu wave girls have a multitude of outlets. The Voice is usually one of the few places, above ground, where we can hear from the Andies of the world.

March 25, 2005 at 4:11 pm 4 comments

The Return of the Jerk and other Stories

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Jerk Jerkinelli is back, better than ever! This is how the agony usually goes. I call him and tell him his special order is in, usually an interesting 60s soundtrack or some prog rock DVD. He has most calls blocked on his phone, except for Stupid & Crazy. In the event that it is blocked, he gave me his special code–one of many pieces of information that I wish didn’t take up valuable space in my overcrowded brain. So usually, because he’s probably screening his calls while he plays his Weather Channel fusion on all his guitars and watches his Yes DVD’s, he has to call me back to talk to, just me, no one else, to repeat the same information I just gave him in the previous message.

During lunch, I got a page for me and I stupidly picked it up. It was him. “Jerk, I’m at lunch.” “Is that all I got?” “Jerk I’m at lunch.” “Well put me up to DVD’s then.”

Then he comes in. A phone message, a phone call, a visit. Rinse lather repeat. Tells me he was giving me a courtesy call. Makes it sound like it was Nebbish’s fault for paging me on my lunch (more on Nebbish in a minute), instead of his fault for calling the store and specifically asking for me to give him basic information that anyone else can. Which I sort of explained, flusteredly because I was holding back the urge to tell him what a fucking imbecile he is, and I hate it that this guy is loaded (because he whined his way through some sort of settlement, perhaps over brain damage) and doesn’t have to to work for a living.

His black mullet cast a long shadow over our staff at dinnertime, and I tried unsuccessfully to hide from him until it was time to go home.

Nebbish embodies every bad stereotype about Jewish boys. He’s got the whiniest voice in the world, no sense of humor, and follows everything to the letter whether it makes sense or not. Like lunging for the phone when there’s someone at the desk and then paging for someone who’s at lunch. Someday he will be rich and send messengers into Stupid and Crazy to buy records from people like me.

More crazy work stories after the jump:

March 22, 2005 at 10:09 pm 1 comment

No One’s Home…Except For 200 Teenagers

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Did this guy learn how to run a bar by watching Porky’s?

Doc Watson’s owner Daniel Flynn, 36, told patrons younger than 21 to go to the building’s third floor. About 200 people complied. Flynn also told a bar employee to stay on the second floor and make sure no one tried to get downstairs.

A short time later, Flynn ordered the group of patrons to climb to the building’s fourth floor – a one-bedroom apartment where he told police he lives. Flynn then closed and padlocked the door.

When police asked Flynn whether anyone was on the fourth floor, he said that he did not know and that he had no key to the lock. Officers then climbed the fire escape, looked in a fourth-floor window, and saw people packed inside “like sardines,” Pauley said.

March 22, 2005 at 9:15 pm 4 comments

The Most Excellent Mix Ever

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Ryan, my gay male Philadelphia musical doppelganger, put these artists on a CD for me. He also spent one magical weekend seeing two riot grrrl bands with me recently: Tracy + The Plastics (too much art, no fun, no dancing) and Allison Wolfe’s new band Partyline (much fun and lots of pink, plenty of dancing, plus diva cordless mics, and serious politics with a smile).

I can’t wait for him to get back. With Ricky out of town, I’m doubly missing my gay boyfriends.

There’s no track listing, only artists:
Nancy and Frank Sinatra
Brigitte Bardot
Cibo Matto
The Amps
Pam & Jo
Goldie & The Gingerbreads
Dolly Parton
The Raincoats
Rose Melberg
The Avengers
Patience & Prudence
Dear Nora
Dolly Mixture
Melody Dog
Huggy Bear
Yoko Ono

When I have more time, I will write more about it, as well as my impressions of my Sleater-Kinney advance, acquired quite legitimately by Jimmy Draper, who was kind enough to give me his extra.

March 20, 2005 at 8:10 pm Leave a comment

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