Pregnant Women Worry Me+Updates

First, I will begin by updating you on a few matters:
1. Today is Memorial Day. Happy Memorial Day. We should exchange presents on Memorial Day. Like small flags and medals of superlative honor or something. Is that dismissive?
2. I find Fleet Week to be an incredible occurrence. At once, women from all boroughs flock to the piers and pick up a few men in white. It's as if there's a city-wide vibration that channels all XXs(/some gentlemen too?) as the ship docks , and out from the woodwork they roam toward the water like zombies--arms extended, eyes rolled back in head, sans regard to pedestrian traffic laws. It's pretty amazing, and, I venture to guess, a dream come true for tired match.com users. Talk about easy.
3. I heart NJDMV.
...


4. Did you know that a cat this big is able to effectively attack and intimidate a dog like Rudy?


Enough about unimportant matters, pressing forward.

WARNING What you're about to read is nothing new. I am not professing to have unlocked the secretive mythology of American pop culture. I am merely pointing out my concerns in regard to pregnant women, celebrity and civilian.

I will inform you up front that I shall not dignify this post with pictures of the familiars: Angelina Jolie, Tori Spelling, Sandra Bullock, Gwen Stefani, my goodness the list goes on and on and on. In fact, I'm not going to post any pictures, which means you might lose interest, but, really, I'd rather look more like Atlantic Monthly than Us Weekly right about now.

*Newsflash* it's trendy to be pregnant! So, get goin! I once read this piece by this really articulate HIV+ man who was talking about unprotected sex and how gay men are always vilified for practicing "unsafe sex." He says something on the order of, "Well, why doesn't anyone say anything to pregnant women about that?" Oh, but, I get it. When a woman is pregnant, she gives life, therefore her actions (when they aren't abortion actions) fall in line with whatever secular beliefs America boasts. Oh, but wait! Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie aren't married, and even if they were, the expiration date for celebrity marriages is sooner than that of the quart of milk you've got in the fridge. Point: We (uh, American society and culture) usually condone pregnancy when the couple is able to support the child and care for it. Oh, but wait! White people, celebrities, other people of social and racial privilege can just slide right past that judgment. They have a kind of "Get out of Judgment Free" card that was given to them at birth (and me too, what the hell? I'm not separating myself from this here).

So here we are with a trend that goes against what our very very secular beliefs suggest. Okay, so, maybe 10 years ago celebrity culture was about having sex with everyone on the red carpet. Okay, so maybe it's still that way today but now we've got this seemingly narrow caveat that involves children. Hmm, I'd like to think that maybe celebrity culture embraces parenting, but it doesn't; it's just represented that way. Anyway, these celebrities, our American idols, pretty much govern what's hip and what isn't. The effects are especially noticeable in places like New York City. SO it seems that the 1970s women's liberation movement did, like, nothing in comparison to what all these saucy celebrities of familiar idolatry are doing for female empowerment. If Angelina can go and move to Africa and have two kids who were stolen, I mean, aren't white, and have a kid with some guy who is suddenly hideous, I CAN TOO!!!!!!

You might not be hearing from me for a while. I might be out looking for a few Asian children to adopt (GO MEG RYAN!!!!!) and getting pregnant. By anyone who is able. Like a sailor.

Cool!

Have a nice holiday!

real desperate housewives probably just take prozac and call it a day

usually, i'm fortunate enough to be cut off from reality. i mean, television. the only television show i ever found myself watching in high school was seinfeld, and now i have the dvds. basically, good marketing, technology (the ol' standard), and special features have just taken all the meaning out of tv.

last night, however, i decided i should watch desperate housewives.
after all, this is a show that most white middle-class american women are hooked on. why wouldn't they be? they're watching themselves. perhaps i should include myself in the "they" i throw around, but, um, i doubt housewivery, in its sweet suburbia grandeur, is what i'm in for. i'd first request a pirate's life for me (and that says a lot - you know, i can get very sea sick).

back to dh: i meant to say that the tense, non-sensical plot line of the first season acted as a large flame to draw in moths, to keep them engaged until the fire went out. i'm thinking dh got hit with a big bucket of water about 20 episodes ago, but viewers are holding out for bree to just get her act together again. apparently, season two has many "plot twists," which is a convenient way of saying "these are behaviors and activities no woman or man would ever commit, but we're up against reruns of who's the boss? and i think the danza man and his italian-american charm is winning 'em over again. we must do something."

actually, dh is up against the sopranos, which means the whole tri-state area is probably more interested in investigating their hard-core heritage on hdtv rather than committing an hour to some hysteria- or pmdd-afflicted lady drama. after all, "wisteria" (lane) and "hysteria" rhyme, if you talk funny.

yes, i am fond of representation in media. it is quite fascinating. while i was spending my sunday evenings staring at the wall this past television-calendar year, wisteria lane welcomed a new family. of course, they were black. it's clear that wisteria lane "needed a little color" perhaps in order to "even things out." that's ridiculous. (of course this is laden with sarcasm. i hope you see this.) alfre woodard - a tremendous actress - is the mother of two college-age (?) boys, one of which has a kind of handicap, or something. someone else is locked in the basement. this is what i gleaned from commercials, okay? give me a break! the point is everyone in the neighborhood thinks alfre woodard's household is ... strange, or different. they are "mysterious" which is code for "not like everyone/anyone else who lives on this block."

i'm not sure why they even cast a black family. to sincerely believe this innovation, viewers must be under the guise that non-white people are allowed to LIVE and not just mow lawns or clean gabrielle's house/fuck her husband. but this is not true. everyone else is white. what's more amazing is how the black family becomes self-sufficient/alienated (however you'd like to view it) from the rest of the community. incredible. go abc! gotta love it.

i bring this up because last night matthew (one of alfre's sons) was getting into a bit of trouble. there's nothing to spoil, by the way. as usual, the plot crawled on at the pace of 10 stupid things said by susan/5 angry faces from lynette/a handful of "i'm not crazy" lines from bree/2-3 times carlos had sex with the maid. you missed nothing!

back to matthew.
a plot line clearly conceived under the influence comes into play where matthew killed some asian chick he was dating a long time ago. that was nice representation there too. she was irritating, clingy, and then she was trying to blackmail him. aren't we all. so he killed her, which is not unusual for characters on this show. i like how men kill women on dh. and i especially love how they're showing black men as violent, with big sticks rather than short pistols. it's this completely unrealistic fantasy! golly gee i love tv! anyway, matthew was leaving with bree's daughter (who's probably bisexual - i made that up), and bree discovers that matthew killed the asian girl like 10 years ago when it happened, which seems like a really probable scenario. somehow matthew finds a gun (it probably belongs to one of his white neighbors) and is pointing it at bree (who must be wholesome, she loves soy!).

she says something like, "You're a killer. I want to get my daughter to see who you really are" - sorry for the bad quoting skills. i don't even want to get into the potential racism of that statement/context. in fact, i'm certain i've lost most of you by now anyway.

so! then the black man ends up not killing her, but gets killed by a sniper of sort outside. i still have no fucking clue who shot him. but i'm sure wisteria lane is glad to have alienated, ostracized, and ultimately forced out the only people of color on the block. they can get so rowdy! so dangerous! (sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm.)

basically, what i've been trying to say this whole time is this:

everyone run out and get desperate housewives on dvd today!

stop, listen, what's that sound ... wheezing, typically.

i made this blog to type on it and i've neglected reporting anything at all. maybe i'll give you a brief synopsis of what i've been doing the past few days. it's more than hilarious, so brace yourself. that means "hold onto the desk before you erupt." i'm glad i've made myself clear; we shall proceed.

first, i graduated.



yes, you're right, it is exciting.

second, i moved out of my dorm.

no picture here because you'd cry at the very sight of this process.

third, i'm going to stop numbering what i'm doing. it isn't making this easier for you to read, nor for me to right. i mean write.

we get to new jersey, and there's the rub. (not too much, please, i'm writing about very serious matters here. i must maintain my concentration.) just because new jersey signifies horribly untrue falsities to many people does not mean it's all bad. when you read my first sentence of this not-a-paragraph, you probably sighed, "of course, new jersey!" or with less exclamation perhaps; you may have been sad or dismayed at the time, i can only account for a few reactional possibilities. let's get this straight, new jersey is NOT and never will be the arm pit of america. i think we bestowed that honor unto staten island. anyway, i'd like to know who's so lucky to be the head or shoulders of america. probably connecticut, on both counts.

pressing forward.

i'm confusing (with pronouns) because i don't want to be anonymous but others may want to be. it's highly sought after, that anonymous business.

my companion's flight was supposed to be around 5:40 pm from laguardia airport. that is in QUEENS, for the less edumacated. i thought it was in brooklyn last time around, which makes it pretty amazing that i ever made it to the actual airport this time. oh, but it was an amazing race. much more than that television (now defunct? that's a nice phrase!) program. much much more.

let me illustrate the trip with some fine (and pilfered) fotos. and i hope you're holding onto the table.



we drove on a thickly trafficked turnpike, but it was raining already. that picture is misleading. i should have been photographing this momentous journey as it happened. we feared hydroplaning and sitting slick-feathered geese to be culprits of accidents ahead. but there wasn't just a storm, there was a twister!



whoa! that's in newark bay, which we had passed by the time we made it to that toll as above depicted. maybe we should have been closer to the twister: would have saved time getting to the airport, i bet.



ah the wonderful airport. around 2.5 hours later, we were looking to follow a map like this one. i parked in lot 5 for 32 minutes (far right) and walked with companion to the delta terminal which is just north of lot 4, if you can see that clearly on the map. this is crucial, my friend. once we entered "delta terminal," we learned that my companion's first flight out of new york to minneapolis (her layover) would be delayed by two hours -- what insanity! then! the nice northwest lady informed us (or just her, i wasn't going anywhere but nj from there) that my companion's connecting flight would most probably LEAVE WITHOUT HER! the audacity! that connecting flight was the last one she could take that night to her final destination. so she booked a flight for the next morning. this meant we drove back to nj together in the tornado (refer to picture above) and on the turnpike (see above, again) so that we could return to parking lot 5 and delta terminal in the morning. bravo.

the story does not end here!

on the way home, there was traffic, yeah, and i'm sure this is very exciting. 300000 words later i'm sitting in new jersey recapping this for the 2 people who know about this blog. excellent!

i am digressing. pardon me.

at last, we were exiting the turnpike. i don't know if you've ever personally been, but once you enter the turnpike, you need to take a ticket that indicates the toll you'll have to pay once you exit the turnpike. i know, what a treat!

here is the ticket.



how cute. you'd think i'd want to hold onto it forever. i did. but then the wind came, probably from the twister that was heading to lot 5 (one should hope).

as i approached the toll booth/vortex to hand over my $1 and ticket, i stretched out my arm and in an instant the ticket was gone. i would have preferred the dollar to have flown. i was under the impression that you had to pay the highest toll on the ticket in the event that you lost your ticket or decided to keep it as a souvenir (which is what the person who took that picture of the ticket did). apparently, this njturnpike toll attendant thought $4.95 was enough. maybe this had never happened to her before either. i'm glad it was a mutual first time experience, then. wonderful.

my companion and i made it home safely, and then went back out to ... queens? to the airport.

today i was supposed to go to another graduation for my dear dear friend, but i just couldn't do it.

sorry bird, i love you. and you're not done with school anyway, so i guess i'll go to your real, special graduation when that happens.

i'm going back to bed.

first time out.

this is scary.

here, i want to show you something.


that's me. i'm not always confused ... looking.

won't you be my virtual neighbor?

you're answer to that is probably a resounding no, which means you've moved on to the next blog featuring funny faces. surf all you like.

i'll be here.

waiting.