subphyla

My apologies. All my creative energy has been taken up lately with trying to make myself sound like someone people would want to give money to to do work for them. It's tough. So I'm just going to type. I like typing (and can bang out 84 words per minute, according my latest temp agency office skills test!).


From David Foster Wallace's essay about the 1993 Illinois State Fair, "Getting Away From Already Pretty Much Being Away From It All," an excerpt that embodies the attitude toward a certain group of Midwestern people held by another certain group of Midwestern people (*cough*):

Booth after booth. A Xanadu of chintzola. Obscure non-stick cookware. "EYE GLASSES CLEANED FREE." A booth with anti-cellulite sponges. More DIPPIN DOTS futuristic ice cream. A woman with Velcro straps on her shoes gets fountain-pen ink out of a linen tablecloth with a Chapsticky-looking spot remover whose banner says "AS SEEN ON 'AMAZING DISCOVERIES,'" a wee-hour infomercial I'm kind of a fan of. A plywood booth that for $9.95 will take a photo and superimpose your face on either an FBI Wanted poster or a Penthouse cover. An MIA--BRING THEM HOME! booth staffed by women playing Go Fish. An anti-abortion booth called LIVESAVERS that lures you over with free candy. Sand Art. Shredded-Ribbon Art. Therm-L-Seal Double Pane Windows. An indescribable booth for "LATEST ADVANCE ROTARY NOSE HAIR CLIPPERS" whose other sign reads (I kid you not) "Do Not Pull Hair From Nose, May Cause Fatal Infection." Two different booths for collectible sports cards, "Top Ranked Investment Of The Nineties." And tucked away back on one curve of the mezzanine's ellipse: yes: black velvet paintings, including several of Elvis in pensive poses.

And people are buying this stuff. The Expo's unique products are targeted at a certain type of Midwestern person I'd all but forgotten. I'd somehow not noticed these persons' absence from the paths and exhibits. This is going to sound not just East-Coastish but elitist and snotty. But facts are facts. The special community of shoppers in the Expo Bldg. are a Midwestern subphylum commonly if unkindly known as Kmart People. Farther south they'd be a certain fringe-type of White Trash. Kmart People tend to be overweight, polyestered, grim-faced, toting glazed unhappy children. Toupees are the movingly obvious shiny square-cut kind, and the women's makeup is garish and often asymmetrically applied, giving many of the female faces a kind of demented look. They are sharp-voiced and snap at their families. They're the type you see slapping their kids in supermarket checkouts. They are people who work at like Champaign's Kraft and Decatur's A. E. Staley and think pro wrestling is real. I'm sorry, but this is all true. I went to high school with Kmart People. I know them. They own firearms and do not hunt. The aspire to own mobile homes. They read the Star without even a pretense of contempt and have toilet paper with little off-color jokes printed on it. A few of these folks might check out the Tractor Pull or U.S.A.C. race, but most are in the Expo to stay. This is what they've come for. They couldn't give one fat damn about ethanol exhibits or carnival rides whose seats are hard to squeeze into. Agriculture shmagriculture. And Gov. Edgar's a closet pinko: they heard it on Rush. They plod up and down, looking put out and intensely puzzzled, as if they're sure what they've come for's got to be here someplace. I wish Native C. were here; she's highly quotable on the subject of Kmart People. One big girl with tattoos and a heavy-diapered infant wears a T-shirt that says "WARNING: I GO FROM 0 TO HORNEY IN 2.5 BEERS."

Have you ever wondered where these particular types of unfunny T-shirts come from? the ones that say things like "HORNEY IN 2.5" or "Impeach President Clinton...AND HER HUSBAND TOO!!"? Mystery solved. They come from State Fair Expos. Right here on the main floor's a monster-sized booth, more like an open bodega, with shirts and laminated buttons and license-plate borders, all of which, for this subphylum, Testify. This booth seems integral, somehow. The seamiest fold of the Midwestern underbelly. The Lascaux Caves of a certain rural mentality. "40 Isn't Old...IF YOU'RE A TREE" and "The More Hair I Lose, The More Head I Get" and "Retired: No Worries, No Paycheck" and "I Fight Poverty...I WORK!!" As with New Yorker cartoons, there's an elusive sameness about the shirts' messages. A lot serve to I.D. the wearer as part of a certain group and then congratulate that group for its sexual dynamism--"Coon Hunters Do It All Night" and "Hairdressers Tease It Till It Stands Up" and "Save A Horse: Ride A Cowboy." Some presume a weird kind of aggressive relation between the shirt's wearer and its reader--"We'd Get Along Better...If You Were A BEER" and "Lead Me Not Into Temptation, I Know The Way MYSELF" and "What Part of NO Don't You Understand?" There's something complex and compelling about the fact that these messages are not just uttered but worn, like they're a badge or credential. The message compliments the wearer somehow, and the wearer in turn endorses the message by spreading it across his chest, which fact is then in further turn supposed to endorse the wearer as a person of plucky or risque wit. It's also meant to cast the wearer as an Individual, the sort of person who not only makes but wears a Personal Statement. What's depressing is that the T-shirts' statements are not only preprinted and mass-produced, but so dumbly unfunny that they serve to place the wearer squarely in that large and unfortunate group of people who think such messages not only Individual but funny. It all gets tremendously complex and depressing. The lady running the booth's register is dressed like a '68 Yippie but has a hard carny face and wants to know why I'm standing here memorizing T-shirts. All I can manage to tell her is that the "HORNEY" on these "2.5 BEERS"-shirts is misspelled; and now I really feel like an East-Coast snob, laying judgments and semiotic theories on these people who ask of life only a Republican in the White House and a black velvet Elvis on the wood-grain mantel of their mobile home. They're not hurting anybody. A good third of the people I went to high school with now probably wear these T-shirts, and proudly.



Testify.

promise

no one has ever deserved to win something more than this woman

promenading with lunatics

Yesterday, while emailing myself links to jobs so that I could apply for them later (or not, as it for the most part turned out,) I came across the work of Nellie Bly via a link in a New York Times book review. (Perhaps they're not so behind the, uh, times anymore?) This intrepid young journalist reported on her travels to Mexico, her 72-day trip around the world, and, most famously, her experiences inside a New York insane asylum after faking her way in. In the 1880s. At about age 24. In other words, the girl pretty much ruled.

I read all 120 pages of Ten Days in a Mad-House yesterday (mostly because it was online and I didn't realize how long it was), and I recommend it highly for those interested in how far we've come in the treatment of the mentally ill, how brutal people can be to each other and still often are, and seeing how horrified you can make yourself before redirecting your browser to pictures of fluffy bunnies. The Blackwell's Island (now Roosevelt Island) Insane Asylum housed around 1,600 women, many whose only demonstration of insanity was an inability to speak English or not enough money to afford hospital care. The lack of proper food, clothing, physical activity, and mental stimulation plus evil, evil nurses would be enough to drive any sane person to madness, though. For those who are employed and/or have better things to do than read a 120-page book right now, I'll post my favorite illustrations that go along with the story.







Stay tuned for Nellie's experience at the 1880's version of a temp agency! On which front, I can report firsthand, things haven't really changed that much.

apartment-sized

And here's one for the Sound Financial Decision Files (right up there with spending a sub-letter's security deposit and taking the last of my money, $7 in quarters, to the bodega for a six-pack): buying a fake stuffed moose head when I'm unemployed and living on oatmeal and pasta and frozen produce. But the store is going out of business, and who knows when else this opportunity is going to come along. Yeah I feel pretty good about this.

fade to flowers

Via Chris Leavins:



I think I'm in love.

another reason to love canada

Because I'm neither a misfit teen girl, crazy cat lady, or hairy gay bear, I had never heard of internet sensation and Canadian comedian Chris Leavins. Fortunately, I do read Gawker. Home alone in my pajamas on Saturday evenings. Anyway, he makes this weekly internet show called Cute With Chris in which he simultaneously mocks and celebrates the joy to be found in other people's pet pictures. It's kind of hard to figure out where to start, so here's a sample video:



I also recommend easing yourself into the cult with the Formal Cat Portrait archive, followed by the Classic Episodes thing (widget? gadget?) in the sidebar (it's called a sidebar, right?), and finally the store to buy me a t-shirt so that I can wear it in public and meet misfit teen girls, crazy cat ladies, hairy gay bears, and Saturday evening Gawker readers to develop a greater sense of community which I learned from my latest self-help book is something I value highly right now.

thank you, tyra

[photo by Elyse Sewell]

"When I want to feel sexy, I slip into a pair of fishnet stockings, a pair of tu-tone polyester lace bloomers, a tee with some seductive lace screenprinting, a mesh vest, a superfluous belt, half a can of blue eyeshadow, a lipstick mustache and two wigs. Mmm. Then I go land a husband."

Anybody else ever read Elyse Sewell's Livejournal? I think she is a freakin' genius--a cultural observer, photographer, and writer extraordinaire. After becoming second runner up on the very first season, er, cycle of America's Next Top Model, she put aside her medical school plans and went ladyposing around the world, primarily in China. Her posts appear erratically, but every one's a winner so I will check her site regularly for months without a reinforcing food pellet. My jealousy of her adventuresome modeling life is immense, but it is surpassed by my gratitude for her finding the time to share it with the reading-about-other-people-on-the-internet world. Thank you, Elyse.

[photo by Elyse Sewell]

and that is why i love ebay

When the mood is right (e.g., it's my first free Saturday in the city in three years and I walked around for hours with a dear friend despite the Wisconsin-esque cold and happened upon a great thrift/vintage store and found a blazer that fits like it was made for me and had BRUNCH!!!--I'd been saying I hated brunch but apparently it's because I was working weekends and could never have it--with Eggs Florentine and a Bloody Mary and then took a bath and a nap) I can easily spend hours looking at stuff on Ebay. Today's searches for gold buttons (for the aforementioned blazer) and then wool hats (I have a hat somewhere in the depths of my closet but figure it'd be easier to just buy a new one) led me to "3 Vintage Possibly Celluloid Amish Dolls Sleepy Eyes."

next!

I was going to write some sarcastic post about how I just got let go from my job (it was a mutual breakup, for the record) and have nothing to offer the world beyond grammar-correcting, dog breed identifying, and cheese plate assembly, but then good ol' Cary Tennis (and his loyal letter-writing followers) came along and sucked that sarcasm right out of me. And then I made myself a tuna melt.

new marketing campaign?

Coworker 1: Try this gum--it tastes like Grandma and Grandpa going out to dinner.
Coworker 2: [chews] Well it'll certainly blow all the other flavors right out of your mouth. [chews] This really does taste like fucking Grandma ... well, not FUCKING Grandma ... oh god ...

For the record, I had to eat (garlic lemon pretzels), smoke (Marlboro Light), AND drink (rye whiskey and ginger beer) after sampling this gum to get the flavor out of my mouth. Love the classic packaging though!

the four b's of a happy life

And I'm already failing at my quasi-resolution. Better late than never, right?

The Best Thing That Happened at Work on Monday
We were closed.

The Best Thing That Happened at Work on Tuesday
My slow but eventual complete recovery from the staff party on Monday that included:

Brunch
Nothing like starting your day with a couple of screwdrivers. Coffee schmoffee. And with cheddar grits, heavy-cream-heavy quiche, and maple sausage, I more than satisfied my RDA of animal protein in one sitting!

Bowling
I am kicking myself that I've lived in Brooklyn for three and a half years and just now went to Melody Lanes in Sunset Park. None of that overpriced Manhattan bowling bullshit. As soon as the onion rings came out, I got in the zone and bowled the highest score of the day. I don't think that's a coincidence, because my score trajectory is usually inversely proportional to my beer consumption, and it was my third game.

Bar
This is Bossman's time to shine, when he whips out fancy wines we're all too sloshed to appreciate and that come in bottle sizes named after Biblical kings and men of prominence like Methuselah and Melchior. (I'm pretty sure we had a Jeroboam.)

Babies
There were two along for the ride, and neither of the little champs cried once! Working a customer service job in Brownstone Brooklyn is enough to make a girl consider tubal ligation, but these two were so cute I almost think I might want one some day.

cabin fever

Except for dog walks and trips Blockbuster, Trader Joe's, and Fred Meyer (the Pacific Northwest's more upscale version of Super Walmart), I have not left my parents' house since Friday. Perhaps it's just too much time spent in their massaging recliner and consuming baked goods, but I've found the following fascinating:

1. Did you know that you can play the word "oxyphenbutazone" in Scrabble for up to 1785 points?



2. I've always been intrigued by the creative naming of portable restrooms. Do portable restroom manufacturers copyright their names and inadvertently force such whimsical variation? Or are we as a nation simply trying to mask our shame of bodily functions with as much humor as possible? I tried to find out through extensive internet research, but I came up empty (no pun intended). I did, however, find Royalrestrooms.com, "a nationwide company committed to providing high quality portable restrooms trailers and portable shower trailers ... to accommodate any outdoor restroom facility need." At my next event, whether it be "an intimate outdoor wedding, private party, building remodel, large festival, or a national event," I will settle for nothing less than the Platinum Edition Executive Restrooms, "the elite choice for events hosting the most discernable of guests."



3. The Learning Channel. In two days, I learned about Primordial Dwarfism, face-eating tumors, and a woman who has half a body (and a sex life, they'll have you know). I am looking forward to meeting Tree Man. Congratulations, TLC, on wrapping this neverending freakshow in a stories-of-human-triumph package so that we can all indulge our sick curiosity and still feel good about ourselves.

4. Yes, the song "Twelve Days of Christmas" CAN get any more annoying, courtesy of one Burl Ives:

Twelve Days Of Christmas - Bur...

I recommend listening until at least nine maids a-milking to get the full effect. Merry Christmas, everyone!

snow my god!

So here I am in Portland, Oregon, in the midst of the area's worst snow storm in decades. It's laughable compared to what I saw in Wisconsin, but heavy snow's so rare here that no one is equipped to deal with it and everything basically shuts down and it's all anyone talks about, especially my dad who has a newfound and inexplicable obsession with The Weather. So I've been sleeping, watching the entire first season of Mad Men, shoveling the driveway futilely in between snowfalls because it's the only way I can trick myself into exercising, enjoying classic Via Gina family dinners in which everyone sits at his or her spot at the table reading his or her chosen periodical in silence, and winning real-life Scrabble. Not quite the frolicking-through-the-city-and-surrounding-wilderness vacation I had in mind, but probably for the best since my imagined trip included boutique clothes shopping, gourmet food buying, restaurant dining, and bunny hill skiing, and I don't actually have any money. At all. But I probably would've done all that stuff anyway and then felt bad about it. Anyway! Here's a video of a local baby elephant's first snow experience.

tater tot casserole!

That's it. I know what I want to do with my life. After years of soul searching, paper shuffling, wine pouring, and cheese cutting, I have decided that I will settle for nothing less than emulating the career path of whatever person is responsible for creating the Name That Duggar Game. I am mostly not kidding.

videos i enjoyed on the internet yesterday in lieu of accomplishing much of anything

Well I did almost finish my Christmas shopping. Suppose I shouldn't sell myself short...

Cat hair handbags.



At least my cat's fur is black, so if I ever go full-on crazy cat lady I'm glad I'll still be stylish.

A dancing cockatoo.



Although I wonder what rock my head's been under when I'm first hearing about an internet sensation from the New York Times.

Allison "Sunny" Sattinger who makes it seem like all my little totally non-lucrative dreams might actually be possible even in this time of world economic crisis. Bless her leather-lovin' soul.



Allen Iverson. What's he talkin' about?



Oh, practice. [thanks, Dad]

super sexy beauty secrets of the girl on the go . . . REVEALED

In this day and age, time is of the essence. With board meetings, hot dates, and Facebook Scrabble, you can't afford not to be efficient. Follow these tips and tricks and you'll be looking your best from day to evening and back to day, with almost NO effort.

The Face-Washing Myth
When you wash your face in the morning, you're setting yourself back at least ten minutes. So don't do it. Whatever eyeliner and eyeshadow shimmer that didn't get washed off the night before will diffuse up your lids, giving you an instant smoky eye. And no need to curl those lashes. They'll have a natural lift from being smooshed against the pillow all night, so mascara is all you need. If that's not enough convincing, your skin will be extra glowy. Just make sure to have a little concealer on hand for any resulting blemishes.



It's All in the Shoes
Carrie Bradshaw wasn't just a squealy drama queen with completely unrealistic relationships. She knew that shoes are the most important items in your closet. According to Licensed Footwear Expert Helen Aller, "With the right shoes on, you can wear jeans and a pit-stained tee and no one will know you haven't showered in three days." A pair of sweet flats is the simplest way to make any outfit really pop. Even sweatpants.



Make It Last
A professional pedicure is the most bang-for-your-buck beauty treatment out there. Trust us, that polish is not going anywhere. Depending on your toenail size, you can expect your pedi to look decent for at least four weeks. And, if left un-acetoned, you'll have a splash of color on your big toe for up to six months. Now that's what we call an investment.

two weeks and counting!

Hold and Shine
Did you know that your very own scalp has built-in hair product? Resist buying that $30 bottle of Kerastase and let nature do its thing! Your hair will be at its peak the day after a shower--piecey, smooth, and frizz-free. Let it down and you'll be channeling MK and Ash. On Day 3, what you've gained in shine you'll have lost in volume. Now's the time to go for distraction and break out a little braid or a headband. We don't know why, but guys love that shit.



No Diet, No Exercise . . . Finally!
And the moment we've all been waiting for. Yes, there IS a way to lose weight without depriving OR exerting yourself. It's called Irritable Bowel Syndrome, or IBS, a functional bowel disorder in which you're either plugged up (IBS-C), racing to the john (IBS-D), or a mix of both (IBS-A). Nearly anyone can get it. If you're leaning towards C, ruminate over all the negative aspects of your life until you become depressed, and seal the deal with excessive cheese consumption. You'll be so bloated and sluggish you won't want to eat anything solid for a week! If D's your bag, date uncommunicative and emotionally unavailable men so that you're in a heightened state of anxiety, and have lots of coffee and cigarettes. Whatever food you put in will come straight out! Enjoy that trim new bod, ladies.

self-starter

There wasn't much to do at work this afternoon so I went down to the basement and folded t-shirts for three hours. In addition to the calming effects of repetitive activity, increased precious storage space, and the fact that it will no longer take 30 minutes to find the right size/color shirt when someone wants one, this was a fruitful endeavor because I am pretty sure I've figured out the most perfect t-shirt folding method. It minimizes wrinkling and effort, and maximizes store-ability and efficiency. You don't even need a folding surface!


I've been such a terrible folder for as long as I've been folding. Life will never be quite the same.

to the rescue

The weirdest aspect of my disorder, whatever you want to call it, is how quickly the moods come and go. (Maybe because nothing right now is that good or that bad and I'm just kinda bored in general my brain is trying to entertain itself? I don't know.) In the morning I can be ecstatic because my iPod shuffled three good songs in a row, in the afternoon sitting in the basement on a case of imported Italian sparkling water sobbing because I can't stop thinking I have nothing to live for, and then I'm normal at night, wondering how any of that just happened. Sometimes it goes away as inexplicably and suddenly as it comes on, and sometimes I need a little assistance. A few hours with a dear friend, a bottle of curious Ligurian red, half a bag of movie popcorn, a few squares of "bean-to-bar" Madagascarian chocolate, a Joe Strummer documentary, and a good night's sleep later, and it is back to our regularly scheduled programming. Hooray! For now.


Here is a recipe for the best drink in the history of the universe. And this is neither drunkenness nor the mood disorder talking.

Amber Colored and Bubbly
ingredients:
half a bottle of ginger beer (good sharp ginger beer, not Schwepps--this is important)
whiskey of some sort (I like rye. Because that's what's always on hand at work.)

Pour whiskey into ginger beer. Heaven in a glass. Or plastic 8-ounce food service container.


And here is a bad baby name in uncharted badness territory.

La-ia

Take a moment to think about how one might pronounce that.

The answer?

Ladashia.

As the birth mother said to the OBGYN, "the dash is silent." [via my friend Susie's friend's friend]

And I think now would be a good time to repost one of my favorite pre-Blog Era websites: Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing.

what did you do today?

Today was my day to be productive and apply for part-time jobs and stuff. So I went to my favorite neighborhood cafe and sat with the other laptop-having non-9-5ers to get shit done. The good news is I've found two things that I want to apply for. The bad news is I'm telling myself I will do so tomorrow. Or Friday. Might as well take advantage of my four-day work week while I have it, right? It's only been a year, afterall. Ahem, anyway. But I still consider my cafe time a success, and here is why:

1. A really good curry chicken salad sandwich--warm, crusty-but-not-so-crusty-the-sandwich-contents-squirt-out baguette, a high curry mayo to chicken ratio, walnuts for textural contrast, and lots of balsamic on the side of greens. Deeelish.

2. The boy barrista's playlist that included Fiona Apple, Alanis Morissette, and Journey.

3. This "Vintage Hungarian Sausage Commercial" courtesy of my friend Dan:



4. This live Broken Social Scene + Isaac Brock of Modest Mouse + Emily Haines video courtesy of Prefix Mag:



Emily Haines is totally my Angelina Jolie, in the I'm-so-comfortable-with-the-grey-areas-of-my-sexuality-that-I-will- say-I'd-go-gay-for-a-celebrity-I'll-never-have-a-chance-to-go-gay-with kind of way. I did meet her a few times when I worked at The Restaurant. The first time I was so nervous my face turned red and I had to stick my head in the wine fridge behind the bar but we managed to have a nice conversation about the economy and apartment hunting and she put me on the list for a Metric show, but I'm pretty sure she didn't want to sleep with me. Not so sure I'd actually want to sleep with her either though I'd love to go clothes shopping some time, just the two of us. But I digress.

5. A three-way Gchat discussion of the validity of this Craigslist personal ad. I contend, and would wager money, that it was written by a stoned male Univeristy of British Columbia sophomore. My male friend, of course, believes it to be real. Wishful thinking, dude.