Window Pains

For me (and I suspect for most of my generation), it started with Clarissa and Sam. Clarissa in her patterned shortalls, half-ponytail and mismatched socks. And Sam, Clarissa's unkempt, ableit consistent, sidekick. They did it every episode. She, deliberately half cross-legged on her twin bed and he, hoisting, climbing, his combat boots sullying the pale pink pillows that adorned her windowseat. It was like clockwork, the strum of an electric guitar announcing his acscent. I am, of course, talking about the bedroom window entrance. And as I made the transition from elementary to middle school, it was all I wanted.

I wrote about it in my diary, I talked with all my best friends about it. A Sam of my very own, making the climb up the side of my house and into my bedroom window would've been the answer to most of my prayers. After all, I had freckles like Clarissa, and prided myself on being able to truly explain it all.

And then it happened. Dawson's Creek. Having just finished 8th grade, I was ripe for it.  Joey Potter and Dawson Leery transformed what sneaking through a bedroom window meant. Formerly just an unorthodox (but coolest-ever) way of dropping in, it began to take on a realer show of emotion and dedication, an indication of true love. As a high school freshman, an in-depth study and subsequent performance of "Romeo and Juliet" only added fuel to the fire. The balcony scene, amidst the Capulet orchard. Ah, my heart swells. Most of my love was unrequieted, too! Oh, to have my own Romeo (any Romeo, to be honest, after all, I was a roundish youth) to profess such intense devotion for. If only!

I watched as Jenny, bruised and beaten, escaping the storms without her and within, found solace in Forrest's bed. I realized I could do the climbing, too, if I had to. I guess.  True love knows no bounds, after all.

I know what you're thinking. About the endings. And you're right. Clarissa grew up weird, and Sam probably had dread locks in community college. Romeo and Juliet, well, we all know how that goes. Claire Danes' cry-face still haunts me to this day. For that matter, so does Dawson Leery's. Plus, if I'm being honest, Forrest wasn't even that cute. And can you even imagine a life with all that running? Most of my New Year's Eves have been like the one with Lieutenant Dan was, I'm not trying to continue that tradition. I'm getting too old for hookers anyway.

In the end, I never got what I wanted, of course. I've yet to have the chance to wait at my window and look longingly, waiting for my own personal Sam or Romeo or Jenny or Joey below my window. And like most desires that remain unrealized, it's probably for the best. Not to say that I haven't spent any time practicing. I've had my wistful gaze perfected for years. You know, just in case.

Full Frontal Feminism

This hot, stale, non-breeze against my skin can only mean one thing: the season of the summer blockbuster is upon us. I know I haven’t done a movie review yet, per se, but if we’re being honest, the field is sorely lacking. Gene Siskel’s been dead forever, The Critic’s been off the air for years and Roger Ebert’s only got half of a goddamn face left. Message received, Jesus, message received.

It probably comes as no surprise to you that the only movie I’ve even kind of been sober enough to see once (three times) this summer is “Magic Mike” and as such, I think it’s time for a full-frontal review. Like the rest of you, I purchased tickets well in advance for the midnight premiere of the much-anticipated (at least in my ladycave) movie and like the rest of you, I won’t hesitate to say that I left nearly satisfied. That night I purchased the soundtrack and loaded Ginuwine’s “Pony” onto my iPhone and have yet to regret any of it.

I loved the movie, and not just because Channing Tatum could dance on my stepfather’s dead corpse and I wouldn’t mind. I won’t waste anyone’s time with a plot review (it was so gripping, by the way) or complaints that there weren’t enough junk shots (even though there weren’t). If we’re being honest, I didn’t go to “Magic Mike” for any of the above; I went because I’m a feminist. And you should go for the same reason (and also, the man dancing and flat-brimmed hats).

Before everyone goes bananas, allow me to delve deeper. I am, in no way, drawing a comparison between Steven Soderburgh and Eve Ensler nor do I consider Channing Tatum to be a slightly less masculine Jane Fonda. But I am all about equality. Women may not earn as much as their male counterparts; we may not be deemed intelligent enough to control our own reproductive destinies; and we certainly aren’t doing ourselves any favors keeping the Kartrashians on the air, but goddamnit, we finally have “Striptease” but with better looking and more age-appropriate dudes. And it’s about time.

Speaking of men, the dudes that aren’t in “Magic Mike” that is, their reactions varied a bit – and all left me more satisfied than most of them ever have. I mean, let us have a turn, guys. But, really. Please? My favorite guy-response to a tweet or drawn-out conversation or forced showing of “Magic Mike” was some homeboy assuming his hot and bothered lady would be more than ready to release her pent-up sexual desire for Channing Tatum as soon as she got home. Player, please. There’s an epidemic of pretty (and even normal-looking) bitches settling for what-the-fuck ever in this country and if your girlfriend saw the same “Magic Mike” that I did, she’ll do herself a favor and put a bag over your head while she’s thinking of Matthew McConaughey.

I know that might come off a bit harsh, but shut up, men. I know I’ve personally had to sit through “Basic Instinct” and that one movie with Jessie from “Saved By The Bell” and that was just with my Dad. I didn’t say one thing until I could safely record it into my boom box, Felicity-style. I just think ladies deserve a good time, even though “Magic Mike” isn’t getting us any closer to breaking the glass ceiling.

I mean. I never said I was Siskel or Ebert, did I? And votes for women! (and “Magic Mike”, too) 

GOP Money Millionaire$: Part Two.

Before we continue, did y'all note which ultra-celeb endorsed a GOP candidate the other day? That's right. Snoop D-o-double-g put his weight behind Ron Paul. Melding the republican and hip-hop worlds ... just like I'd done hours before. I hate calling Mr. Broadus a poser, but, if the shoe fits, the lace the fuck up Snoop Doggy Dogg. Do I think the endorsement is worth rolling a J to celebrate? Absolutely not. Everyone knows stoners don't vote. But I appreciate Snoooooop for trying to rock my vote.

Let's get back to gangsta rappers and the sweeping generalizations we love about them.
 
Hoe-ing.

Do you all remember back in middle school, that story you heard about Lil' Kim? The rumor that she had to have her stomach pumped because she ingested man juice from all of Junior M.A.F.I.A. and their entourage(s) (which I bet includes Puff Daddy). Don't even pretend you didn't hear that shit. I remember exactly what I was doing when my friend shared that ... Diddy (get it?) with ya girl. Needless to say, I did not do very well on my Counties of North Carolina pop quiz. It's also unnecessary to note that the (hopefully) tall tale scared the fuck out of me - to the dismay of anyone I've ever had a one-hour stand with (succkkkas).

Her Republican counterpart? Well, counterparts, I should say? Michele Bachmann, obviously! I know I wasn't the only one to take pointers on Michele's corndogging skillz (which I would wager have paid more than the billz at one point or another). And yes, I know how nauseating that last sentence is - I did have to type it, after all. I'm not saying I heard any man juice stories about Bachmann (Michele, not her husband) before Drop-Everything-And-Read time during my last year of middle school, I'm just saying a picture is worth a kazillion words. Plus, there's no way Michele is smart enough to break though any kind of glass ceiling, she got that representative job somehow - I'm just saying.

Yuck. Let's hope 2012 brings Lil' Kim back and puts Michele at home with a tube down her throat, eh? Oh gosh! I don't mean any malice! She wouldn't even gag!