Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Apparently, when Dr. Atkins died -- after slipping on ice -- he was gigantically fat (at 6 feet, he weighed a hefty 258) and had a history of congestive heart failure.
I'm uncertain whether to down some bacon or some broccoli at the news.
Also, I anxiously await retro JFK buttons.
I'm uncertain whether to down some bacon or some broccoli at the news.
Also, I anxiously await retro JFK buttons.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
There's a simply wonderful mass of news today to suit all sorts: political junkies, business watchers, science geeks. And I fear it all may force Janet's nipple back into hiding.
But her boob's influence does continue. CBS has announced it will run the Grammy's on tape delay. And that means everything's fair game, so grab those crotches, expose those breasts and swear like the sailor who slept with your mother.
Marvelous.
But her boob's influence does continue. CBS has announced it will run the Grammy's on tape delay. And that means everything's fair game, so grab those crotches, expose those breasts and swear like the sailor who slept with your mother.
Marvelous.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Everyone's talking about the Janet Jackson-Justin Timberlake controversy. Do we all really not realize that's the point?
Her boob won.
Now, if Justin was dressed in a diaper and played the baby, then maybe we should be talking.
Her boob won.
Now, if Justin was dressed in a diaper and played the baby, then maybe we should be talking.
Monday, January 19, 2004
I return with a mixed review.
I, one who typically enjoys the stereotypical clear and brown alcohols but has determined not to be bound by such de rigeur rigors, found the Hpnotiq like a day trip from the city to the shore. Refreshing. Just fresh. Even delightfully different. But not something you'd do every time you had a free afternoon.
My drinking partner, whom I had chosen for her alcohol enthusiasm and relatively loose interpretation of traditional morals, was decidedly unimpressed. "I believe it's the first alcohol I've ever had that I didn't like," she said, after giving it a fair shake both over ice and mixed with champagne (which did win the race mentioned below). Too much pineapple, she complained.
The caviar, however, went down perfectly.
I, one who typically enjoys the stereotypical clear and brown alcohols but has determined not to be bound by such de rigeur rigors, found the Hpnotiq like a day trip from the city to the shore. Refreshing. Just fresh. Even delightfully different. But not something you'd do every time you had a free afternoon.
My drinking partner, whom I had chosen for her alcohol enthusiasm and relatively loose interpretation of traditional morals, was decidedly unimpressed. "I believe it's the first alcohol I've ever had that I didn't like," she said, after giving it a fair shake both over ice and mixed with champagne (which did win the race mentioned below). Too much pineapple, she complained.
The caviar, however, went down perfectly.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
At an after-party Friday night, I quizzed the bartender (at the outside and therefore uncrowded bar) about Hpnotiq. While he was busy serving -- and I was mildly shocked this was still so popular -- Red Bull and vodka (Grey Goose, if you must know), he happily played up the wonderful effects of that trendy New York libation.
So, with my foreign bred and born absinthe dwindling to precarious levels, I thought "why not?"
So, I have before me a bottle of this mesmerisingly blue liqueur. I'm uncertain whether I'll be imbiding it over ice, with cognac (I have a fairly fruity bottle of V.S.O.P, no oak casks here) or champagne. The champagne is leading the race, however, because next to my Hpnotiq bottle is a small jar of caviar, and it is weeping to be paired with a sparkling drink.
Before I do that, however, here is a short list of decadent things you can do.
1. Finish five martinis before noon.
2. Find the richest, and possibly costly, dessert you can and make it your lunch.
3. Stand too close to a fire-breathing performer.
4. Enjoy pomegranate seeds, already seeded.
5. Opera. Almost any.
So, with my foreign bred and born absinthe dwindling to precarious levels, I thought "why not?"
So, I have before me a bottle of this mesmerisingly blue liqueur. I'm uncertain whether I'll be imbiding it over ice, with cognac (I have a fairly fruity bottle of V.S.O.P, no oak casks here) or champagne. The champagne is leading the race, however, because next to my Hpnotiq bottle is a small jar of caviar, and it is weeping to be paired with a sparkling drink.
Before I do that, however, here is a short list of decadent things you can do.
1. Finish five martinis before noon.
2. Find the richest, and possibly costly, dessert you can and make it your lunch.
3. Stand too close to a fire-breathing performer.
4. Enjoy pomegranate seeds, already seeded.
5. Opera. Almost any.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
I've been too wonderfully busy this week to get to an issue that's been simmering like a split pea soup all week. There was a decadent meal at a throw-back Continental restaurant, which began with oysters and champagne and included a gorgeous beef Wellington, there was a night at a Puccini opera (yes, the one that almost comes to mind) and a day of 45 holes of golf (we managed a final nine).
But, I'm actually content to say, there was nothing like this. (I'm embarrassed that it's from the Times.) The topic? "[O]ne of New York's sauciest underground social scenes."
Or, more precisely, sex parties. But not the '70s swinging sex parties. In these, the Times allows us, "[u]nlike the dismal, failed swinging attempt in 'Carnal Knowledge,' in which two husbands make a surreptitious deal to seduce each other's wives, the younger scene is driven largely by women."
Hurrah, I hear? I, naturally, thought so as well. Wonderful, was my reaction. But as I read further, I found a series of sad, old hegemonic plays:
"It's not just, `I'm going to go to this party with my boyfriend to have sex in front of other people,' " said Melinda Gallagher, 30, a former graduate student in human sexuality at New York University and a founder of Cake. "The philosophy is that women need their own space to explore sexuality. The women in the room direct whatever happens."
and
Ms. Gallagher of Cake said the media deals were part of the sexual revolution she wants to encourage. "You can't be subversive for your whole entire existence and make the huge social impact we want to make," she said. "You have to be in it to win it."
and, finally
Perhaps not surprisingly, not all men who attend the events find the new paradigm particularly enticing, or even necessarily new. Rob Press, 36, a computer consultant who has attended several One Leg Up parties, said that in his experience, "women are the gatekeepers anyway" in sexual matters.
"If you're going to keep making them more empowered, then I become a commodity," he said. "It just makes it fashionable to hide behind political jargon, unless they're attracting guys with an emasculation fantasy."
Rob is nearly on to the point. All this talk of sexual revolution and social impact misses the flaw of nearly every revolution: what Adorno saw as its co-opting. The power, and its problems, remains.
Note that the women in this story are not coming to a new sexuality, or even refining the one we've enjoyed since man first bashed woman on the head with a club. They simply are taking on the male role. It reminds me of those terrible power suits for women from the '80s, with their ridiculous shoulder pads (which trickle down, as fashion does, into everything). The oppressed revolt, and then set themselves up in the very form of their oppressor. Hello, Napoleon.
Civilization won't gain anywhere until someone breaks us from this cycle. Women, who have such wonderful qualities to offer, fail us all when they lower themselves to men's.
But, I'm actually content to say, there was nothing like this. (I'm embarrassed that it's from the Times.) The topic? "[O]ne of New York's sauciest underground social scenes."
Or, more precisely, sex parties. But not the '70s swinging sex parties. In these, the Times allows us, "[u]nlike the dismal, failed swinging attempt in 'Carnal Knowledge,' in which two husbands make a surreptitious deal to seduce each other's wives, the younger scene is driven largely by women."
Hurrah, I hear? I, naturally, thought so as well. Wonderful, was my reaction. But as I read further, I found a series of sad, old hegemonic plays:
"It's not just, `I'm going to go to this party with my boyfriend to have sex in front of other people,' " said Melinda Gallagher, 30, a former graduate student in human sexuality at New York University and a founder of Cake. "The philosophy is that women need their own space to explore sexuality. The women in the room direct whatever happens."
and
Ms. Gallagher of Cake said the media deals were part of the sexual revolution she wants to encourage. "You can't be subversive for your whole entire existence and make the huge social impact we want to make," she said. "You have to be in it to win it."
and, finally
Perhaps not surprisingly, not all men who attend the events find the new paradigm particularly enticing, or even necessarily new. Rob Press, 36, a computer consultant who has attended several One Leg Up parties, said that in his experience, "women are the gatekeepers anyway" in sexual matters.
"If you're going to keep making them more empowered, then I become a commodity," he said. "It just makes it fashionable to hide behind political jargon, unless they're attracting guys with an emasculation fantasy."
Rob is nearly on to the point. All this talk of sexual revolution and social impact misses the flaw of nearly every revolution: what Adorno saw as its co-opting. The power, and its problems, remains.
Note that the women in this story are not coming to a new sexuality, or even refining the one we've enjoyed since man first bashed woman on the head with a club. They simply are taking on the male role. It reminds me of those terrible power suits for women from the '80s, with their ridiculous shoulder pads (which trickle down, as fashion does, into everything). The oppressed revolt, and then set themselves up in the very form of their oppressor. Hello, Napoleon.
Civilization won't gain anywhere until someone breaks us from this cycle. Women, who have such wonderful qualities to offer, fail us all when they lower themselves to men's.
Friday, January 09, 2004
Now that the champagne cocktails have worn off, I feel I simply must revise the Proustian (length-wise, anyway... ) entry below.
I've given far too much space to the National Review. Clearly, the National Review should only be consumed after a headful of drinks.
And, I am abashed to admit, I flawed my argument adroitly. We should establish a slave-level class in America, with controls on beatings and other ill treatment, but otherwise exactly as the Romans did it. We will then have all the grave-diggers Marx could imagine.
I've given far too much space to the National Review. Clearly, the National Review should only be consumed after a headful of drinks.
And, I am abashed to admit, I flawed my argument adroitly. We should establish a slave-level class in America, with controls on beatings and other ill treatment, but otherwise exactly as the Romans did it. We will then have all the grave-diggers Marx could imagine.
