hello dolly
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
One more time, so I don't get sued, this column is re-printed here thanks to permission from MSN (who owns all this stuff now).exploring the disturbing question: "what does it mean when your entire life is summed up by a dolly parton vehicle?"
by evany thomasLast Sunday I had the rare pleasure of lazing through one of those fabulous nothing days, an all-pj-all-the-time, roll-out-of-bed-at-the-crack-of-noon, ice-cream-from-the-carton, don't-know-if-it's-raining-or-scorching-outside, let-the-dishes-soak, voice-mail'll-pick-it-up, shirk-every-duty kind of day where nothing is too bad to watch on tv.
My comforter/couch day grand finaled with my rapt beginning-to-end watching of "Straight Talk," starring Dolly Parton (who, of all people, is becoming a re-occuring theme in my life) and James Woods. Even if I tried really hard I don't think I could have found something more pleasantly mindless to watch.
"Straight Talk" follows the ups and downs of unemployed, unlucky-in-love dance instructor Dolly as she makes a fresh-start move to the big city (insert "circling job ops in classifieds using red nail polish" sequence here). Finally, Dolly sweet-talks her way into a receptionist job at a radio station (insert painful yet plucky "cutting callers off" sequence here), and, on her very first coffee break she wanders into the studio at the very moment a mysteriously absentee famous psychiatrist is expected to launch a call-in advice show. A la "Three's Company," Dolly finds herself thrust in front of the mic, ON THE AIR sigh a'flashing. Of course she gives it her very best hard-working farm girl, Little Engine that Could treatment...and, whataya know? She's fabulous! Listeners just LOVE her down-home advice ("Honey! Get down off the cross 'cause someone needs the wood!") and all seems well. But no! Since a Sleazy Marketing Guy convinces her to maintain the illusion that she is a Doctor in the "can dispense medicine" sense, Dolly's is a fraud, Dolly is LIVING A LIE. Work-a-holic reporter James Woods sets out to uncover her scam, but falls in love instead (insert happy ending here).
The scary thing (even scarier than me writing a detailed synopsis of "Straight Talk") was that as I grimaced through the onslaught of big-boob jokes and Dolly soundtrack (not only can she act...!), I began to feel myself actually relating to this "drama." Dolly was no doctor, yet here she was, doling out advice simply because she was willing, chatty, and world-savvy. And I have lucked into a advice dispensing job as DOCTOR Net, while lacking the proper MD or PhD credentials. As far as online savviness goes, I'm just like Dolly: nothing more than an opinionated gal who's been around the block a couple of times and just can't shut up about it -- there're plenty of techno junkies out there who're endowed with more experience and knowledge than I'll ever have.
My fluffy, thought-free day suddenly turned to scorching introspection. Was my life a sham? Was someone going to blow the whistle on me? Should I step aside and let someone who was really qualified take over?
Half way through a comfort pint of Ben & Jerry's Holy Cannoli, a life-saving floatation device/seat cushion of a thought bobbed into my mind. There WAS a difference between Dolly and me: we operate in different mediums. And, according to McLuhan, that can make all the difference.
Unlike established mediums such as television, newspapers, film, or radio, the Internet is still in its infancy, which means, for the time being at least, it's an even playing ground where anyone can succeed. Twas the same in the beginning of all the biggie mediums: people could still make a name for themselves based on little more than luck and chutzpah. (Se habla Orson Welles?) The Internet IS beginning to slowly move in the direction of the "hard to break into" mega-mediums, but for now it's still possible to make a name for yourself sans money, education or experience.
Maybe I don't know the answer to every single mondo-technical question or scary medical inquiry or intricate romance issue, but the fun part of my job is finding the answer. I have no problem whatsoever dipping into my knowledgeable pool of programmer, graphic artist, 'puter geek, and generally omniscient friends to get an answer. "Hi, yeah, what's the 'T' stand for in James T. Kirk? ... okay-great-thanks-bye!" And if my friends fail me, then (let me tell you a little secret) it's all out there on the Internet.
With deep, dark, who-the-hell-am-I depression averted, I turned back to the magic box to catch the tail end of "Brewster's Millions."
cruising for a boozing
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
ometimes you just want to go and get a drink with some friends. And on such nights, you have certain needs. Some people demand a well-mixed drink. Others will only grace a bar stool at an establishment with the proper beer selection. And then there are those who can't live without the distraction of a pool table, pinball machine, jukebox, darts, or even TV. But above all, you need a place to sit and talk, preferably one that's quiet enough to be heard, but not so quiet as to be overheard. Thus music can only be of the background variety. Which means no DJs. And no bands.
Don't misunderstand. I heart bands. It's the *unexpected* band that I hate. If I want to rock, I make sure I'm front and center for Twisted Sister. But when I'm looking to simply get a drink, I don't want to pay a $10 cover, shout my drink orders to a craning bartender, elbow my way through toilet-paper-eared crowds (who don't see me coming because their sunflower faces are all turned toward the band), only to stand in some remote corner near the bathroom for a nodding-only conversation with my friends -- if a drink's going to set me back $14, I might as well be enjoying the soothing pitter patter of a Tonga rainstorm.
A bar can be coverless, bandless, and reasonably quiet, but to be glass-slipper perfect, it also mustn't be too crowded.
Go to a standing-room only bar, and your evening takes on a 12-kegger quality: as you stand around with drink in hand, you feel like you're waiting for someone to tap the keg. If you're lucky, one of your group will manage to score a bar stool. There the lone percher will sit, balanced atop a slippery slope of everyone's coats while the rest of you arrange yourselves in these strange hacky-sack-esque circles. I always feel like I'm at an eighth grade dance, working up the nerve to jump in the middle and pop-lock.
The thing is, no matter how crowded a bar, loud the band, shitty the drinks, you can never just leave because you're always obligated to stay until so-and-so meets you there after her Afro-Brazilian dance class lets out, or thingamhim's Airporter shift ends.
As it stands, people looking to meet friends for a nice, quiet drink must employ an elaborate flow-chart system. If the Latin is ridiculously crowded, everyone will move down to the Make Out Room, and if that's sardine-ish and/or there's a band, mosey over to Doc's Clock. If that's packed or too smoky, on to McCarthy's (which, before its cool-patrol invasion, used to always guarantee a seat at the bar - if you could stand the 7-11 lighting). And then there's always Sacrifice. While a bit off the beaten, and really purple, it always has a table. But variety keeps things spicy, and after a few nights at the Sac, it's easy to be talked into another night of trickle-down libation migration.
Why rely on this tiresome if-then system? Why keep track of the whimsical live music schedules at all the bars in the neighborhood? Why find out too late that your watering hole's been discovered?
In LA there's this service which provides avid surfers with special beepers that go off whenever waves are at their optimal surfability. So you're at work, at the colonic therapist, whatever, and the Surf Alert goes off -- and in as long as it takes to fire up the bus and get your good vibrations to the water, you're hanging ten.
San Francisco needs a similar setup. Not for surfing (surely LA is the only place where surfing floats as an excuse to exit stage right, even). No, SF needs such an alert system for its bars. Specifically, the bars in the Mission.
Enter The Barper (TM pending), the beeper that keeps its finger on the bar scene pulse so you don't have to. With The Barper clipped to your Slates, there's no need to trial-and-error your way from bar to bar - a soothing chime lets you know when the crowd-to-chair ratio at your favorite bar(s) is just the way you like it. Tailor it to match the unique prejudices of your social circle(s), so you receive an alert about only the bars you prefer (Uptown yes, Beauty Bar no). Let your friends know if you're not going to make it ("Ate funny shawerma, going home."), or inform stragglers that you've been forced to move on to a greener bar. On nights when you actually do want the crowds, set the system to a higher tolerance level, so when your Euro relatives are in town, you know exactly where to take them for a glimpse at a quintessentially American frat-party-crowded bar (read Skylark on a Saturday).
The only problem: like the perfect set of waves, many bars are only just-right for short windows of time. And as The Barper takes off, as it most surely will, that window will shrink as crowds are drawn with great efficiency to the nice, quiet bars. And soon what was once a tool of justice will become an instrument of evil, ruining everything for everyone.
With such an inevitability lined up for San Francisco's not so distant future, you may just want to stock up the fridge, freezer, and liquor cabinet, and just hole up with your friends at home. The music's only as loud as you want it to be, the drinks taste just the way you like them, and there's no last call.
everyone's best friend
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
was watching this show re: dogs (which brings to mind the finite proportions of my micro-life), and they were doing this in-depth thing about the important roll the canine (unit) has played throughout history and different cultures. The show attributed this love of the dog to the fact that man's best friend plays the role of "social lubricant," meaning that people tend to approach, interact and exchange phone numbers with dog owners. Social lubricant. They actually called it that. That phrase has now been coined. The dog show suddenly took on this freaky sinister beastiality air and I had to stop watching.Confronted with post-television silence, I started "free-stylin'" on the whole idea of social lubricant. I have long been of the opinion that major disasters are a form of social lubricant. After "living" though both the 'frisky quake of '89 and the LA biggie, I can now scientifically state that the BARS ARE FULL after plate techtonics take a city for a spin. Anything over a 6.0 sends the singles scene into a frenzy. I'm sure that one reason for this baby-mouse-like clumping is that mostly people just don't want to be alone for yet another aftershock. When you are blasted awake at 4:30 in the morning by being thrown violently from your bed and onto the floor, you start thinking that maybe dying alone isn't so cute. (Of course, I'm not exactly sure what instinct has to say about dying with a bunch of drunks in a crowded bar.) But I think the real reason everyone feels so social after a collective near death experience is that they finally have a sure-fire topic of conversation. "Where were YOU?...No way, really?...So, can I buy you a beer?" The beauty of the topic is that it leads to so many more: death, history, fate, epic disaster movies.
Of course none of it made a dent in my single status since confronting my own mortality just made me feel sinister and bitter.
love,
evany
so fuzzy!*
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
My site was inexplicably reviewed in the now-defunct The Net magazine in '97, and not too favorably: "Some chick (woman? girl? she's out of high school but still thinking about it, so it's hard to say) named Evany posts recaps here of thoughts she had while cruising down the I-5 rocking out to Marvin Gaye's "Grapevine," eating bean with bacon soup and drinking iced red wine (shouldn't that be illegal?), and flossing her teeth, like so: "[and then a huge hunk of THIS page is quoted, which for some reason, really made me blush]" These chatty, slangy meanderings can be charming, occasionally even funny, but a little goes a long way." sit here flossing, something that I do maybe once a month. Unless there's bleeding and tenderness (ohohohOH) and citrus sting, I can't get that cathartic, goodgirl feeling. Don't get me wrong...I'm not catholic or anything. It's just that if your mouth feels the exact same way after the floss as it does before, then it just doesn't seem worth doing. Same goes for all chores de me. Why mop the floor if it's not visibly dirty?--if it's not filthy something fierce, your first pine-scented push of the be-sticked sponge just doesn't yield that shocking commercial-clean streak that shines, like jesus, thru the dinge (WHAT A SENTENCE!) Why use a stridex pad unless it's going to produce that signature, in the shape of the girl-scout salute, dirt mark? My cleaning habits tend to be more cyclic than constant. A weekend's worth of manic cleaning (the grout BEHIND the toilet looks like farmer's lung! Maximum grody!) is the yin to the yang of the three weeks worth of fermenting fridge ginger, the dirty/clean/whatever clothes serving as bonus bedding, the empty(thankyou) pizza box sitting atop the TEE-v.
Of course, when I GO to the dentist, it's "oh, not as much as I should, I'm afraid, hoHO, only once or twice a WEEK." I always lie to my dentist. The goal of my semi-annual (ha) checkups is winning. Nothing to do with the health of my teeth and everything to do with getting my dentist to BELIEVE. Convincing him/er that I floss regularly is just as good, m/dentally speaking, as the act itself. Just like during Presidential Fitness testing: if you couldn't do pull-ups, you could do the hang (in there, baby). I remember this friend of mine opted for the 30-second quiver, and when she finally let go, she blew about four pounds of snot outta her nose, bless her. I loved how you'd go all year in PE without doing any physical activity (squat thrusts?) and then they'd spring this Presidential Fitness thing on you. First of all, what does that mean? Were our side-stepping abilities being rated against those of other countries? Canada, say? Norway? Was this like instead of the cold war? In addition to? Anyhoo, I remember my poor, unprepared, pudgy body launching into a puke session after being made to do the 6-minute run in seventh grade (PE being directly after lunch, lunch being Der Wienerschnitzel). Which, of course, was mighty cool. Coulda been worse though. I could've been the guy who farted during the PSATs.
* I was flipping channels really fast, catching nothing but a word here and there, and it was creating the sort of haiku-y spoken word stuff that I sometimes catch myself almost believing could be meaningful -- "dead" "free-range" "invasion" "orca" "boycott" "disneyworld" -- and hit PBS., where I paused just long enough to see this slow-mo footage of a dandy-lion being blown apart by the wind, with Mr. Roger's voice-overing these two words: "So Fuzzy," only he said them reeealllly sllloooowwly, like he was double-dipping into the meds. "Ssooooo FUUUUUUzeeee." I turned off the TV right after that, knowing that nothing I could find would be better than that.
For some reason (perhaps because it's 1:44 in the ayyy emm and I'm free-associating on nothing but coffee fumes), this all brings to mind a very recent trip to Sammy's Pet World, which is this great place near where I live that has lizards, snakes, spiders, fish, birds, chinchillas, and all sorts of excessive pet accessories. Hamster village. Rhine-stone-studded muzzle. Dried pig ears. It's right next to Peet's coffee, so I like to get a coffee and then cruise over to check out the freaky animals while I enjoy my steaming cuppa joe. Anyways, I was there just as they opened, and was immediately sucked in by the birds who were all really loud and fussy and busy in that newly-awoken bird sort of way. As I was smiling at this one conure, hanging up-side-down from the roof of the cage, swinging and screaming, I heard this muttering from below. I squatted down to see a big red bird in an unlabeled cage, closing its eyes and swaying a bit like it was just heading off to sleep, still muttering. I leaned in closer and finally caught what he (she? it?) was saying: [dreamily, in that stoned old-lady bird voice] "I can FLYYYYYY. Yesssss."
I go to work.
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
et's talk about how fucking unmotivated I am. I don't write enough. That much is obvious. Painfully. And that's something I LIKE to do. You can just forGET things I hate doing. I'll be lying in bed, a mere 8 steps to the bano, dying to pee, and won't do it. I'll hold it 'til morning doing, as my mother insists, major damage to my innards. Don't even visualize the gym or exercise of any kind. I used to go swimming regularly (like once a month or something), but I'm really slow, and there'd always be this speed demon with a really petite suit and mean flip-turns that'd be proctologizing me, brushing my childbearingly thick ankles with his fingers, until I pulled over and let him past, at which point I'd be out of sorts and off my oats, all out of whack, and WINDED. So of course I stopped doing THAT. I also put off banking, getting gas, brushing my teeth (I've been getting all of these threatening "time to make an appointment" letters from my new frisco dentist who has found FOUR ohmygod CAVITIES that need to be filled, one in each corner of my mouth, cavities that my Hell A (it's really cool, here in frisco, to call Los Angeles "hell a" and that's why I do it) dentist, named Dr. Prince (really), had never noticed. Obviously, Dr. Prince is WAY better a dentist.), filling the ice-cube tray, changing a tampon, returning movies, answering email, and laundry. I put it all off until, more than often, it's a shade too late. Which certainly spices up a white suburban staid life such as mine.
I always remember to eat, however. I heart eating! Eating for pres!
I've started to wish I was an insomniac, since all of my cute and successful friends have trouble sleeping. They're always full of vim and vinegar, ready to really get at 'em. They get all sorts of shit done. I can't even water my garden, which I'm actually really excited about (mi vida small!) My friend from third grade, China 
(who sent me this CRAZY bouquet for my birthday, which, thank you very much, was last wednesday. Receiving a monster bunch of flowers was something that, up until that very special day, I've never had the pleasure experiencing. I never wanted it to end...I kept the guy who delivered it at my door as long as I could, do I change the water? how often? what's THIS so-cute flower? hoping that someone would see us, like maybe my cool-patrol neighbors who think, I'm not sure why, I'm religious...maybe 'cause I once told one of them that I would pray for him. It was huge, bigger than any of the arrangements the pretty girls in college would get on V-day. It was ginormous, all these white roses and peonies exploding everywhere, like a bridal bouquet, something which I'm sure I'll never see the likes of), who's a SUCCESSFUL ARTIST (really...people buy her stuff, which is REALLY CUTE), sleeps like only four hours a day.
I'm off to get animal crackers (not a metaphor).