Earlier this evening, as I was doing my daily 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer and watching a rerun of Degrassi: The Next Generation (don't hate, you know you're also wondering when Spinner and Holly J are gonna hook up), I spied a commercial that worried me.
This should come as no surprise to anyone, since commercials (and television in general) tend to be frankly terrifying: we have the Bump-It hair-styling device for women wishing to capture the lost days when the Beehive hairdo was considered attractive, we have the Sham-Wow for men who think that headsets are necessary in advertising, and we have Oxy-Clean, for men and women who are addicted to methamphetamines and like stuff to be really clean (too soon?). Now we also have the Big Top cupcake, for kids who just can't get enough cupcakes.
According to this ad, traditional cupcake-sized cupcakes don't cut it anymore. Kids find them disappointing. Moms find them embarrassing. Neighbors find them insulting. But with the Big Top cupcake, you can be the envy of the universe by showing up at parties with THE WORLD'S BIGGEST CUPCAKE. I mean, this thing is the size of a well-developed child's HEAD, and I can prove this by directing you to the commercial itself, in which the Big Top cupcake is shown next to an actual well-developed child's head. I am not clear as to whether or not the Big Top cupcake qualifies as a cupcake or as a cake. It's my belief that the defining characteristic of a cupcake is its smaller size in comparison to actual cakes, but I, as we all know, am no culinary expert.
This commercial also explores a broad range of juvenile acting capacity. In one scene, the young lady on stage right is ecstatic at the sight of her Big Top cupcake, while the young man on stage left seems to be vaguely embarrassed and wondering how on Earth his mother coerced him into doing this lame shit when he could be at home playing Wii Bowling.
The bottom line is, I cannot help be frustrated by Americans' fixation on size, junk food, exploiting children, and promoting childhood obesity, all of which are embodied in the Big Top cupcake. Don't get me wrong, I love cupcakes just as much as the next person. But is there any reason why a cupcake has to be so HUGE? Can't you just invest in a cake if you want that much cake-ish, frosting-y goodness? What the hell kind of lame-ass gimmick is this?
When the upcoming generation of kids becomes so fat that they have to be rolled out of their beds, encased in circus tents instead of clothing, and elevated out of the house via crane in order to get to school, I'll know who to blame. Damn you, Big Top cupcakes! Damn you, societal pressures to compete with the Joneses! Damn you, size-does-matter-propaganda! Damn you, Billy Mays! (Wait, what?)
Monday, November 2, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
It takes under 200 pages to explain why women are crazy.
I recently had the dubious pleasure of reading Dr. Louann Brizendine's The Female Brain. This is a delightful guide to the insanities of women. Not only does Dr. Brizendine cogently reinforce every stereotype associated with women (Their periods make them crazy! Being pregnant makes them crazy! They hate sex!), she does so using neuroscience. And we, as laypeople, cannot possibly argue with neuroscience.
I think what really gets on my nerves is the way that some M.D.'s like to write books about medical stuff that supposedly interests the general public. If Albert Accountant reads this great book about brains, he can take his newfangled knowledge of the brain to parties and become a certified expert on brains, because he read a book all about brains and it was written by a doctor. So even though he's an accountant, Albert Accountant can now diagnose you with advanced multiple sclerosis, your husband/wife with epilepsy, and your hairdresser with a pituitary adenoma.
As if pandering to the layman's latent desire to boast medical expertise wasn't bad enough, Brizendine is guilty of the shameful crime that is anthropomorphizing hormones and other, non-human biological entities. Few things disgust me more than the patronizing use of human qualities to characterize molecules. Describing oxytocin as the "loving mother" of the female brain is insulting and slightly evil. I mean, if I see some hippie chick wandering around with a t-shirt that says, "I am Dopamine, loving mother", I'll know it's time for some M.D.'s to fucking get their shit together already.
But all that aside, the worst thing about this book is the fact that it over-generalizes women as neurotic, hypersensitive worry-warts who love to gab with their girlfriends and indiscriminately hate men. Regardless of whether or not this is true (and it may be true of most women), it's the same kind of militant feminist bullshit that reinforces the many negative stereotypes about women. Yes, there is stuff in our brains that makes us crazy sometimes. But you can't try to use science to make ridiculous over-generalizations. If there's one thing that I've learned in completing my degree in Neurobiology (and I sure as hell hope I've learned more than one thing), it's that neuroscience has nuances. Blanket statements don't work in this field. Yet Dr. Brizendine seems to take pleasure in merrily obliterating any nuances associated with the study of gender-specific brain functions.
The thought of millions of people reading this book and patting themselves on the back for having finally gained an understanding of the intricacies of the crazy that is Woman frankly terrifies me. It terrifies me the same way that WebMD terrifies me: by reiterating my belief that the masses will believe anything as long as it's presented by somebody with an "M.D." after his or her name. I feel certain that, if an M.D. were to post an article on WebMD about how killing people and eating their brains boosts antioxidants, the zombie apocalypse would be initiated within 4-6 hours.
I will conclude by saying that my general animosity towards women is no secret. Yet I don't think that being a woman automatically makes a person crazy. I think that being a Republican automatically makes a person crazy.
I think what really gets on my nerves is the way that some M.D.'s like to write books about medical stuff that supposedly interests the general public. If Albert Accountant reads this great book about brains, he can take his newfangled knowledge of the brain to parties and become a certified expert on brains, because he read a book all about brains and it was written by a doctor. So even though he's an accountant, Albert Accountant can now diagnose you with advanced multiple sclerosis, your husband/wife with epilepsy, and your hairdresser with a pituitary adenoma.
As if pandering to the layman's latent desire to boast medical expertise wasn't bad enough, Brizendine is guilty of the shameful crime that is anthropomorphizing hormones and other, non-human biological entities. Few things disgust me more than the patronizing use of human qualities to characterize molecules. Describing oxytocin as the "loving mother" of the female brain is insulting and slightly evil. I mean, if I see some hippie chick wandering around with a t-shirt that says, "I am Dopamine, loving mother", I'll know it's time for some M.D.'s to fucking get their shit together already.
But all that aside, the worst thing about this book is the fact that it over-generalizes women as neurotic, hypersensitive worry-warts who love to gab with their girlfriends and indiscriminately hate men. Regardless of whether or not this is true (and it may be true of most women), it's the same kind of militant feminist bullshit that reinforces the many negative stereotypes about women. Yes, there is stuff in our brains that makes us crazy sometimes. But you can't try to use science to make ridiculous over-generalizations. If there's one thing that I've learned in completing my degree in Neurobiology (and I sure as hell hope I've learned more than one thing), it's that neuroscience has nuances. Blanket statements don't work in this field. Yet Dr. Brizendine seems to take pleasure in merrily obliterating any nuances associated with the study of gender-specific brain functions.
The thought of millions of people reading this book and patting themselves on the back for having finally gained an understanding of the intricacies of the crazy that is Woman frankly terrifies me. It terrifies me the same way that WebMD terrifies me: by reiterating my belief that the masses will believe anything as long as it's presented by somebody with an "M.D." after his or her name. I feel certain that, if an M.D. were to post an article on WebMD about how killing people and eating their brains boosts antioxidants, the zombie apocalypse would be initiated within 4-6 hours.
I will conclude by saying that my general animosity towards women is no secret. Yet I don't think that being a woman automatically makes a person crazy. I think that being a Republican automatically makes a person crazy.
Monday, June 1, 2009
A rare salute to assholes
I think we can all agree that there are people who go virtually unappreciated in any society. Firefighters, teachers, and the people who assist in hemorrhoidectomies are undoubtedly among those who don't always receive the right amount of claps on the back. But I'd like to mention one particular category of people that almost never scores any kind of acclaim: assholes.
First, let me define the term. The word itself is misleading, since it seems to describe an anatomical component. However, the anatomical component that is incorrectly associated with the term "asshole" is actually the anus. See? Aren't you glad you're reading my blog? You just learned something. Anyway, when I say "asshole" in this illuminating publication, I mean "individual who engages in impolite, inconsiderate, and often arrogant behavior". So why, you ask, does such an individual deserve recognition?
The answer is simple: asshole-ish behavior is extraordinary at best, and horrifying at worst. Allow me to list some examples for your benefit.
Exhibit A: The oblivious and passive/aggressive driver
This is the person who, while merging onto the freeway, cuts you off without signalling. As if that wasn't infuriating enough, this person also proceeds to apply the brakes, forcing you to come to practically a screeching halt, then ride the brakes all the way down the freeway while traffic zooms past you on the left, leaving no opening whatsoever for you to accelerate and pass. Such behavior is both passive/aggressive and outrageously oblivious to your rapidly escalating blood pressure. Verdict: ASSHOLE.
Exhibit B: That Guy
Those of you who are currently in college (or have recently graduated) are uncomfortably familiar with That Guy. He is the guy at all the parties who wears the same dumb-ass t-shirt and the same dumb-ass hat (said hat is often sideways). He frequently blacks out and/or vomits and/or instigates physical altercations. He also has a tendency to use idiotic pick-up lines (I apologize for the redundancy of that phrase: "idiotic" and "pick-up lines" are actually synonymous). If you're reading this in guilty silence, gentlemen, fear not: if you are a male and have passed through the average American college and have partaken of alcoholic substances at a party, chances are that you have at some point been That Guy. Just try to convincingly deny it when someone points you out as That Guy creeping in the back of a photo with a group of wasted chicks, trying to grab a chick's ass. Verdict: ASSHOLE.
Exhibit C: The scene-maker
Please don't succumb to the delusion that all assholes are male. In fact, there is one particular specimen of asshole that is frequently, if not often, female. This specimen is known as the scene-maker. Now, obviously, there are situations in which it is appropriate to stand up for oneself. Genocide, for example, warrants making a scene for the upholding of justice. But one must exercise caution to avoid being a scene-maker of the asshole variety. This is the person who, upon ordering a venti, half-caf, no whip, soy latte with sugar-free vanilla, demands that the sugar-free vanilla be added slowly in a counter-clockwise motion exactly four seconds after the addition of the second shot of espresso. The person then hovers over the poor, flustered barista, determined to catch the barista in the midst of a blunder. When the drink has been presented to the asshole, who snatches the drink and inspects in suspiciously, the drink is of course all wrong and the asshole demands that the drink be re-made at no extra charge. Meanwhile, the line is backing out the door and all the innocent, non-assholes in line are standing by and getting later by the minute. Verdict: ASSHOLE.
So, as you can see, the average asshole is worthy of recognition merely as a sign of how low humanity is sinking, despite our increasingly impressive innovations and rapidly expanding knowledge. Please, as a favor to humanity, try to avoid assholeishness. My Starbucks addiction depends on it.
First, let me define the term. The word itself is misleading, since it seems to describe an anatomical component. However, the anatomical component that is incorrectly associated with the term "asshole" is actually the anus. See? Aren't you glad you're reading my blog? You just learned something. Anyway, when I say "asshole" in this illuminating publication, I mean "individual who engages in impolite, inconsiderate, and often arrogant behavior". So why, you ask, does such an individual deserve recognition?
The answer is simple: asshole-ish behavior is extraordinary at best, and horrifying at worst. Allow me to list some examples for your benefit.
Exhibit A: The oblivious and passive/aggressive driver
This is the person who, while merging onto the freeway, cuts you off without signalling. As if that wasn't infuriating enough, this person also proceeds to apply the brakes, forcing you to come to practically a screeching halt, then ride the brakes all the way down the freeway while traffic zooms past you on the left, leaving no opening whatsoever for you to accelerate and pass. Such behavior is both passive/aggressive and outrageously oblivious to your rapidly escalating blood pressure. Verdict: ASSHOLE.
Exhibit B: That Guy
Those of you who are currently in college (or have recently graduated) are uncomfortably familiar with That Guy. He is the guy at all the parties who wears the same dumb-ass t-shirt and the same dumb-ass hat (said hat is often sideways). He frequently blacks out and/or vomits and/or instigates physical altercations. He also has a tendency to use idiotic pick-up lines (I apologize for the redundancy of that phrase: "idiotic" and "pick-up lines" are actually synonymous). If you're reading this in guilty silence, gentlemen, fear not: if you are a male and have passed through the average American college and have partaken of alcoholic substances at a party, chances are that you have at some point been That Guy. Just try to convincingly deny it when someone points you out as That Guy creeping in the back of a photo with a group of wasted chicks, trying to grab a chick's ass. Verdict: ASSHOLE.
Exhibit C: The scene-maker
Please don't succumb to the delusion that all assholes are male. In fact, there is one particular specimen of asshole that is frequently, if not often, female. This specimen is known as the scene-maker. Now, obviously, there are situations in which it is appropriate to stand up for oneself. Genocide, for example, warrants making a scene for the upholding of justice. But one must exercise caution to avoid being a scene-maker of the asshole variety. This is the person who, upon ordering a venti, half-caf, no whip, soy latte with sugar-free vanilla, demands that the sugar-free vanilla be added slowly in a counter-clockwise motion exactly four seconds after the addition of the second shot of espresso. The person then hovers over the poor, flustered barista, determined to catch the barista in the midst of a blunder. When the drink has been presented to the asshole, who snatches the drink and inspects in suspiciously, the drink is of course all wrong and the asshole demands that the drink be re-made at no extra charge. Meanwhile, the line is backing out the door and all the innocent, non-assholes in line are standing by and getting later by the minute. Verdict: ASSHOLE.
So, as you can see, the average asshole is worthy of recognition merely as a sign of how low humanity is sinking, despite our increasingly impressive innovations and rapidly expanding knowledge. Please, as a favor to humanity, try to avoid assholeishness. My Starbucks addiction depends on it.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Mr. Darcy + fangs = Edward Cullen
Since the time of Jane Austen, women have secretly pondered the question: can I really fall in love with a fictional man? Take Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice as an example. He's handsome, wealthy, intelligent, and ultimately very considerate and sweet, although his exterior is mansome and manly and cold. Really, the only thing he doesn't have going for him is the fact that he's fictional. The modern-day answer to Mr. Darcy is a lad named Edward Cullen, the product of a Mormon matron's smutty literary daydream, the Twilight series. Aside from the obvious dwindling in quality, the phenomenon of the fictional crush has transformed in such a way that the man for whom we pine seems even more unattainable: not only is he NOT REAL, he is also UNDEAD. Meaning that there's absolutely ZERO chance of there somehow being a man just like Edward somewhere out there in the wide world, seeing as how...well, vampires aren't real.
If you happen to be unfamiliar with the Twilight books, the first of which has just been adapted to the big screen, it can best be described as a reminder to all women of what real-life men are lacking. Let me break it down: gloomy emo girl goes to new school in cloudy place. Hot vampire boy is irrevocably drawn to her. Gloomy emo girl and hot vampire boy fall in love. Hot vampire boy happens to be a conscientious, vegetarian, un-homicidal sort. Bad vamps show up; attempt to kill slightly-less-gloomy-than-before emo girl. Hot vampire boy saves day.
I had the dubious pleasure of attending a midnight showing of the film, along with what felt like forty thousand females of varying ages. The power that this entirely fictional character wields over women could not be more evident than it was when Robert Pattinson, unfairly pretty and brooding as Edward, sauntered on screen to the tune of cheers, catcalls, and whoops from the audience. From that point on, the masses seemed to be overcome by a two-hour bout of uncontrollable giggles.
The plot of Meyer's book is flawed and poorly developed, but the character of Edward is wonderfully vivid and entrancing. By some stroke of sheer luck, Pattinson's portrayal of such a character, one who is very dear to the readers' hearts, is more than halfway decent. He sports an extraordinarily clear complexion, a startlingly intense gaze, and a vampirish heart of gold with style and supreme panty-melting prowess.
It really is unfortunate that such a character can never even be compared with real-life men, especially if you are a woman who happens to be perpetually disgruntled, like myself. While the film was bad enough to pass for an SNL spoof (I actually half-expected to discover that it was actually Tina Fey playing Bella), I couldn't help but enjoy the transient fantasy of a perfect boyfriend. The bar just keeps getting higher and higher, so much so that it seems highly likely that I will end up as an old woman with lots of cats and/or exotic birds, rather than a woman somewhat happily married to a standard, run-of-the-mill mortal boor.
Twilight
1/5 stars
If you happen to be unfamiliar with the Twilight books, the first of which has just been adapted to the big screen, it can best be described as a reminder to all women of what real-life men are lacking. Let me break it down: gloomy emo girl goes to new school in cloudy place. Hot vampire boy is irrevocably drawn to her. Gloomy emo girl and hot vampire boy fall in love. Hot vampire boy happens to be a conscientious, vegetarian, un-homicidal sort. Bad vamps show up; attempt to kill slightly-less-gloomy-than-before emo girl. Hot vampire boy saves day.
I had the dubious pleasure of attending a midnight showing of the film, along with what felt like forty thousand females of varying ages. The power that this entirely fictional character wields over women could not be more evident than it was when Robert Pattinson, unfairly pretty and brooding as Edward, sauntered on screen to the tune of cheers, catcalls, and whoops from the audience. From that point on, the masses seemed to be overcome by a two-hour bout of uncontrollable giggles.
The plot of Meyer's book is flawed and poorly developed, but the character of Edward is wonderfully vivid and entrancing. By some stroke of sheer luck, Pattinson's portrayal of such a character, one who is very dear to the readers' hearts, is more than halfway decent. He sports an extraordinarily clear complexion, a startlingly intense gaze, and a vampirish heart of gold with style and supreme panty-melting prowess.
It really is unfortunate that such a character can never even be compared with real-life men, especially if you are a woman who happens to be perpetually disgruntled, like myself. While the film was bad enough to pass for an SNL spoof (I actually half-expected to discover that it was actually Tina Fey playing Bella), I couldn't help but enjoy the transient fantasy of a perfect boyfriend. The bar just keeps getting higher and higher, so much so that it seems highly likely that I will end up as an old woman with lots of cats and/or exotic birds, rather than a woman somewhat happily married to a standard, run-of-the-mill mortal boor.
Twilight
1/5 stars
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Is chauvinism dead?
I'm usually not a huge fan of chauvinism, or of violence, or of material excess, but, as these are some of the defining components of the James Bond films, I've learned to cope with them.
Bond is supposed to be a bad ass. I think we can all agree on that, no? He's also not supposed to get so damn involved, emotionally speaking. That's the beauty of this character: he's NOT REALISTIC. He doesn't get caught up with those pesky feelings that plague the rest of us. In real life, people die and other people grieve. In James Bond's life, people die and Bond lights a cig and moves on. The sheer bravado and lack of realism of the Bond films make them perfect escapist fantasy. When life gets us down, we can watch Bond kick ass, take names, and fuck the hottie. And we feel better, at least momentarily.
Although Bond kicks ass in Quantum of Solace, he doesn't exactly take names and he most certainly doesn't fuck the hottie. QOS Bond is a dreary, sullen, depressed insomniac with no sex drive. Even his ass-kicking is mechanical and lackluster. And it's not Daniel Craig's fault! Nor is it necessarily Marc Forster's fault. It's the fault of a dull story bogged down with sentimentality and poorly-placed vengeance. Vengeance does not belong in a Bond film, nor does sentimentality. Yet those two things appear to be the driving forces behind the entire plot of QOS.
Okay, I get that Bond's OTL was supposed to be Vesper Lynd. Can't we just establish that and move on? Must we burden ourselves with Bond's endless pining for the dead girlfriend? What happened to the dark, punchy, cheesy humour? What happened to the complex, intrigue-laden conspiracies, full of Russians and coups and decoys and assassins? What happened to Bond bedding every bit of skirt that crosses his path? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SWEET CARS?? After the Aston-Martin's brief appearance, the only car we see Bond in is A FORD MINIVAN. Yes, a minivan. Bond has been completely uncooled.
I will say this for QOS Bond: he wears a mean half-zip track jacket. I like my JB best in a tux, but I respect a man who can wear a track jacket with such style and aplomb.
I've never been a champion for mansome manliness in movies (with the exception of 300), but Bond is supposed to be the epitome of masculine cool. He should embody everything that most (read: all) regular men are not: good-looking, stylish, charming, intelligent, physically fit, competent, calm, collected, unfeeling, sexually adroit, and indestructible. So when he's not all of those things, he's, well...lame.
Quantum of Solace
2/5 stars
Whomp whomp.
Bond is supposed to be a bad ass. I think we can all agree on that, no? He's also not supposed to get so damn involved, emotionally speaking. That's the beauty of this character: he's NOT REALISTIC. He doesn't get caught up with those pesky feelings that plague the rest of us. In real life, people die and other people grieve. In James Bond's life, people die and Bond lights a cig and moves on. The sheer bravado and lack of realism of the Bond films make them perfect escapist fantasy. When life gets us down, we can watch Bond kick ass, take names, and fuck the hottie. And we feel better, at least momentarily.
Although Bond kicks ass in Quantum of Solace, he doesn't exactly take names and he most certainly doesn't fuck the hottie. QOS Bond is a dreary, sullen, depressed insomniac with no sex drive. Even his ass-kicking is mechanical and lackluster. And it's not Daniel Craig's fault! Nor is it necessarily Marc Forster's fault. It's the fault of a dull story bogged down with sentimentality and poorly-placed vengeance. Vengeance does not belong in a Bond film, nor does sentimentality. Yet those two things appear to be the driving forces behind the entire plot of QOS.
Okay, I get that Bond's OTL was supposed to be Vesper Lynd. Can't we just establish that and move on? Must we burden ourselves with Bond's endless pining for the dead girlfriend? What happened to the dark, punchy, cheesy humour? What happened to the complex, intrigue-laden conspiracies, full of Russians and coups and decoys and assassins? What happened to Bond bedding every bit of skirt that crosses his path? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SWEET CARS?? After the Aston-Martin's brief appearance, the only car we see Bond in is A FORD MINIVAN. Yes, a minivan. Bond has been completely uncooled.
I will say this for QOS Bond: he wears a mean half-zip track jacket. I like my JB best in a tux, but I respect a man who can wear a track jacket with such style and aplomb.
I've never been a champion for mansome manliness in movies (with the exception of 300), but Bond is supposed to be the epitome of masculine cool. He should embody everything that most (read: all) regular men are not: good-looking, stylish, charming, intelligent, physically fit, competent, calm, collected, unfeeling, sexually adroit, and indestructible. So when he's not all of those things, he's, well...lame.
Quantum of Solace
2/5 stars
Whomp whomp.
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