Lateshoes

It’s midnight and while I would usually be in bed, Lars and I have decided to skip work tomorrow to protest the visit of President Bush, Donald Rumsfeld and Condoleeza Rice to our fair city. Contrary to the popular belief that the whole of Utah is filled with right-winged automatons…okay A LOT of Utah is filled with such dudes and dudesses, but in Salt Lake City we have the pleasure of leaning farther to the left than makes the rest of the state comfortable. It’s kind of nice.
Living in a state where the “right” always wins can be challenging to the mind and the spirit, so we take the little triumphs when we can.
You wouldn’t, or maybe you would believe how uncomfortable this makes people. They are thrown into such a motherfucking tizzy that you’d think we’d gone in the wayback machine to those horrible Bill Clinton days (remember when we had a president who could form complete sentences, could understand the complexities of foreign and domestic policy and answer questions directly, concisely and with charisma…even while getting a blow job?) I’m getting off point, but I always get sad remembering those days. The good ol’ Clinton administration. There was never any of this bullshit about “respecting the office of the president” spewing from the mouths of these right wing jackals back then. But, that was a different time, they’re quick to point out. We’re at war now. Yes, we are and it’s a fucking pointless war lining some very greedy pockets.
So, yeah, back to my earlier point. Why do Republicans always need to play the role of the victim? Aren’t they supposed to be the “tough guys” here and like aren’t the guys they voted for in charge? I mean, Donald Rumsfeld’s finger is on the button, not mine. So, how does my voice offend you? How does my protesting tomorrow, or my writing this blog do anything to you? If you don’t like me or my point of view, great, don’t read my fucking blog. If you don’t like my politics, don’t try to drive your car thru downtown tomorrow for lunch. But, if I hear one more person lay down the law that I can’t hate this war and all it stands for, but still care about the troops, I’m going to be forced to put a boot up their ass. It is the American way after all. I’m not a terrorist and my opinion about George Bush hasn’t created any terrorists. I mean, that whole argument is so disturbing and weak and flawed and not based on any sort of reality, facts or experience. It’s just some more bullshit that someone pulled out of their ass and got all their friends to repeat over and over like a broken fucking record. “Cut and run. Cut and run. Cut and run. Cut and run. Cut and run. Cut and run. Cut and run. Cut and run. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Pretty soon the whole fucking country’s going to be chasing liberals around like their turtle-necked wives with axes and screaming, “I ain’t gonna hurtcha Wendy, I’m just going to bash. your. fucking. brains. in.” And when Scatman comes to save us, he’s just gonna get shot.
Fuck.

My latest New West piece is up. It’s a two-parter, so make sure you read Part I first.
Here’s a taste:
This Wednesday Salt Lake City Mayor Rocky Anderson and an estimated 5000 Utahns plan to protest the visit of President George W. Bush. The intended protest has been cause for much controversy over that past several weeks, provoking some critics to go so far as to label those who intend to participate as being “on the terrorists’ side,” but with the country embroiled in its third year of war and no end in sight, is now really the time for such “You’re either with us, or you’re against us” rhetoric? Some Utah families of fallen soldiers seem to think so.

(….Yes, I go there. I’m like Degrassi, bitches).

1987 was a totally rad year.

I just finished cleaning the house and FINALLY took a shower, yes, at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I’m trying to find something to write about for my first New West piece of the week. Unfortunately, reading the news is putting me to sleep, so blogging it is.
First, I have to say that I’m in love with my little macbook. The keyboard is super clicky, but not clunky…it’s the keyboard that Goldylocks chose. There is no way that I could have made it through last week without it and I get the feeling that we’re going to be constant companions from here on out.
Writing 4 stories a week isn’t as easy a task as I originally thought. Last week was really rough. There’s no more coming home and lounging about or getting anything else done for that matter. I think we had hotdogs for dinner two nights in a row. I spent most of the week completely exhausted, but I have to say… it felt good, busy…but, good.
I hope this week I can find some time to blog for real and like actually be funny and have a personality and shit.

So the set up is this:
The models/ clients for this week’s challenge (remember that word because it will be important later) are the designer’s mothers and a few of their sisters. When the moms start walking down the runway, with their imperfect bodies I knew instantly that this challenge would a.) be difficult for designers used to making clothes for bones and b.) tell us exactly who the assholes are. I was right on both counts.

Each designer has to pick another designer’s ma’ or sis…(This is going to bring the pain, isn’t it?) The pairings are fine at first, some of the designers even seem excited. Then…the one pairing we hoped wouldn’t happen, happens.
Jeffrey is the last designer to get plucked from Heidi Klum’s velvet bag of evil and he’s left with…Angela’s mom.
Here’s all the back story you need to know; Jeffrey fucking HATES Angela and Jeffrey, for the better part of the season has been teetering on the dick pole.

In the beginning of the season, we had Keith Michael as the resident cocky douchebag asshole (albeit, a talented douchebag asshole) who thinks his designs are the best in the world and everyone else in the competition should just go home and eat some girl-pie. But, when Keith was kicked off the show, it was like Jeffrey’s head sprouted right out of his asshole.
The thing is, I liked Jeffrey. I liked his stupid neck tattoo and the fact that he slightly resembles my favorite Scientologist, Jason Dohring (A.K.A. Logan Echolls of tv’s Veronica Mars). I liked that he was punk rock and enjoyed putting Michael Kors’ panties in a wad with his ugly-is-the-new-pretty aesthetic. I didn’t even mind the fact that very few of his designs have actually delivered anything new and/or interesting. I didn’t mind that he was snotty to Angela…and I even overlooked his “one word….femi-nazi” comment about her…but, I shouldn’t have. No one should ever overlook it when someone looks “punk rock,” but quotes Rush Limbaugh. One should always pay close attention to that, because that my friends, is the sign of a big, fucking fake.

So, okay… Jeffrey begins consulting with Angela’s mom, who is about as cute as a button. She’s sweet, soft-spoken and at first very eager to work with Jeffrey. Jeffrey has a shitty attitude from the beginning because like the thought of designing clothes for a “real woman” makes his art-skin crawl.

Like, Van Gogh never had to paint on a fat woman’s ass…am I right?

He instantly begins making her feel like shit, (UPDATE: According to Tim Gunn’s blog, Jeffrey had padded his dress form with toilet paper and duct tape until it in the words of Tim, “looked like a hippopotamus,” which Jeffrey has sitting there in her face, once again…what a deplorable ass) acting flustered, like he has no fucking idea what to do with her huge blubbery ass…so flustered and put out that she actually says, “Oh, I feel really bad, like I’m holding you back.”

At Mood, picking fabric Jeffrey decides, because he’s never been able to keep his eyes on a fat woman very long, that periwinkle would be an awesome color to tent one in…despite the fact that the chubby woman he’s designing for said she really liked dark purple and green…but, for some reason neither of these colors are like, cool right now to Jeff.

So, back at Parsons while Jeffrey is off in another room bitching and commiserating with another designer about how hard it is to design for such whale “I just don’t know how to work with these proportions,” (um, you guys…that’s why is called a fucking “challenge”) Tim Gunn asks Angela’s mom (who’s name is Darlene just like my mom, so you can bet I already love this woman) what she thinks of Jeffrey’s design. She hesitates and waffles until Tim is like, “Tell me what you really think,” but even then just says, “Well, I’m not sure about the color…it’s a bit matronly.” It’s right about this point that Jeffrey walks up and acts like Darlene just told Tim that his punk band reminds her of Ashlee Simpson (which it probably would).

I really wish I were making up what a cunt this guy is, but he really proceeds in telling this poor, nice woman that he “doesn’t even appreciate her being at [his] table right now” and like, “if she can’t deal, because of her own insecurities, well that’s not [his] problem.”
Darlene finally breaks down and cries in another room with her daughter.

And all of this while his own mother is in the same room. But she’s not too worried, she’s just happy that her little darling is off the crack-rock or whatever, I don’t even fucking care.
He completes the outfit, continuing to bitch and moan about how she was “talking shit” about him to Tim so she deserved his treatment…. even saying this to Angela, who I’ve lost all respect for at this point because if that ass-clown made my mother cry, you can fucking bet he’d be huddled in a corner somewhere clutching the bloody mess where his balls used to be.

In the end, the best this “genius” designer can come up with is a shiny, strechy, floor-length box dress with some sort of vest. I shit you not, it looks like a Dom Deluise Mu-mu. It looks like Marlon Brando’s outfit in the Island of Dr. Moreau. It looks fucking ridiculous and Angela herself sums it up best during judging, “It’s not flattering at all. It’s embarrassing.”
So Jeffrey’s a hack and an asshole.

Fucking Vincent.

I’ve never been a fan of Laguna Beach, really. The thought of glorifying a bunch of stuck up, bubble headed, semi-retarded, little rich kids for acting catty, entitled and slutty is just kind of gross. But, I’ll admit I’ve watched a few episodes here and there. I’m not proud, but sweet mother of god…the girls this season are seriously so ugly, I have to wonder what those Mtv execs are thinking. They. are. so. ugly. I mean, when one is being real, one must admit that the insides of L.B.’s cast has always been ugly, but the outsides have finally caught up.