The Day I Fell Out of Love With Bono

I am a huge U2 fan. I think they are one of the best bands in the world. And, yeah, they are everywhere. And, yeah, they've lost street cred over the years. Whatever. I don't care. I was never the kind of girl to hate a band she loved once they went mainstream. I never saw the sense in that (I preferred to turn my ire to the Johnny-come-lately "fans" who wrecked the scene).

The closest thing I've ever come to a religious experience was at a U2 concert. Really. It was during the Joshua Tree tour. The show was at the LA Sports Arena, which is a smaller venue (smaller than The Forum and tiny by Staples Center standards). Lone Justice opened (j'adore Maria McKee) and then the Dublin lads took the stage. The entire arena was on their feet. We held hands, swayed to the music and sang every word to every song. It was unlike any show I had ever seen. I wasn't just a witness to it, though. I was part of it. We all were. It was beyond kumbaya. As their shows have gotten bigger and bigger, and more fashionable to attend, I've missed that unity. It's still there, but occasionally interrupted by someone who doesn't get it. You don't ever sit down and you do sing along, people. I always get a little pissed when I see folks like that at their shows. They've taken away a ticket from someone who would actually enjoy the concert. U2 is a big band meant to play to intimate audiences. But, global domination requires stadium-sized crowds. So, I have no choice but to suck up the triple-digit ticket price to get my Bono on.

But yesterday, that all changed.

Yesterday, I got an email from U2.com. Apparently, I am a member. I don't recall signing up, but suspect I did after their last tour when I was still on that U2 high. I did the same after the NIN concert. I know. I'm a total nerd sometimes. Anyway, U2 has relaunched the site and asked me to sign up again. There was something about a free album download mentioned in the email. How very "The Slip" and "In Rainbows" of them, I thought. So, I clicked the link to sign up and then realized that the "subscription" they were talking about cost FIFTY DOLLARS!!!

WHAT. THE. FECK?!?

The biggest, richest band in the futhermucking world is CHARGING their fans for a website subscription? It's time to put down the Guinness, lads. Seriously. You are way too high.

Now, this fee isn't going to charity. That would be different. I double-checked to see if it was going to the ONE or (Red) foundations, but I saw nothing alluding to that. Oh, you get a remixed, remastered download. OF SONGS I ALREADY HAVE! Everything else they offer, I get for free on NIN.com (and they are uploading awesome videos from the Australia shows...at no cost to you).

I sat there with my mouth hanging open. With the state of the world economy, this band -- this mega corporation -- wants to charge its fans? Jaysus. Well, they lost a fan in that moment. My love and respect for U2 wilted. Shriveled to the point that I have no interest in their new release or catching them on tour. Who needs it? If it's not about the art, and it's not about those who appreciate you, I guess it just comes down to the money, honey.

So disappointed. Bono, you really let your woman down.

The Dance is Dizzying

It's been a blur. Everything. All of it. This year is not yet two months old and yet, to me, it's like there has never been a time before it. Like we did indeed clear the slate. The past is seemingly behind us. Out of sight, out of mind for me. And I am so happy.

I know I've said that over and over (I'm so happy...I'm so happy), but I am. Oh, that is not to say this year has been perfect or without any ass pains. No. There have been a few *displeasures*, shall we say, along the way. But I see them more as a shaking off of what's left of the past. There always has to be something to remind us where we have been, and what we have learned. It's all in an effort so we don't repeat ourselves, our missteps, our tracks.

Still, I've been rushing around so much, it's been difficult to keep the pace, catch my breath and remember what I'm supposed to be doing. Writing has sort of been a part of that. Oh, I've been writing, and writing and writing and writing, just not here. Which always sort of bums me out.

I kind of missed out on commenting on the insanity that is the Octomom. Seriously, she has a college-tuition amount of filler in her lips, signs of Botox usage on her forehead (obviously it's moving now because even *her* doctors wouldn't inject a pregnant woman), rhinoplasty and acrylic nails. Now *that's* a mother who sacrifices for her children. I'm not saying a hard-working mother does not deserve to be pampered or look as good as she wants. What I'm saying is, I know a lot of mothers with one child who *treat* themselves to the $20 mani-pedi (or do their own), who have learned to color their own hair, who haven't had a facial or seen a dermatologist in ages (let alone a plastic surgeon), because there is the baby's future to think about. How was she able to afford all of that stuff with six kids? How was she able to afford all that in vitro? I have so many questions, but none of them matter as much as the welfare of her fourteen children, who will likely end up in the care of others. Unbelievable, and beyond tragic.

And then there were the awards shows. My high holy holiday weekend of Spirit Awards and Oscars. I love them, I do. I become an embarrassing superfan of the film industry and giggle and clap and squeal. I typically do this alone or only with the closest of friends. And there is no talking. NO TALKING, PEOPLE. Until the commercials (which don't exist with the Spirit Awards...so that's a lot of not talking). Sadly, I thought this year's Oscars show was meh. How annoying was it for them to be playing music while the presenters spoke?!? And, please, in the name of all that's holy, get rid of the song and dance numbers. Please. This is not the Grammys nor is it the Tonys. Beyoncé lipsyncing takes away from the winners' speeches (which is what I am there for). Let's just ditch them altogether. It will save precious time and money. Thank you. Amen.

Now we can talk about Obama's address to Congress last night. Oh my. I only caught the last twenty minutes of the speech, but I think everyone in DC was feeling the soreness in their glutes and quads today from all the up-and-down-and-up-and-down with the many standing ovations they gave. Have you ever seen anything like that? I am so proud of our President. Yes, we have a long way to go. It won't happen overnight. And we all have to suck it up and take responsibility, pitch in and help out to make this work. So, let's do it, shall we?

I'm about to stimulate the economy with an iPhone. Ugh. The thought of switching from my beloved T-Mobile to that other carrier makes me want to cry. But, it looks like that will end up being the frugal-er way to go at the end of the day. And the debate between friends over the pros and cons of this switch makes my head swim. Oh, they think technology makes our lives easier, but I've got a Facebook thread three miles long going back and forth on this. It's so complicated. You give up one thing you really like/need/want for another you really want/need/like. I'm thinking we should just bring back 8-track tapes and LPs and be done with it. I'd vote for the covered wagon comeback, too, but as I'm deathly allergic to horses that would be sort of dumb.

And now, she who cannot figure out which phone to get, is about to go off and optimize user functions for someone else's websites. Can you believe someone is trusting me with that? Me neither. But, if I want a new iPhone, I'd better get to it. Yes, I do dangle a carrot every now and then. Don't you?

The dance of late has left me dizzy. But it's all of my own doing. The speed of Life is rushing me along. It's all I can do to not trip over myself. But I mean that in a good way.

Certain Things I Just Don't Understand

I'm not a hatemonger. Nor am I a country music fan. But with the return of Mann C^#tler to television, I found myself asking: How is that tacky broad allowed on the airwaves after all the lies and despicable things she has said over the years, but poor Natalie Maines utters twelve little words and the Dixie Chicks were made pariahs?


(Click here if you are viewing this from your Feedburner subscription.)

Sure, that happened in a different place in time. But so did this:


(Click here for the link.)

Haven't we moved beyond this type of hype? Didn't November show that we have had enough of that? And yet, there she is.

I suppose the Left has better things to do than boycott "The Today Show" and "The View" or picket the bookstores who bring that thing in to promote her particular brand of ignorance and hate. I guess all those who chose to vote for a man of color with the middle name of Hussein are able ignore the rantings of a loon and accept her freedom of speech, no matter how offensive it may be. Maybe that's the difference between the Right and the Left. We have better things to do, like bring down Proposition H8, welcome in a new President and era, focus on solutions to our economy and environment, and work on coming together rather than dragging us apart. And Mann should be most grateful for that.

Karma, however...well, that's something we can't help her with.

Lick It

On Tuesday nights, I go to a Toso and chant with a group of fellow Buddhists. I know. You aren't supposed to be spiky or opinionated when you're a Buddhist, but I like shattering myths. Besides, it's my karma. And I've got a lot of it to work out. There are times I think I'm working off stuff from a future life along with the stuff I accrue by the minute. I know. What the hell do you care what my religion is, right? Seriously, do we all have to announce our religious and political affiliations all the time? (I'm a Democrat, by the way.) I usually only mention that I'm a Buddhist because of the bitter irony. (And, after two years of chanting, I'm still spiky and opinionated, but more aware of it.) Buddha rocks the humor, though. Like ninety-eight percent of his statues and other likenesses have him smiling/laughing. The rest, he's totally Zen.

Anyway, the Toso starts at seven and goes on to eight-thirty. If I'm not careful, I can easily miss the right time to have dinner, and then I'm left to grab grub way too late to be eating, especially when it comes out of a bag (because I'm so not going to cook at nine o'clock at night).

Theoretically, I'm on a diet. Usually, this means that I'm steaming up green veggies and eating tofu and brown rice. Right now, it means I'm having a green tea soy latte for breakfast, eating organic raisin bran cereal for lunch and having a Boca burger on Ezekiel bread for dinner. Not because I'm test driving an eating disorder or anything, I'm just really not in the mood to cook, I'm tired/lazy, and this menu gives me the illusion that I'm kind of being healthy. (Let me enjoy the denial/delusion at least until I catch up with work.) I am for sure getting my fiber, though.

Sadly, I had run out of cereal, and I'd had the Boca for lunch. Sigh. Going off to chant without dinner isn't fun. So I swung by a Starbucks for a half-calf soy latte to tide me over. Only problem was, they accidentally gave me real milk, which gave me a mild asthma attack about fifteen minutes into the Toso after only a couple of sips (and, yes, I did think to myself, Hmmm, this tastes a little off). Chanting while wheezing is totally good times. (I did go back to that 'Bucks and got a kindly refund, and a coupon for a freebie. See why I can't stay off the sauce?)

After leaving the chant and returning the tainted latte, I was starving and exhausted from trying to breathe. And so, I went to the Baja Fresh on the corner of Lincoln and Wilshire to get two shrimp tacos. Kind of lo-cal/healthy, right? (Go ahead, lie to me. When I'm on a diet, that's the only time I want to be lied to.)

As I was walking toward the entrance, I looked into the car making the corner and heading toward me, and saw this chick in the passenger seat licking the seat belt strap. I stopped in my tracks and took a closer look. Yep, she was licking it. She stopped when we made eye contact.

Can anyone tell me why someone over the age of three might do that? She was definitely over twenty and looked like a typical local collegiate. Seriously, WTF?

I lost my appetite for about five seconds, then recovered. It had been a long time since lunch. As I stood waiting for my tacos, I recalled another weird sighting I had a couple of years ago, and a reminder of why you really shouldn't look too closely into nearby cars when you are in L.A. (or Santa Monica, which I was technically in at the time). You never know what you might catch a glimpse of, and the EEEWWWW! factor it might bring.

Click here if you care to join me for a stroll down that memory lane.

The Clompy Chronicles, Part 4

While I am spoiled both by location and price point, there are days when I long to move out of this abode. Find a place without a shared wall. With parking. A washer and dryer. Someplace not on a street corner because there's no human way to keep up with the dust traffic delivers. A quiet home where I can't hear my neighbors. Yes, that would be a dream.

I can't tell if they've installed a basketball court or a bowling alley, but Clompy and Boomer seem to run, crash and throw things a lot. Fortunately, they don't play all quarters or frames. Just enough to be disruptive and genuinely annoying. My favorite is when Boomer gets all Rocky and jumps rope in the bedroom. Slap, slap, slap, stumble, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. The smoking has shrunk his lung capacity, so he can't keep it up for very long. Just enough to be disruptive and genuinely annoying.

The other morning, I heard a commotion outside their door. It was either the cops or deliverymen from the sound of the duo's deep voices and heavy feet. I refrained from getting up to snoop, since I trusted the thin wall to keep me appraised of whatever was going down. Then my phone rang and I got sidetracked. There wasn't any further hubbub. No one seemed to be getting arrested or ousted, so maybe it was the hockey rink their ordered. I just went about my day.

Somewhere around two, it occurred to me lunch might be warranted. Off I went to nab some. When I came back, something caught my eye.

They had flocked their pink flamingos.

This was as perplexing a site as the copy of "Bridal Guide" I got. I stared at the plastic fowl stabbed into their front yard and felt a deep sense of pity for them. How humiliating. Then I noted that Clompy and Boomer had also given the jade bush a heavy spray and added some "snow" to their windows.

Now, some people can pull this off with a sense of whimsy. Not so much here. I walked into my home and shut the door with the sinking feeling that I was no longer living in a duplex but a double-wide.

Mad Ave Indeed

I went to my PMB the other day. Something I only do when I'm expecting a check. Hey, all of my bills are set up on auto-pay, and I've completely given up the idea of ever catching up on the magazines I've subscribed to, so the need to fetch mail is reduced to about two or three times a month. I always feel bad when someone has secretly overnighted something to me thinking I would get it right away, then understand the ice in their voice for the past week, caused by my failure to acknowledge their thoughtfulness. I'm difficult to surprise. I'm difficult in a multitude of ways, I'm sure. However, as a creature of habit and one of limited means, I easily fit into a certain set of demographics. Even with that, somehow Madison Avenue hasn't figured me out.

A few years ago, over the course of ten days, I received the oddest group of mailings:

1. An Olivia Cruises brochure
2. Samples and coupons for Enfamil baby formula
3. A Robbins Bros. engagement ring catalogue

Somehow, I seemed to have come off as a pregnant lesbian longing for a vacation and a commitment ceremony. So, perhaps I should not have been terribly surprised when I pulled from my mailbox a copy of "Bridal Guide".

I kept staring at the address tag. Yep. It had my name and box number. This was not a mistake. I mean, it was certainly a mistake, but not one of the ladies who put mail into my slot. Jeebus. That sounds pervy.

Anyway, I figured one of my friends sent me the ultimate gag gift. Many of the people I know have twisted senses of humor. And this certainly fits that bill. If it is indeed a promotional copy, they didn't really send it out in style. No plastic covering. No charming letter from the editor with an invitation to subscribe. If it's a sign from God, He and I have to have a little chat. Bridezilla I shan't be. Very little tradition or planning will go into whatever I do whenever that day comes. Besides, there's a whole lot of tacky on those pages. It's enough to make any girl stay single, or at least elope. I don't know that I could torture my girlfriends with those bridesmaid dresses. Unless one of them is responsible for the subscription. Payback may end up being a bitch in purple taffeta.

At the end of the day, though, it seems that Madison Avenue has gotten me all wrong yet again. I almost look forward to seeing what they come up with next. Almost.

A Thousand Words (x2)

It's a sign the world is coming to an end. Or that metrosexualism is desperate for a comeback. Seriously, I want to meet the man who will go out in public in these. Well...maybe not. But you can send me his name and picture and I'll post it here.

The shorts+longjohns mismatch of the 90s was one thing, but mantyhose are just -- as Tim Gunn would say -- preposterous. Faux tat tights? Who would dream this stuff up? And who would buy them (and not for a costume or gag gift...emphasis on gag)?





This is just too good for words. Feel free to add your own, though, or visit DListed to find the caption contest winners. Seriously, someone needs to sit down with John and explain that he's not funny. Really. That joke he calls a running mate was bad enough. Cracking himself up at the debates was absolutely cringe-inducing. This, however, just says it all.

A Natural Gas Crisis

I went to Arizona this weekend. Flew there and back in less than 48 hours. No, I'm not worried about the carbon footprint for such a short trip. I was on Southworst. I mean, west. Lovely crews, but it's such a sardine can shooting through the sky. I can't understand how they can keep narrowing the aisles. It made me want to skip the free pretzels. I didn't, of course, but I thought about it. They've also narrowed the overhead bins. My rollie has fit in lengthwise (you know, bottom in first), just fine on American and United flights, and that actually makes more room for everybody. Yea! On Southwest, it was too long (even though it's FAA regulation carry-on approved). Boo. Fortunately, I found a spot for it on the to-capacity flight. Those who boarded with C group had to check their bags. That's just nutty, and likely from people stowing their computer totes overhead. Those belong under the seat in front of you; you know, lap adjacent. My tote is rather large (not really a computer bag, but a bag with a computer bag in it, and my purse, magazines and books), and really doesn't fit all the way under the seat. I usually take a window seat and throw my faux pashmina over my legs to hide that. On Southwest, I take an aisle seat in order to make the quickest escape. I've learned that if I cross my legs over by the aisle to block the bag from view, smile and make eye contact, the imperfect fit is missed. Jedi traveller mind trick.

I do believe in ride sharing to the airport and took the shuttle in. I live so close to LAX, it's silly to bother a friend on a Friday for such a trip. I don't even mind the risk of smelly strangers or getting there god-awful early. That just gives me time to meander. Buy water. Get in my two vodka tonics, which stave off any turbulence tummy. But it was the ride that made it queasy.

I had the crankiest driver in the ricketiest van ever in the history of my travels, and that is saying something (have you ever been in an Ensenada taxi?), and I had him all to myself. While I do love my rare but chauffeured town car rides, I've not been spoiled by them. I carry my own bags happily, and will gladly get my own doors. Yet getting into the van in my platforms while carrying my totebag was a bit daunting. Narrow steps with inflexible shoes are a danger, but I made it in without ankle twisting, though, it took two tries to shut the side door. As we drove away, there was a warning bell going off. It kept binging, but the driver didn't seem bothered. "Sir," I asked, "did I shut the door properly?" "Huh?" he replied, so I repeated myself. Still didn't hear me, so I asked again. "What?" he grunted as he turned to face me. "Oh, look out," I said, as the parked car ahead approached us. He straightened out then threw the van over to the right and parked.

"Whacho problem?" he scolded. "Um, I don't have a problem, per se. I was just inquiring if that binging I keep hearing had anything to do with the door I couldn't shut." "That binging," he told me, "is for my door. I goes off about four times and then stops. I don't know why." For the record, it went off much more than four times. "And why did you tell me to look out?" he continued. "Well, because I noticed the parked car we were heading toward and thought I should point it out."

Not typically how I begin a journey. Small talk would be skipped.

There was no need for us to rush. I was picked up at 3:00 for my 5:15 flight, and I live about seven miles from the airport. We had plenty of time, yet the driver decided to drive like a bat out of hell, nearly ran three red lights, and managed to hit every bump in the road. The van itself sounded like it was on the verge of collapse. Squeaking and grinding and wheezing and creaking. I was certain that if we hit one more pothole the wheels would fall off. Surprisingly, we made it there in one piece, and without chunks. I needed a vodka tonic stat. There's something about VTs that settle my stomach better than ginger ale.

Now, let's talk about airport bars. They are always crowded. A good place to kill time and flight anxiety. But there's no place in them for one's luggage, let alone everyone's luggage. You would think that after all this time, some clever architect would say, "I know. Let's give patrons a place to stow their carry-on while they get their drink on!" But, no. I guess that's why God invented the Admiral's Club. (By the way, if you are wondering what to get me for Christmas, hint hint.) The tiny joint I decided to imbibe in was located under the expanse of an atrium. While the atrium is pretty and light and breezy-ish, it also is a lot of dead space. Space that could and should be put to use by installing little luggage lofts so drinkers could move about and not spill their airport-priced beverages. Most of the seating was taken up by Samonite and the like. Another traveller was kind enough to share her table and open chair. We chatted while we made our way through rounds one and two, then we made our way to our neighboring gates and waited for the Southwest cattle call.

In spite of the prediction of turbulence, the flight to AZ was smooth. The new playlist I created that morning made the time fly...which I guess would be literal reference in this scenario. The next thing I knew, we were touching tarmac. Hallelujah.

You know it's going to be excruciatingly hot outdoors when it's absolutely unbearable at the gate. Phoenix offered the kind of triple-digit heat that takes one's breath away. And, yes, I am aware that I was going to Arizona in flipping August, but I am able to forget how hot hot actually is being spoiled by an ocean breeze. And there was the added bonus of monsoon weather and the humidity it brings. Whatever. I was there to see my friend and she was right there to pick me up. We threw my bags into her boot and headed off to a cool venue.

Dining outside of the 310 or 212 generally makes me nervous. The restaurant we ended up at was nice. Cool and white. Calming ambiance. Well decorated. Or so I thought until I went into the vomit-inspiring lavatory. Picture dim lighting in a white room with mirrored walls replete with neon pink accent lighting. Had there been any turbulence, I would have hurled. I peed with my eyes closed so I wouldn't get dizzy, then went back to the table, ordered a big glass of wine and gave a silent-but-sincere thank you to the people responsible for central air, in spite of what it does to our ozone.

I got to meet two of my friend's friends at dinner that night. They were lovely ladies and we were soon enjoying lively, if not bawdy, conversation. It was in the midst of my story (we were sharing our most embarrassing moments involving a romantic excursion alfresco), when we caught the surprising sight of a zebra approaching us.

One has to be cautious when donning animal print. While zebra might be one of the more gentle animals in the jungle, its pattern is somewhat jarring. It should be left to those whose size is single digit. Someone didn't give this chick that memo.

The zebra and her herd were going to be seated next to us. There she stood, as we sat (obviously), with her back to our table, shaking out her blonde mane while she waited for her friends to squeeze around the table. How she was able to squeeze into her short, shiny, hint of a wild print dress was somewhat baffling. After a brief pause, I continued on with my tale as the neighboring ruckus went on, but then we suddenly stopped. The air had gone out of the room.

My friend and I looked at each other and said, "Did the zebra just fart on us?" Our entire table had to bring our napkins to our faces. With wide eyes, we followed the zebra as she took her seat. "She actually farted on us," my friend said. Not sure if we should be shocked or angered, we just sat there laughing.

It happens to all of us. It's human, I know. And I realize that if one is on a date and gassy, one must time the outbursts to the best of one's ability. But, if you find yourself in that situation, do try not to let go in the direction of other people's overpriced salads.

I was so stunned by what had occurred, and continued to linger, that I lost track of where I was in my story. Finally, the air cleared, and so did my mind. My friend continued to react whenever another aroma hit her, swearing someone else was passing gas. We were able to convince her it was just dinner being served. We decided to skip dessert, though.

The next night, it was dinner at a different place, but a familiar sight was seen. Another blonde donning zebra upon zebra (dress with matching coat), approached us. My friend and I shared a look of concern. We could do without anymore "zebra kisses", as we came to call them. Happily, Zebra Two wandered out to the patio, which was perhaps her natural habitat. My friend and I were tucked safely at the bar (quel suprise), waiting for another friend from the night before. Fortunately, the only thing that stunk that night was my pomegranate martini, which tasted like Robitussin. Back on the vodka, this time with soda (tonic has too many calories and is saved strictly for travel), and we did share dessert.

Covering One's Funny Bone

I realize I'm throwing in my two-bits a bit too late on this whole New Yorker bad-taste-as-satire cover thing, but an article on Salon yesterday really got me irritated. It made two really offensive accusations: 1) Rush Limbaugh was right (about anything), and 2) Democrats have lost our collective sense of humor. Let me tell you, I can find the funny in just about anything. That cover wasn't funny. The more I looked at it, the more gobsmacked I became.

First of all, the cover does nothing more than serve up the Republican right a poster for their Anti-Obama campaign. Whether people in that Manhattan office realize it, outside their insulated bubble, bigotry is alive and well. The right uses nothing but fear to send voters to the booth. The cover decision was just an incredibly dumb act performed by some well-educated, supposedly cultured high-brows. And a perfect example of what kills me about the Democrats: We will shoot ourselves in the foot well before the other side can lob a Nerf ball at us. People, are the last eight years not enough for you? Jeebus. Give me a break even if you won't give one to Barack.

Secondly, but more importantly, the couple portrayed on the cover have children. By that, I don't simply mean "offspring" who will be doing some underage drinking in high-profile bars in the next week or two, but little girls. In primary school. In this case especially, satire needs to take a step back and become a bit more sensitive.

Imagine for a second that Ebony magazine did a "satirical" cover of, say, men donning yarmulkes dancing gleefully around piles of money? Or a priest convention taking place at a boys' school in Thailand? There would be one hell of an uproar if they went for that kind of "humor". Should the New Yorker expect any less? I'm certainly offended. And, had I a subscription, I would certainly cancel it. Fortunately for InStyle, Shape and Fitness, the closest they get to satirical humor is what they do with PhotoShop.

Certain things will just never be funny. I don't see a wave of 9/11 standup routines. Concentration camp humor hasn't made its way to the stage. There are no jokes about the day JFK or MLK Jr. were shot. If there are, I don't want to hear them. But if Pain plus Time really does equal Funny, then the New Yorker's biggest mistake was not waiting to do this cover after Obama takes the oath. Then all that cover would have said to the Republican right was: Gotcha!