Shalom, Nanoo Nanoo, and Have a Nice Trip!

By the time you read this, Renee will be in the Holy Land, and I'm not talking about the Barneys outlet sale, I'm talking the Big I, Israel, or "H to the Izzay," as members of the Lost Tribe--though not the ones on ABC--might say. She left last night on a tightly secured El Al flight to Tel Aviv, which she barely got on thanks to those fancy nail clippers.

Now many of you might be scratching your heads thinking, "Hey, wait, I thought they were trying to clear the Jews out of Israel these days, not bring more in." And you're not wrong. You're probably a militant Zionist, but you're not wrong. Well, it turns out that Renee, God love her, said, "to hell with politics, terrorists and all those who aren't quite sure how to wrap a head scarf properly, this girl needs her a vacation!" So off she went.

What does this mean for you, dear reader? Well, for the next 10 days-ish, it's likely to mean a lot more postings by this R half of the R&R equation. WAIT!!! Don't leave yet, muttering to yourself "well, now here's a blog I can skip till mid-October." See that's the super sneaky part. C'mon, you have to realize we Jewish girls are an especially wily bunch. So though I'll be providing more daily brain farts for the next while, you should keep checking back because Renee will be doing posts from the road when the mood strikes. She even bought herself a digital camera so she could provide you with photographic evidence of her vacation activities ("Here I am covered in Dead Sea mud!" and "Here I am running from an airborne rock!")

Frankly, this blog only promises to get more exciting. So keep coming back, have a falafel in honor of Renee and pray that she meets a nice Jewish boy packing heat while she's over there.

20 Years of Spin

Last night I went to Spin magazine's 20th anniversary party at Webster Hall and wow, did it bring up a lot of memories. Sure, some might call them drug-induced flashbacks, but hey, that's rock'n'roll, baby.

Arguably I'm really the wrong person to be discussing rock'n'roll, since, as all my friends know, I have awful taste in music. I also couldn't spot a trend in music if it hit me over the head like the guitar that bashed Nirvana bassist Chris Novoselic when he rather imprudently threw it in the air during one concert. (And I only know this reference because I probably saw it in one of those 100 Most Dumb Ass Moments in Rock on VH1.) But, to give you the perfect example of this, and to relate my own place in Spin magazine history, I'll admit that when I was in college, I applied for a summer internship at the indie, though now institutional, rock title.

Now keep in mind, this was the early 90s, and I went to the interview in their grungy offices in a long flowy floral skirt and heels, just as the rise of the Seattle scene style was coming into fashion. The editor I met with asked me who I liked musically and I think I told him Sarah McLaughlin and Kate Bush. Barely concealing a smirk, he then asked me what I thought of the emerging grunge scene and I told him I thought it was crap and would have no impact whatsoever. And come on, truth be told, flannel is very unflattering. "Grunge will be a flash in the pan," I told him confidentally. Needless to say, I didn't get the job, and we're all better for it.

But at the celebration last night, they did have some very cool musicians play that even I could appreciate: Death Cab for Cutie and Public Enemy. Okay, I might not be the most ardent Public Enemy fan, but when they enouraged the audience to call back lyrics that included: Fuck George Bush! Fuck FEMA!, well, they had me at "fuck."

So happy birthday, Spin! Long may you prosper and keep people like me out of your editorial offices.

On Not Getting What You Don't Want

A good friend of mine, let's call her "Robin," recently told me a funny story about how she didn't get a job that she really didn't want in the first place. What made me laugh was that she said she found rejection at the hand of people she'd thought to be nincompoops utterly horrifying. Way worse than being passed over for a job she really did want, in fact. When she learned she hadn't gotten the job, "Robin" might have even said, "it feels like I just got my balls cut off by the retarded cashier at McDonalds.

What particularly galled my girl was that this was not a job she'd gone after, it came and offered itself to her. She then had to prepare herself mentally for imagining life at a workplace she didn't want to go to. And even though the pay was far less than she hoped for, she realized that she could put off the heart surgery she needed until the health plan kicked in a year later. The interview she felt went fairly smoothly but for her creeping sense of dread that the walls were closing in and that her heart might explode in her chest.

"Robin" then naturally assumed she'd hear back from these people immediately. When a few days had gone by and no "when can you start?" word had been received, she was a little irritated, but not surprised. Clearly they needed someone like her to get the place running properly. When two weeks had elapsed and there was still no contact, she was curious but by no means furious. She called the head of HR two and a half weeks later just to "check in," but was given the old human resources dodge: oh, yes, the person making the final hiring decision is traveling, but will get back to you just as soon as he can. Well, a month and a half later, Robin got a form letter thanking her for her interest, and saying though they had chosen someone else for the position, they would keep her resume on file. That's when "Robin" let loose a flurry of curse words that even made a hardened old potty-mouth like me blush crimson.

I think part of the reason I found her story so amusing was because it's something I know I can certainly relate to--hello Rejection from an editorship at Playgirl!--and I think it's one of those universal "holy shit, did this really just happen to me?!?" things that just sucks hard. Needless to say, that's why I'd love to hear anyone else's tales of mortification, so if you're so inclined, please share and spread the joy of your pain with our community of rejects.

Playing "The Game"

In this week's New York Magazine, the outstanding sex columnists Em & Lo, discuss the evergreen subject of "players" in the Mating column. Thanks to Neil Strauss (the former NYT pop music writer who has also co-authored books with literary luminaries such as Marilyn Manson and Jenna Jameson) playas strolled back into the spotlight with the release of his book, The Game, a how to con women guide that this week was #10 on the NYT best seller list.

We won't waste time on The Game, per se, or bother hyperlinking to Neil because we don't want to and yes, we're just that petty--at least the Robin half of us is--but we do find Em & Lo's column really interesting. In it, the ladies essentially ask the question, "who's zooming who?," ie, aren't women by players by nature, too?

What they determine is that yes, we are. We really, really are. And I very much agree, but there is a distinction in the timing and rules of play that I think went undiscussed. Of course in a short piece there's no way they could have fit in all the nuances of the subject (clearly this is a story that could be book length...) but the final quote in their piece is from a woman who says, “[W]omen are the master manipulators. And we can get away with a lot more than men, because we’re not as obvious. Take a woman with a plan and a man with a plan and have them both follow through? The woman will always come out on top. Literally.”

My sense is that this isn't true. There's another woman who's quoted in the story who admits to being a player herself because she likes the thrill of the chase--this I buy--and this I might have even uttered myself. But, like the first girl quoted, do women always come out on top? I'm going to go with "no." Certainly not at the beginning of the game anyway because when you're "playing" there's no guarantee that you'll get to the end (if by end you mean relationship.) Sure, one person can always walk away and that's technically an end, but how does walking away put you on top?

I'm curious to hear what you, dear readers, think about this since its a subject I've already spent oodles of playing around with in my own head and years of my life batting around with others...

Confessions... To Change Your Life

Know how sometimes you buy an object and within a week you think: "Good God! How did I ever live without this thing? My life is now entirely complete!" Yeah, well this happens to me a fair amount. Readers of this blog will recall my recent love affair with a certain new paper shredder for example.

I felt similarly when I purchased my Swiffer Wet Jet, aka, The Magic Mop, two years ago. Kids, let's just say it took my mopping to a whole nother level: A level in which I actually started mopping. Fan-freaking-tastic!

But why am I waxing poetic about an old mop, you ask? Well, because when I read the premise to fellow GCC'er Melanie Lynne Hauser's book, CONFESSIONS OF SUPERMOM, in which her main character loads her Swiffer Wet Jet with every household cleanser she owns, aims, and fires... and passes out, overcome by the fumes, I thought to myself, now here's a character I can relate to!

The character in question then gains super powers, which is another something I can relate to, though I can't tell you why... But instead of me saying anything more, look at some of these reviews:

"Like its title character, this debut novel has a secret identity...it's unexpectedly poignant and packs an emotional punch despite the cheery veneer... at the heart of this story is a narrative about a lonely, wronged woman who just wants to do right by her children and stand up to an uncontrollable world. Hauser slips in soliloquies on motherhood and womanhood that, though brief, are moving, showing us Birdie Lee's heart and in that, the wishes and dreams of super moms everywhere. " Publishers Weekly

“This silly but fun twist on the superhero tale comes packaged with a socially responsible message about consumerism, but it doesn’t get in the way of the high jinks.” Booklist

So in addition to purchasing a new object to change your life today, definitely pick up a copy of CONFESSIONS OF SUPERMOM. If not for you, then for a Swiffer Wet Jet Loving Mom near you.

Congratulations, You Over-Adulated Actors, You!

First, a personal note of congratulations and a big woooooo-hoooooo to three writer friends of mine who picked up Emmy awards last night for their outstandingly hilarious work on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Rob Kutner, Jason Reich, and JR Havlan, I salute you even if the NYT did call you "a mock tableau of the past -- the Whiffenpoofs, circa 1961." That wasn't nice and it wasn't true: none of these bespectacled white men went to Yale (Princeton and Cornell, yes. Yale, no.) Less nice still was that they shafted all three in this photo.



But aside from being thrilled for my friends, mainly what I felt last night was that queasy 'am I really watching this?' sensation that I often experience during award shows. It's a feeling of "are you kidding me? We're actually spending time honoring overpaid, overvalued ninnies who have NOTHING to say other than the words other people put in their mouths? We're really celebrating folks because they look good in clothing and are photogenic enough to glow under good lighting? That's bologna. That's bad repeating bologna."

I know I'm biased, but it seems to me that actors should take a back seat in these shows. They are truly only a tiny portion of what makes the programs or movies work. And they get an outrageously big slice of credit already. Sure, I know an awards show dedicated to honoring writers, prop masters, and sound guys would get ratings as high as a show about the paint-drying process, but come on, people. Should we really care what Doris Roberts has to say? Unless it's been written for her, the answer should be "no."

!Ask Robin & Renée!

We finally got a few letters in the old mailbag, which means it's time for our favorite recurring segment "!Ask Robin & Renée!"


Dear Robin & Renée,

As you and the rest of the world probably know, my hero, Britney Spears, and her adorable husband, Kevin Federline, gave birth to a baby boy yesterday! :) It was the happiest day of my life!!! :) My question to you is, what shall I send them to congratulate them on this most beautiful and blessed event? :)

:)
Tiffany

A: Birth control.

Love-n-stuff,
R&R


Dear Robin & Renée,

Brit & K-Fed are parents!!! This is the biggest news EVER!!! Isn't this just the coolest???

Sincerely,
The Editorial Staff of Us Weekly

A: Dear Slave Laborers,

Stockholm Syndrome got you down? Dudes, get a grip: this loin product will simply be the sum of its parts, meaning it won't know how to wear a baseball cap properly, it won't understand the concept of wearing an undershirt UNDER a SHIRT, and often it'll find itself scratching its head wondering, "how did I get here with so little natural talent?"

Now knock it off and get back to reporting on the important matters like whether Nick and Jessica are really getting separated, or whether that whole Johnny Knoxville thing was just a clever plot thought up by master planner Joe Simpson to create a publicity maelstrom... well, you get the point.

Love-n-stuff
R&R

We got about 3,500 other letters about the excitement over the B/K spawn, but this was all we could handle answering for today. Simply put, we were exhausted by the coverage and couldn't stand thinking about it for one second more lest our heads explode.

But if you, dear reader, have any other questions concerning any other subject, please feel free to either post them to the comments section or email us directly at shakingherassets@hotmail.com and we'll be happy to tackle your trauma with the perfect mixture of love and callous disregard.

Do Not Call. DO NOT CALL. Do Not Call.

Today is an election day here in New York and if I get one more freaking recorded message from one more stupid person I don't know urging me to vote for another yahoo I don't know, I'm not going to vote at all. Hey, you stupid politicians, I'm on the "Do Not Call" list--you know, that list of people who find unsolicited solicitations REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING. The Do NOT Call list, you irritating morons. You know, the list that you ever-so-cleverly exempted yourselves from?


Well, stupid politicians, this ANGRY voter who has received so many calls she now has a big phone zit on her chin, she's mad as hell and she's NOT GOING TO VOTE FOR YOU.

His Epidermis Is Showing!

Oh, Andre! Though I'm certain you're feeling worse about your heartbreaking loss in yesterday's U.S. Open than I am, I must say I really was rooting for you to win. Was it because I wanted you to prove that one's best days are not behind you when you reach your mid-30s? Um yeah, partially. But I was also cheering you to victory (though evidently not hard enough) for a much more sporting reason: I dig your dome, baby.

The way the lights at Flushing Meadow reflected off your shiny mopless-top, well, that was hot. Though not every man can carry off the baldness thang, most genuinely do look substantially better when they go bold and go bald. Whether it's that old chestnut about bald men having more testosterone that gets me, or whether it's that crush on Kojack that never quite healed, there's just something about that "King and I" look that I find very refreshing. (Hello, world champion surfer, Kelly Slater!)


So though we don't usually spend much time here discussing what goes on in a man's head (since those discussions generally go something like this: Q: "Why do they have to be so stupid? A: Because they have rocks for brains, Next subject..."), I just wanted to salute Mr. Agassi for his very conscious decision to go lock-less, and to encourage any dudes who might be reading this to show us your pates. It probably won't help you win the U.S. Open, but it just might help you win over the ladies.

Rest In Peace, Gilligan!

More sad news to report: Bob Denver--Gilligan--the star of the 70s sitcom, "Alice," and the man who filled thousands of hours of my youth in his lovingly bumbleheaded quest not to get off an island, has died.

Oh, Gilligan, today I tip my white sailor's cap to you to thank you for the memories. I can still remember sitting right back, and hearing a tale, a tale of a fateful trip... you know the one, the one that was supposed to be a three hour tour. A three hour tour! Instead, Gilligan, that trip of yours lasted so long, the muscles of my legs atrophied as I sat immobile and googly-eyed in front of the small Epstein family television set, awaiting your rescue.

You know, when the Harlem Globetrotters came, I felt sure, that, that was going to be the day you and the other castaways--the Skipper (brave and sure), The Millionaire and his wife, the Movie Star... and the rest--would return to the civilized world. But it was not to be. They left you stranded on that island with a witch doctor, with cannibals and a young Jeff Probst, who was the real threat, already lurking in the brush, waiting to kill your sitcom with the advent of "reality" TV.

But today is about remembering you as a cultural icon, and Bob Denver, you will be missed. Thankfully, though, I'll be able to see you on reruns in perpetuity. Rest in peace, little buddy, rest in peace.

The Mongolian Cow Sour Yogurt Super Girl Contest

Who would have thought eight little words could bring such joy to 400 million people? (Actually, make that 400 million and one, as I find myself pretty tickled by them, too.) But what is The Mongolian Cow Sour Yogurt Super Girl Contest, you ask?

Though I'd like to tell you it's a battle royale among Superheroines, involving daredevil antics, invisible planes, lassoes of Truth and big cuff bracelets, really it's just the Chinese version of American Idol. (The show is sponsored by Mongolian Cow Sour Yogurt.) Still, the competition has taken China by storm. According the NYT, the number of people who tuned in to watch Li Yuchun, a student from the Sichuan province, become their very own Kelly Clarkson "eclipsed the population of North America." (And, ironically enough, like our own Kelly, apparently Li can't really sing, either.)

But what's more, Li is no traditional pageant winner-type. Described as "boyish" or "androgynous" by Chinese commentators--and oh-so-kindly referred to as "tall and gangly, with a thatch of frizzy hair" by the New York Times--she's possibly even, GASP, a lesbian.

It seems that the impact of the "Super Girl" show is rippling out to the broader Chinese culture, causing at least a few of those 400 million to question the offerings of China's Central Television, an arm of the Communist government's propaganda machine. And once that starts happening, Wang Yao, bar the door!

So even if this show's success means China will start producing similar dross to what we see on our networks here, I have to admit, I think that's a great leap forward.

What Can Be Said?

Sadly those with the least lost the most, and if they didn't think the government cared about them before, well, now they know for sure. I can't begin to fathom the devastation the victims of Katrina have experienced, I can only pray things get better for them. And I can send money. You can, too, at these charities that are accepting donations for Hurricane relief:
The Red Cross
Habitat For Humanity
Charity Navigator

Another Reason Why I Hate Hollywood

The Pitch: A Series About Wacky Terrorists. This article tops the Arts section in today's NYTimes. Here are some of my favorite quotes from the article and the brain trust at work in LaLaLand:

"'The Cell' as this exercise in envelope-pushing is titled, has been making its way through Hollywood for more than a year, cracking up development executives and their assistants."

"The script's writers, meanwhile, have landed three assignments thanks to 'The Cell.'"

"I'm sure there would be a lot of people that said you can't do this, but that's what they told me about 'Will and Grace.'" -- Warren Littlefield, former NBC Entertainment President

You hear that, gays? You've blazed a trail for terrorists! If desert camo is the new black, terrorists are the new you!

Look, in entertainment, is it important to push boundaries? No doubt about it. "Hogan's Heroes" did it well, and making hay about Nazi Germany definitely offers a good counterpoint to the 'how can you joke about something like this, you sick fuck?' argument that was my initial response. But here's the difference with this show: the heroes in "The Cell" are the terrorists, not the allied forces.

Now I haven't read the script and no doubt most of the jokes come at the terrorists' expense, but what I find almost as offensive as the premise is the idea that the entertainment community is patting itself on the back for thinking themselves so "edgy" (one of their fav. words) and progressive that they find this stupid concept "hot."