It’s Like They Knew…

Tags

fashion sense, Getting your husband to get rid of his sweatpants, GQ magazine fashion advice, How to get your husband to dress better, humor, men wearing sweatpants, teenage girls don't think you are cool, too old to care what you wear, women wearing teen clothing

There are several articles floating around the Internet and Facebook that have a title like: What Women Over Forty Should Never Wear. If you click on the post, you might find a tirade about women being able to wear whatever they hell they want for as long as they want.

I am all for that kind of freedom of expression. I want women to feel their best and be comfortable in their own skin—or to wear whatever they want. Some of my friends in their late 40’s and early 50’s still dress as if they’re sharing closets with their teenage daughters. I don’t judge them. Well, maybe I do—a little. But, I’m not saying they SHOULDN’T dress like a sixteen-year-old if they choose to do so. But this got me thinking…

I don’t think shopping at Forever 21
is a sin after a certain age, but maybe, just maybe, you might be fooling yourself into thinking that if you still fit into a size two, then by-god, you can rock a mini-dress with side cutouts just like a Kardashian. And technically, you might still fit into such attire. But, what is it you’re trying to convey? Do you hope everyone will mistake you for someone much younger? I have never seen this technique work. Let’s be realistic. Everyone will still see you as a forty-something wearing a dress made for a much younger person.

teenage girls pic courtesty of Jason Stitt via dreamstime.com/free

At a certain point, you almost accentuate your age by dressing too young.

Newsflash: the teenage girls wearing the same clothes you are wearing are not impressed. They will not invite you into their club.

I remember being at a wedding when I was in my twenties. A friend and I were standing in line for a drink at the bar. A model-thin woman was in front of us wearing a black, short, backless mini-dress, and stiletto high heels. She had long, blond hair (in the days of big hair and hairspray) that hung down her back in platinum Farrah Fawcett-feathers. I remember thinking how pretty she looked from behind. BUT THEN…

She got her drink from the bar and turned around. I’m sure my eyes popped open in disbelief. I tried to cover up my surprise, but I was kinda stunned. When she turned around—the woman’s face did not match her hair or her clothing. It was jarring.  I might have stood there with my mouth open for a second or two before my friend elbowed me and I realized it was our turn to order drinks.

Before anyone accuses me of being jealous of this older woman, I could’ve stepped into her entire outfit with no problem. AND that was part of the problem.  I remember feeling sort of cheated. I fully expected a beautiful, young woman to turn around and instead I got a face that had seen many decades in the sun—in the days before sunscreen. Looking back as an older woman, I must admit that I admire her confidence. But, at the time, I was stunned.

That image stayed with me for years. I asked myself why the encounter bothered me so much. I realized it was because her obvious display of wanting to be young made me sort of pity her. She seemed to try too hard to be ‘cool’ and it came off as tragically sad.  I honestly believe a middle-aged woman can be sexy without dressing like a twenty-something. I swear it’s possible.

So I ask you. Why do some women want to be cool  after a certain age? Shouldn’t the need to be ‘cool’ eventually wear off? I’m not talking about being confident here. Confidence is something altogether different.

I’ve spent my entire adult life surrounded by confident women. I’ve had many mentors who were self-possessed, classy ladies. I have seen older women look sexy and beautiful—but they were not trying to look like the girls on the cover of Cosmo or Vogue. The girls on the cover of fashion magazines are YOUNG. Very young. That magazine is selling the idea of youth.  But, let’s face it. Buying super trendy clothes isn’t going to buy back your youth.

I’m not saying that at a certain age we should breakout the beige granny panties and polyester pants. No way!! However, wearing black leather skinny jeans with holes sliced down the front (see pic at bottom) just because you can fit into them does not magically transport you back into your twenties. A word of caution:  The other women in your reading group/PTA/booster club might tell you how they wish they could fit into the skinny jeans and tight sweater you’re wearing, but that does not mean they think you look younger.

When I was in high school (waaay back in the 1980’s) a mom came to pick up her daughter from an after school drama club. This girl’s mom walked in wearing stonewashed jeans tucked into tall boots and had a red bandanna for a belt. A shiny gold Let’s-Get-Physical type headband was across her forehead. After she and her daughter left, the girls snickered. Why? Because teenage girls can be mean. Yeah, I giggled right along with them and hate myself for it. But, to make my point, we were never going to call her ‘cool.’ We would never think of her as ‘one of us.’

Perhaps we girls felt superior because a  (non-celebrity) adult was trying to emulate our fashion trends—and it seemed sort of pathetic to us. Looking back, I really do hate myself for being so shallow. But, what teenager isn’t the center of their own universe?

So back to what I was saying…

It seems that middle-age women sometimes will try to recapture their youth by dressing decades younger. But, the middle-age men (and even beyond middle age)…well, it seems a lot of them just stop trying altogether.

This weekend, my twenty-something son, my fifty-year-old husband, and I went to lunch downtown. My husband dropped us off at the door of the restaurant and then drove off to find parking. When my husband entered the restaurant, my son whispered to me, “Did you know he was wearing sweatpants?”

No. I. Did. Not.

“Is he, really?”

“Yes. He wears them everywhere, Mom. You should burn them.”

“I’d love to. But, he says they’re comfortable.”

“So, what? Just ‘lose’ them one day.”

And then it hit me. Wait a minute. My flannel pajama bottoms featuring skulls wearing pink hairbows are the most comfortable item of clothing on the planet—but I don’t wear them out in public. Why does he get a comfort-pass?

 AND thus began The Great Clothing Dispute of 2017.

After lunch, we got into the car and began to drive home. This is what transpired:

ME:  Your son thinks I ought to burn those sweatpants.

HIM:  No he doesn’t. Did you say that, Stephen?

SON: Thanks for throwing me under the bus, Mom. But, yeah, Dad. You really need to get rid of those. How long have you had them?

ME: They’re older than you are.

HIM: Sweatpants never go out of style.

ME and SON:  WHAT?!?

HIM: Their classics. Like jeans.

ME: They are nothing like jeans!

SON: Yeah, you’re right. They’re like classic acid-washed jeans. Just like that, Dad.

HIM: (Having no clue what acid-washed is and not sensing the sarcasm) Yeah. Exactly. Your mother doesn’t understand. They’re comfortable. And warm. They’re fleece-lined! That’s a sign of a good pair of sweats.

ME: You’re too old to be wearing sweatpants.

HIM: You’re never too old to wear sweatpants.

ME: Okay, fine. Then you’re too old to wear them out in public—or too young to wear them in the retirement home Day Room.

HIM: You’re being dramatic. Lots of men wear sweatpants.

ME: Not men who are over 45 but under 70.

HIM: Since when does age matter? Movie stars wear them.

ME: I don’t remember seeing George Clooney or Alec Baldwin wearing sweatpants. Let’s settle this argument. How about I Google it?

HIM: Are you kidding me?

Me:  No. (I pulled out my phone and Googled Men Wearing Sweatpants) Okay. Here’s an article in GQ Magazine. Let’s see what they have to say about it.

HIM: *Rolling his eyes*  Fine let the Internet decide whose right.

I quickly scrolled the GQ article and realized I was in trouble. The article was, in fact, in favor of classic gray sweatpants. I hadn’t thought about the youthful demographic of GQ when I had clicked on the article.

So, refusing to have my hubby’s beliefs validated by a well-known men’s’ fashion magazine, I decided right then and there that I’d have to change the article to suit my purpose. Since we were in the car, I’d have to do it off the cuff or lose the argument altogether—which would have meant he’d wear those hideous sweatpants everywhere just to prove a point.

ME:  Here’s the article from GQ. I’ll read it to you.

WHAT GQ ACTUALLY SAID:  Sweatpants are dangerous territory. The wrong cut, context or styling choices can give you an air of “I’ve given up completely” which is never something a man wants to project with his clothing.

I read that part verbatim. *Yay me!* I continued with the article.

GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID:   For photo evidence on how to avoid that connotation, look to 27-year-old trendsetter Zac Efron, who was photographed wearing the modern-guy staple at Heathrow Airport yesterday. Do you want to trick the world into thinking your incredibly comfortable pants are a stroke of fashion genius all while holding hands with a ridiculously good-looking person like Emily Ratajkowski?

WHAT I SAID:  Unless you are 27-year-old Zac Efron, STAY AWAY from sweatpants altogether. Sweatpants will NEVER be a stroke of fashion genius—not even if you’re walking through Heathrow airport holding hands with a ridiculously good-looking person like Emily Ratajkowski.

HIM:  Who’s Emily Ratatouille?

Me: That’s not important. Did you hear what GQ said?

HIM:  Whatever.

Me:  Let me continue.

WHAT GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID:  Do not go to Costco and pick up any ol’ pair of gray, elastic-waist sweats and think that’s going to cut it. Your best bet is to look to a retailer that’s known for its sartorial curation like Mr Porter, Barneys, Matches, or one of those stores. You can pretty much guarantee that those sweats will be stylish sweats. We’re partial to athletic styling and darker-than-heather-grey colors but we’ll leave that part up to you.

WHAT I SAID:  Do not wear your Costco blue, elastic-waist sweatpants EVER. That’s never going to cut it. Sweats will NEVER be stylish. NEVER—no matter if they are athletic cut or darker than heather gray. If you own a pair and are over the age of 27, take them out to the garage, find lighter fluid, matches, and a big metal bin. Douse said sweats with fluid and light a match. Bury the ashes in the yard along with any photographic evidence of you wearing such a heinous fashion choice.

WHAT GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID: Once you own these magic pants, you’re going to want to wear them all the time. Limit yourself to the most casual settings and occasions. Running errands on a Sunday morning, heading out to the gym in the evening, hopping on a plane with your significant other—you get the idea. (Note: If you live in Los Angeles, you can wear them pretty much all the time.)

Me: (Thinking) C’mon GQ!! You are not helping here!

WHAT I SAID:  These are NOT magic pants. There is no way they will ever look good–no matter how comfortable they are. Running errands on a Sunday morning, heading out in the evening, hopping a plane with your significant other is NO EXCUSE to be caught wearing a wretched excuse for pants. No one in Los Angeles would be caught dead wearing these. They might actually laugh you out of California–so do not try it.

WHAT GQ ARTICLE ACTUALLY SAID:  Don’t be the guy at the bodega on Saturday morning in sweats and shearling-lined house slippers, ordering an egg sandwich like no one else in the world exists. Take a cue from Zac Efron. Style the sweats with likeminded day-off staples—a carefully chosen vintage t-shirt and a well-fitting hoodie or pullover—and a pair of top-shelf sneakers.

WHAT I SAID:  Don’t be the guy at the bodega on Saturday morning in sweats—even if they are shear-lined with the warmest fleece. Come on. Why are you ordering an egg sandwich like no one else in the world exists? The people you are with are mortified. Trust us. We are the fashion experts. We would never say it if it weren’t true. So, unless you are Zac Efron, (or any twenty-seven-year old with washboard abs who would look good in absolutely anything even a pair of footy-pajamas) lose the baggy, saggy, noisy-when-you-walk, Oh-So-Sad sweatpants–no matter how comfortable they are. Remember: They are devil-pants. The first chance you get, take the pair of despicable pajama-wannabes and discard them. While you’re at it, take those holey t-shirts that you call ‘vintage’ and that faded NFL pullover sweatshirt with the frayed and out-of-shape-collar from your closet and toss them into a fire pit. Invite your neighbors over for a drink and s’mores. Watch the repugnant clothing burn. If you are over fifty…it’s way overdue. Act today. Note: You can keep your top-shelf sneakers.

HIM: That’s so weird. It’s like they knew you hated my Broncos sweatshirt, too!

ME: Yeah, that is so weird. It is like they knew or something…

 

 

Reference: For entire GQ Article click link below:

http://www.gq.com/story/mens-sweatpants-styling-tips-zac-efron

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Use With Caution

Tags

critique groups, high school students, humor, metaphors, teachers, teaching, writing

It’s Writing Wednesday.

Members of my online critique group know I am not a fan of metaphors.  I will ‘call them out’ on a poorly written metaphor.  One writer in particular had the habit of using them instead of description.  Once he figured out they are not a substitute for narrative, his writing improved tenfold.

I rarely use metaphors.  It is very difficult (in my opinion) to write a serious metaphor.  So, it must be even more difficult to teach how to use them.

God Bless, Teachers!  I marvel at the job teachers do like an OCD clean-freak marvels at what a three tier bin at The Container Store can do.  (Disclaimer:  Used only as a demonstration to explain metaphors.  No nouns, verbs or adjectives were harmed in its making.)

I found a website featuring the best and worst of analogies and metaphors by high school students.  These are real, folks.  I am going to try and put together the scenario to figure out how these little beauties came to be.  Just for fun, I will decide whether I would’ve let it slide in my classroom—if I had one.

1. Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.

This cracks me up.  I imagine Gene the pocket-protector-wearing math genius writing the first half of the sentence:  “Her eyes were like two…”  Using his dominant left-sided brain, Gene works through the puzzle as he would a polynomial.   He quickly writes the second half of the equation “…brown circles with big black dots in the center.”  The words “were like” is an equal sign and both sides of the sentence need to balance, right?   Of course!   Eyes = Circles and dots!  No argument there.  No credit, either.

2.  He was as tall as a 6-foot tree.

This one made me chuckle.  In my mind, this student is a big, jolly jock named Dirk.  Our hulking letterman believes numbers tell you what you need to know about a person.  Batting averages, yards gained, touchdowns scored.  Dirk’s looking at his screen thinking of writing a metaphor about a tall man, but he’s puzzled about how to describe such a person.  Ah ha!  I got it.  Give the readers something they can use—a stat.  Dirk smiles and types in the rest of the sentence.  Who can argue with logic like that?  I can’t.  Alas…still no credit.

3.  John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

Here you have your typical teenage boy named Harry Hormone.  This distractible fellow is forced to write a short story for his English class.  Harry’s mind is not on the story.  He writes, “John and Mary had never met…”  He pauses.  Flashes of a cheerleader in her short skirt fill his mind.  Pom-poms flying, she does a flip and then the splits.  Holy cow!  That was exciting.  Young Mr. Hormone looks at the screen.  Ugh.  He’s got to finish the assignment if he ever wants to get back to the magazine hidden behind his math book.  Harry remembers his English teacher told him to expand on his thoughts to bring his writing to the next level.  “Ah!  Expand!   What are two things that haven’t met?”  He glances around the room and sees a hummingbird on a motivational poster above the teacher’s desk.  “Got it!”  He smiles–not because of what he’s written, but because some cheerleader just dropped her pencil and has bent over to pick it up.  No credit.

4.  Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

At first glance, this appears to be lazy writing.  I picture a Goth girl named Tiffany (she goes by Tiff) with black hair and lipstick to match.  Tiff is slumped in her chair as she begins to write a murder mystery about the cheerleader who just dropped her pencil in front of the class.  Goth girl rolls her eyes and tries her hand at ‘irony’.  Yeah, I’m giving her partial credit.

5.  The lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object.

Ha!  Howard High-Strung wants to please the teacher.  He wants to be perfect, but he’s just not creative.  Howie is staring at the screen, trying to come up with something…anything.  “I’ve got it.  Plus, I get to use ‘inanimate’ in a sentence. Yes, she’s going to love this.”  Well, the kid’s going to need therapy, but sorry, no credit.

6.  They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

This struck me as hilarious.  It’s the type of metaphor I would’ve used in high school; therefore we’ll call her Susie Smart-ass.  It’s not a good metaphor.  In the fact, it’s jarring.  However, it does its job.  After all, you can picture those picket fences, can’t you?  Partial credit…Naw… I’m going to give Susie full credit.  I like the way this kid’s mind works.

7.  She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword puzzle.

Brilliant!  This would get a gold star from me.  Does it leave any doubt in your mind how easy this girl is?  I love it!  This was from Freddy Flamboyant.  He’s over-the-top flashy in everything he does.  Teacher wants metaphors?  Not a problem.  Freddy’s got a million zingers that he uses on his friends all the time.  Full Credit and gold star.

8.  The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

Oliver Obvious had a word count and an assignment to use metaphors in his essay.   No credit, Ollie.

9.  Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”

This is another gold star winner.  I think it’s wonderful.  I wish I would’ve thought of it.  You get the point and you don’t have to wrack your brain to figure out just how that date went, do you?  This kid, we’ll call her Patty Pulitzer is a writer-in-the-making.  She’s got a box full of poetry and several screenplays she intends to finish someday hidden under her bed.  Credit.  Gold Star.

So without further ado, I leave you.  I enjoyed these as much as seeing a humming bird that I haven’t met, fly out of a six-foot tree and crash into Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth making her look like hungry fighter.

If you want to read some more of these priceless beauties, here’s the link:

http://www.losteyeball.com/index.php/2007/06/19/56-worstbest-analogies-of-high-school-students/

Was it worth risking my life? Sure!

Tags

accidents, Broadway shows, bus trips, Holland Tunnel, humor, Navy SEALs, Peeps, Phantom of the Opera, restaurants in NYC

My two favorite things....

Before I start…Yes, that is a Peep dressed up like the Phantom.  Yes, I made it.  Yes, I am that twisted.  Now onto the blog to prove it:

HOW MAKING A PILGRIMAGE TO SEE PHANTOM ALMOST KILLED ME

I made my first trip to New York with my husband (and twenty of our closest friends) in November 2007.  We lived in Pennsylvania—a mere three hours away, but a world apart.

From the moment the skyline of Gotham City came into view, I was hooked.  I’ve never felt such a personal connection to a place in my life and I’ve lived all over the U.S.

As our party-bus got closer to our destination to our hotel on 5^th Avenue, we passed through the Holland Tunnel.  Somehow, we’d missed the usual snarl-up and traffic moved along pretty well.  Sheer providence!

A sreeeeeeeeeech (like giant nails on a billboard-sized chalkboard), a razor-sharp swerve and a string of obscenities coming from the driver interrupted the rowdy banter of our group of energized forty-somethings.   Everyone gasped as we realized we’d been sideswiped inside the tunnel.

Welcome to New York.

Our bus had been grazed by a garbage truck on the passenger side.  Now, that doesn’t sound so bad.  The only victim had been the car behind us that got hit with something from either the bus or the truck which bounced off the hood and rolled onto the side of the tunnel.  Not a problem.  We were all alive and still moving at a pretty good speed.

“Can I get someone up here?” the bus driver yelled alarming us with his panicked-sounding demand.

A bus full of type-A personalities and no one moved.  Everyone looked at each other with befuddled expressions of silent fear.

“Someone needs to get up here right now!”

My husband I looked at each other.  Does he want someone to drive the bus?  Is he hurt?  Flashes of the movie Airplane came to mind.  “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but…does anyone know how to fly a plane?”

“I can’t see…” before the driver finished his sentence, five of the closest guys jumped from their seats and collided with each other in the aisle.  As I said before, this was a bus of over-achieving, type-A personalities.  They seemed to elbow each other trying to get to the driver—my husband among them.  It looked like a scene from the three stooges, plus two.

“G-damnit!  Someone stand there!” the driver yelled pointing toward the door.  The closest guy took a step back and waited for further instruction.

“Sit down! Move back!” he screamed to the others who’d gathered around his seat and assembled in the aisle.

“Is everything…”

“Shut up and sit down!”

The man on the steps by the door clutched the arm rail and stared at the driver dumbfounded.

“Turn around, you idiot!  Tell me how close I am to that lane, forgodsakes!  I thought you were all supposed to be smart!  What are you looking at me for?”

The other men found their seats.

The poor fellow in the bus stairwell said, “Uh…you want me to tell you how close you are?”

“What’s wrong with you?  Can’t you see we don’t have a mirror!”

“And…you want me to be the mirror?”  He sounded horrified.

The bus crowd let out a nervous laugh.  If we’re going to die, we might as well make fun of someone, right?

“Dude!  Shut up and be the mirror!” someone shouted.

He turned toward the door and said, “You’re close to the lane, but, uh…I think you’re okay.”

“How close?  Tell me how close!”

“I think-the-guy-next-to-you-driving-the-Miata- just-had-a-cardiac-close.”

“Is that a nautical measuring term?” someone yelled from the back.

This is how we navigated the tunnel and then the congested streets of New York, until we arrived at the hotel.  The “mirror guy” was a little pale when it was time to disembark.

“You look scared sh*tless, man,” someone teased him.

“Yeah, well, you would, too.  I really couldn’t see squat.  I totally bluffed the whole way.”

“What?”

“Well, what other choice was there?  We’re here, aren’t we?”

Did I mention the guy was a Navy SEAL?  The moral?  A SEAL is going to see the maneuver to its completion if it kills us all.

Once we got off the death bus, I knew, just knew that I found my “happy place.”  We spent six days and five nights in the big city.  I wanted to cry when we boarded (the now repaired bus) to go home.

One year later, we made the bus trip again.   We had a new driver.  The other guy retired.  I wonder if that trip had anything to do with it?

That year, I fell more in love…with my husband and my “happy place.”

The group made reservations for a very expensive restaurant.

“All right.  Your call.  We can get great seats for Phantom or go to dinner tonight with the rest of them,” my hubby said to me as we strolled down Times Square.

Eat like a queen or see a phantom?

“You mean, if we don’t eat at X, we can get the better seats?”

“Yes.  You decide.  We splurge on food or entertainment.  Your choice.”

“Look!  There’s a street vendor selling hot dogs!”

We went back the year after that, too.  We struck a standing deal.  Moderately priced meals and decent seats for Broadway shows.

Luckily, I found a mate who loves live shows.  Okay, most of the time I have to wake him up halfway through it, but he swears he enjoys theater.  He has done his best napping in some of the finest shows in New York.   The man can sleep anywhere as long as its dark and the seats are cushioned.

In 2010, we found out he was being transferred from Pennsylvania–three hours from my happy place to…

Texas—three hours from, well, nowhere.

Right before we left, my man surprised me with tickets to Phantom—one last trip to the Majestic theatre!  I had never been to NYC in the Spring.  It was gorgeous!

That was a fantastic impromptu trip.  A night I’ll never forget.  Going all out, my beloved even made reservations at a 4-star restaurant before the show.  WOW!  A fantastic feast and Phantom.

Bless his Catholic-convert heart, he forgot it was Good Friday, a day of fasting.

I hope I’m forgiven.

The Portrait of Destruction

Tags

addiction, book reviews, cats, Charlie Sheen, classic literature, drugs, hedonism, humor, narcissist, Oscar Wilde, overdose, Picture of Dorian Gray

MONDAY:  BOOK BLOG

If any of you follow me on Facebook, you might remember that I challenged myself to read nothing but classic literature all summer.  I shamefully admit that I put down Dickens’ Bleak House because I could not get through the first chapter without falling asleep.  I started Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility twice and lost interest.  (Sorry, Austen fans.  I tried.)  However, I did not give up on the classics.  I picked up Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein at a used bookstore.  Holy Neck Bolts!  I discovered a treasure.  I will review that book on my blog soon.  I promise you a big surprise, too.  I can’t wait.

That summer I read and enjoyed some incredible classic novels.  I put a few back on the bookshelf unread, too.  I’m only human.  (Tolstoy?  C’mon.)

I continued reading classics throughout the fall and winter which is how I came across The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.  That is the last book I read, so without further ado, I shall commence blogging about it.

I give it two thumbs up.  I thoroughly enjoyed it.  However, the cat found it dull and the characters too human.  At one point, while I read an incredibly well written passage aloud, she bestowed upon me a look of both apathy and annoyance–an expression only a feline can master.  She then stood up, turned around and sat down again with her back to me in a non-verbal expletive of true disinterest.  She obviously prefers Oscar Wilde plays.

To start us off, here is a description of the main character:

Dorian Gray – a handsome and narcissistic young man who becomes enthralled with…(the) idea of a new hedonism. He begins to indulge in every kind of pleasure, moral and immoral. (Source:  Wikipedia)

Wait as second.  Back up here.  Something about that sounds familiar doesn’t it?  Whom does this character reference describe?  I’ll give you a moment to think about it.

Give up?  Let’s turn on the news and watch for a few minutes.

*switching to the all-news channel*  “Libya, Wisconsin, Gas Prices, Economy, Charlie Sheen.”  Yes!  That’s the one.

It only took seven minutes for Charlie Sheen to be mentioned.  Hmmm, people must be losing interest because last night it only took five minutes.

This got me thinking.  A dangerous pastime, I know.

There are many parallels between Dorian Gray (the character described above) and Charlie Sheen.  Dorian Gray didn’t have his own webcast to show him living it up with porn stars, but, perhaps Dorian let people peek through his windows while he cavorted with loose Can-Can girls.  It could’ve happened.  I’m just saying…

Once again I rely on the place where the modern world gets its information:  Wikipedia.  Here’s a quick overview of one of the themes in The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“Dorian’s major flaw is that he is never able to hold himself accountable, instead, avoiding admission of responsibility by justifying his actions according to the philosophy of the new hedonism.” (Source: Wikipedia)

Question for you:  Is the “new hedonism” of the Victorian era the “old hedonism” of today?  It hasn’t changed all that much since the late 1800’s, has it?  Drugs, orgies, egocentric and deviant behavior without thought of consequence.

Dorian Gray is a handsome, wealthy, spoiled, self-destructive pleasure-seeker.  Sound familiar?  Dorian seeks fulfillment with powerful, addictive drugs, hordes of women and non-stop sex. Ring any bells?  Sound like anyone we know?

Dorian finds out no matter how many drugs he takes, how many parties he attends, how many women (and men) he beds (at the same time or individually) he is not happy.  Yes, dear readers, all this can be found in a 19^th century piece of literature.  I’m not kidding.  Doesn’t this make you want to read the book?

While in the blush and vigor of his youth, Dorian Gray has his portrait painted.  But, it’s not an ordinary painting.  You see, everything Dorian does that harms him physically or morally changes his portrait somehow.  As Dorian sinks to ever lowering levels of debauchery, the uglier the portrait becomes.  And descend into depravity, he does.  It doesn’t take long before the picture becomes too repulsive to look at, so he hides it.

Dorian continues to get weirder and it continues to get uglier.  Weirder how?  Well, read the book and find out.  Put it this way, if they had The National Enquirer back then, he’d be all over it.  He might even have his own column in the “Dear Penthouse” section of that magazine. Uh huh.  You’re even more curious now, aren’t you?  Just read the book.

Dorian spends a good portion of the novel chasing the high he felt when he first started indulging in hedonism.  Just like any addict, he wants to feel that first, orgasmic rush again.  He consumes more and more opium trying to find it.  Frustrated that he cannot attain that feeling, he turns to sex, fetishism and violence.  Admit it.  You want to go to Amazon and buy this book right now.

Dorian ultimately alienates everyone who ever cared about him.  Did anyone see the interview with Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez?  Yeah, like that.

In the novel, Dorian does not age and remains handsome.  Charlie Sheen, however, lost his youth and beauty a while back, so at least we know there isn’t a portrait somewhere in his attic growing older.  There’s still hope for him.

I believe that Charlie Sheen sees himself through the eyes of his own moral “portrait.”  He can’t see how distorted his picture gets day by day because he’s trapped inside it just like Dorian’s soul.  Everyone looking at the painting can see ‘the portrait’ will explode in some sensational accident.  Or maybe it will implode.  The canvas will pull from the frame, shrivel and disintegrate with one occurrence of overindulgence too many.

Like it or not folks, we have ringside seats at the destruction.  At least any Victorians peeking in Dorian’s windows chose to catch a glimpse into the noxious behavior of a sad narcissist.  We don’t get that choice. Just try not to hear, read or watch anything about Charlie Sheen in the coming week.  My bet is it cannot be done.  Even if you curl up in a ball under your bed with your iPod on full blast, you cannot escape it.

Eventually, you’d get hungry. So…

You’d wander into the kitchen and find the New York Times sitting on your table.  The New York Times, people!  It’s true.  Even they are publishing stories on Charlie Sheen.  After you slam the paper into the recycle bin, you take it to the curb.  Guess what?  There’s your neighbor.  She can’t wait to discuss the latest porn star interview on E!  You duck back inside and log-on to check your email.  Guess what?  Yahoo and Google want you to know the latest developing stories, so they put them right there where you can’t miss ‘em.  Charlie Sheen ties monkey to chest and skips rope down the street while singing, “I’m a winner!” to the tune of the old Dr. Pepper commercial.  Oh yeah, there’s also some other story about Khadafi…but he doesn’t have a webcast.

Back to the book The Picture of Dorian Gray:

Poor, unhappy, lonely, Dorian learns he cannot keep living the way he has been.  He ends up acting out in pure desperation.  No, I’m not going to tell you what this tortured character does.  Read the book.  It’s juicy.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde – I recommend it.  The ending is rather awesome.

The Picture of Destruction by Charlie Sheen – Coming to a screen near you.  I hope and pray Charlie can find a way out of his own portrait, take a good look at himself and move away from the hedonism that never fulfills anyone.  Dorian would agree.  I’m sure of it.

What is Normal?

Tags

Andrew Lloyd Webber, classic characters, humor, musicals, obsession, odd behavior, Phans, Phantom of the Opera

It’s Phantom Friday!

Can you feel the excitement in the air?  Listen!  I swear I can hear Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber’s music as though it’s playing in my heart.  Oh, wait.  It’s just my cell phone in my jacket pocket playing Masquerade.  Whoever you are, I’ll call you back later…I’m talking about Phantom here!

I’m not crazy or anything.  I’m just like you except in this one little instance.  You see, I don’t just like something.  I become passionate about it.  Sometimes that passion is a good thing.  Just ask my husband.  Sometimes it’s annoying.  Just ask my children.  I can’t help it.  It’s who I am on the inside—a caffeinated, sugared-up mush ball.

One thing that I am passionate about is characters–real and fictional.  I collect them.  Take a look at my friends.  If you’re thinking, “I know her friends and they all seem pretty normal to me.”  Umm… maybe it’s because you are ‘one of the interesting ones’ and trust me, I appreciate you!

Back to Phantom Friday.  First things first.  I think we need to establish the difference between a “Phan” and a normal person who enjoyed Phantom of the Opera on Broadway or liked the movie with Gerard Butler.  Before I begin the real Phantom Friday Blog next week, let’s take this Friday to figure this out, shall we?

In order to separate the wheat from the chaff or the ‘normal’ from the ‘Phan,’ I’ve come up with a simple test.  If you have done any of these things, perhaps you will come back next week to read my blog again.  Or, you might want to seek professional help.

Are you a Phan?  To find out, ask yourself:

1)      Have you ever downloaded a ringtone from the musical to your phone? (Okay that’s weird, but it gets worse.)

2)      Every time your phone rings, do you hope someone recognizes the song, so you’ll have a brand new Phan-friend?  (Phans bond very easily.  It’s safety in numbers—or the fact that all our other friends cringe and roll their eyes when we bring up Phantom.  “Oh, god! She’s doing it again.”—Yes, I’ve heard you.)

3)      Have you ever watched the movie during the day and gone to the musical that same night?  (It was the perfect day.  I remember it well.)

4)      Do you use a line from the musical at least once a day in regular conversation just to see if anyone picks up on it?  (Still looking for that Phantom soul mate…no luck yet.  They may be tied up somewhere and not allowed to go out in the general populace, but I hope to connect one day…outside the facility, that is.)

5)      You cannot simply walk down any grand staircase, but feel compelled to glide down it with giant sweeping motions while saying, “Why so silent, good Monsieurs?” the way the Phantom did when he crashed the Masquerade party.  (He knows how to make an entrance!  Note:  People will give you very odd looks as you descend in this manner, but it’s so worth it–even if your husband refuses to come down until you’ve reached the bottom and people stop staring.)

6)      Do you harass your sister-in-law (or any other relative that lives in France) until she agrees to go to the Paris Opera House to take pictures for you from Box 5 and then you continue to harass her until she agrees to try and get a tour of the basements?  (*Ahem* Work on that, will you, Jennifer!)

7)      Do you make your husband wear a half-mask to every Halloween party?  (This is tricky as it has been known to cause the need to leave parties earlier than planned, or find a quiet, dark corner somewhere.  I assure you, he’s never complained about that mask.  Not once.  I swear.)

8)      Have you ever special ordered a black tuxedo, white shirt and black silk cape for your beloved husband because you don’t want it to ‘look like a costume’?   (It’s hard to find a good cape in the 21^st century, let me tell you.  But, damn!  He looks good in it.  Who cares if he can only wear it once a year…in public, anyway.)

9)      Have you ever lost the ability to speak coherently when someone asks you anything about Phantom? Gibberish comes out of your mouth and you get so excited you drool just a little?  (Hey, I’ve heard it happens.)  *looking around, avoiding eye contact*

10)   Can you bring ANY conversation back to the Phantom? (Yes, I know how annoying this can be, but it’s the way my mind works.  My mother is still hoping I grow out of it.  I’m 40-something.  It’s not going to happen, Mom.)

11)   Have you ever begged your husband to buy the silver car because its official color name is Phantom Pearl Gray?  (Hey, it is a beautiful car!)

12)   Have you ever written an 80,000-word novel about the main character to see if you can bring him to the edge of redemption only to tip him over to the dark side because, well, he’s Erik, the malevolent Opera Ghost?  (I had some time on my hands.)

13)   Have you ever jumped up and down when your husband got a promotion because you found out his positional title is abbreviated O.G.?  (O.G. is how the Phantom signed all his extortion letters.)

14)   Have you ever done an embarrassingly long happy dance about your husband’s new job because you found out you get to wear a rhinestone pin with the initials O.G. to all official functions?  (What are the freakin’ odds?)  It’s destiny, people!  I’m married to the O.G. (Opera Ghost!)

All right, before I scare you too much and cause you to keep your children and pets away from me or make you consider moving out of the neighborhood, I’ll stop.  I think we get the general idea, yes?  We can all see these are not typical thought patterns of a rational mind.  Now we have a good idea and a solid foundation for understanding the mental workings of a strange, but harmless Phantom Phan.

If you’ve done any of these things drop me a line.  I really want to know who you are.  If you are a Phan, let’s hear the crazy things you’ve done in the name of Erik!  Your comments are welcome.