The World Spins Madly On

Whenever I sit down to write for this thing, I feel like I’m typing the script to one of those vaguely insightful (and undeniably cheesy) voiceovers you hear at the ends of television episodes. I invoke Meredith Grey, J.D. Dorian, and Carrie Bradshaw, and they all spill out onto my keyboard in a gooey amalgam of thoughts that, I’m pretty sure, are supposed to have a point (although I can never discern exactly what that’s supposed to be). I don’t gather all the loose thoughts together and thread a ribbon around the one life lesson that you didn’t realize was connecting the seemingly disparate notes, but I feel as though there is some hidden bit of wisdom that people might be able to decipher amidst my incoherent babbling that might somehow better their situations. That’s how pretentious and self-important I feel right now. My inner-monologue is interesting enough that it should be documented, darn it.

Then I feel immediately guilty and self-absorbed. The world does not, in fact, revolve around me (thanks, Galileo). I should be writing about the starving children in Africa (or any continent, really), how to get conflict-free diamonds (my 20-year-old single brother has decided that whatever woman he proposes to will not be getting a traditional rock. I think the movie Blood Diamond really got to him), or the situation in Darfur (which I know shamefully little about… I couldn’t point out Darfur on a map… Then again, I also couldn’t point out Wyoming on a map. Luckily, I don’t believe that Wyoming exists. The four people who claim to be from there are just conspirators trying to take over part of South Dakota and secede under the guise that no one cares about them and their counterfeit state anyway. Honestly, would you miss it? I didn’t think so).

I need to focus on something outside myself. Something topical… Let’s see… I don’t believe Fidel Castro is dead any more than I believe Tupac is dead (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Witness Protection Program. How else would they keep finding “unreleased” material of his that happens to be relevant? I rest my case). I think the facts in the Jena 6 case are being twisted around to a ridiculous degree, and the situation is no longer recognizable as the one I began reading about weeks ago (before it was trendy to support them). I think that all young women should get the HPV vaccine, especially now that it has been shown to block 10 other strains of viruses that it was not initially marketed for (they should get it even if they’re not sexually active, because it’s always better to be prepared. Besides, you can’t put a price on cheating death).

And now for something I know a little more about…

I’m thrilled that Salma Hayek named her daughter “Valentina Paloma” instead of “Belladonna Robot-Guru” or some other such tasteless, ill-advised celeb-baby abomination. I’m ecstatic that Noel Gallagher was bluffing when he said his child might be named “Gilly, “Chutney”, or “Gizmo”, and actually went with “Donovan Rory” (which I don’t give a full thumbs-up to, but it’s definitely the least of those potential evils). I pray for the unborn child of Nicole Ritchie (please, Lord, don’t let her name it after snack food), and I look forward to the child of Isla Fisher (I have this feeling that she’ll go with something classy… Of course, she’s engaged to Sascha Baron Cohen, so I suppose I shouldn’t become too comfortable with that thought. She might very well have a son named “Junius Supercilious Thorax Fisher-Cohen” before the year is through).

I don’t understand recent naming trends. If you are naming your child after a medieval profession, a band, or something found on a spice rack, let me buy you a baby name book. There are plenty of unusual names out there that are actual established names (Evander & Beatrix, for example, neither of which has been among the top 1000 baby names used in the USA within the last century) and not something that you concocted by spelling something nice backwards. (Note: “Nevaeh” was among the top 100 names used for baby girls in the USA in 2006. And here I have been under the impression that spelling something in reverse made it Satanic.)

Naming your child after the place of his/her conception will only serve as a perpetual reminder to an adolescent mind that “mommy & daddy had sex” (and no one wants to think about that, especially during their formative years). Misspelling a child’s name will only lead to everyone else in the world needing to be corrected when they assume that the traditional spelling is the proper one, and they will therefore decide that you are a linguistically-challenged half-wit for being unable to recognize that the generally accepted spelling was the better choice (to quote myself, Immylea is not a name. Immylea is what you get when the Scrabble bag spills onto the floor. By the way, there are parents out there who think that the aforementioned stew of letters should be pronounced “Emily,” and it’s probably not a good sign if you figured that out on your own). There is no reason for an apostrophe, hyphen, ampersand, number, tilde, or Sanskrit character to appear in a name. Naming your child “Beyoncé”, “Kanye”, or “Aaliyah” will not make them talented. Using names like “Ferrari”, “Diamond”, or “Doctor” will not make your offspring wealthy enough to care for you when the child-support from your baby-daddy runs out.

And what is it with people naming their daughters male names? Michelle Branch named her daughter Owen. Brooke Shields named one of her daughter Rowan (the other is Greer Hammond, which I am as likely to associate with a little girl as I am to associate Spam with a black tie dinner). One of Charlie Sheen & Denise Richards’ progeny is a little girl named Sam (not Samantha… just Sam. Their younger daughter was given the hyper-feminine moniker Lola, leading me to believe that they saw the error of their ways and decided to improve the second time around). The number one fastest rising female name in the USA in 2005 was “Emerson” (which translates to “son of Emery”). The third most popular female name in the country for the last two years has been Madison (“son of Maud”). Names like Ryan, Kyle, and Elliot (blame Scrubs for that last one) are being used on girls at increasing rate. I’ve even spotted girls named Scott, Michael, and Harvey (Harvey-Anne, actually. It’s so much more “femynyn” that way). It’s just wrong.

I think the idea behind it is that they’re somehow fighting gender stereotypes, and that any name that a male can have, a female should be able to have as well. If anything, I think that perpetuates gender inequality, because unless they plan to name their sons Genevieve and Isabelle (or at least try to reclaim names like Ashley, Kelly, and Dana, which have already gone to the girls), what they’re really saying is that female names aren’t as good as male ones. Some people say that giving a child a gender-neutral name will somehow better prepare them for adulthood. I whole-heartedly disagree with that. Unless your child has some sort of hormonal disorder that gives them ambiguous secondary sex characteristics (just like the character “Pat” from Saturday Night Live), all you’ve prepared them for is a lifetime of explaining that “No, I’m a male/female, yes, that is my name, and no, it’s not a mistake.” It’s a horrible idea. Using a boy’s name on a girl doesn’t make it a girl’s name any more than putting a squid on your head makes it a hat.

If you have any friends who are pregnant or adopting and considering something revolting, worrisome, or even questionable for their child, by all means send them my way and give me a crack at talking them out of it.

I pay more attention than I’d like to admit to non-baby related celebrity gossip as well. I hate that I waste precious morsels of time reading it. Many days, I find I don’t even know who the celebrities are I’m reading about or why they’re famous (who the hell is Kim Kardashian?), but I read on. I continue to stock up on my pop culture knowledge because I’m convinced that it will, at some point, come in handy. Also, it’s nice to read about people who are even more hopelessly flawed than I deem myself to be. I may have self-esteem issues, but not like Britney Spears. I might have problems in my professional life, but not like Lindsay Lohan. There may be some bits of my past I’d like to erase, but at least there’s no incriminating footage of me in flagrante delicto.

What inspires people to tape themselves having sex? Is it just a high-powered form of the exhibitionistic streak that makes people go into intense public displays of affection (not the sort that made the half-joking phrase “get a room” popular, but more the type that make you seriously wonder how much longer they’ll remain vertical and/or clothed)? Do they really plan to watch it? Will they just watch it one obligatory time before leaving it to reside on the shelf, collecting dust (and being careful not to accidentally return it to the video store in the wrong case)? Do they really think no one will ever find it? They’re wrong. It WILL be found. Definitely. Probably by their eight-year-old son, who will then have to be in expensive psychotherapy sessions for the rest of his life because his first orientation to the BDSM community was witnessing Mommy and Daddy experimenting with whips and tethers (BDSM, for those of you who are too innocent to know, is an acronym that represents three terms for types of sexual behavior: B&D - Bondage & Discipline, D&S - Domination & Submission, S&M -Sadism & Masochism. You should be at least a small bit embarrassed that you learned that from me, due to the naïveté that I grazed over in my last entry).

Sometimes I wonder if I’m an exhibitionist or a voyeur. I don’t mean either of these terms in their sexual capacities, but rather as applied to daily life. I can’t decide whether I’d rather see or be seen. Both appeal to me for different reasons. When I’m having conversations in public places, I always wonder if other people are eavesdropping, trying to turn my life into their own personal version of “The Truman Show”. I want to be watched (I am, after all, a performer by trade). I want every set of eyes to follow me as I go past. I won’t go out of my way to attract attention, but I desire it. It’s like my heroin. My anti-drug, if you will.

There are other occasions in which I am a watcher. I sit quietly and observe the world. I become invisible, and contemplate whether I should use my power for good or evil.

In Rome, when you walk down the street, you make eye contact with people. Staring is completely socially acceptable. You could be waiting for a bus, completely ogling someone, and not feel that you have to hide it at all. It’s liberating. Every once in awhile, I attempt to pull off this feat in Chicago. I’ll catch a woman’s gaze while walking down the street and stay locked on her for a moment longer than I should. I’ll fix my eyes upon a man unapologetically from across an L platform. I gauge their reactions. It’s a bit of a social experiment, really. I want to see how much it takes to make someone begin to appear slightly uncomfortable. And then I wonder why.

If you are interested in performing a social experiment of your own, you have an excellent opportunity whenever you board an elevator. All you have to do is face a direction that isn’t toward the doors. It makes people uneasy for some reason. Why should everyone face each other’s backs, all in the name of conformity? I find it much more interesting to face the center. It’s better for people-watching.

The best time to be a voyeur is on public transportation. There is a beautiful cross-section of society there… Annoying groups of teenagers who see no problem with the obscene volumes to which they raise their voices while using phrases such as, “Girl, you don’t even KNOW,” in earnest. Business people who are so well-clad that you wonder why they chose to board the unreliable cesspool called “the L” instead of driving their Mercedes to work in the first place. Shabby looking folks that you’d never dare sit next to for fear of catching the bubonic plague (or possibly being pick-pocketed, propositioned, or drooled on). Young women striking poses while trying to appear casual, luring potential mates for the express purpose of being able to turn them down (I imagine they feed on doling out rejections as though it’s a sadistic, supernatural power-source that you might find in a Joss Whedon creation). Drunken middle-aged men, presumably on their way home from viewing sporting events on television at pubs across the street from the venues at which they’re actually being played, who have no qualms about adjusting their position to leer at a young lady in a low-cut top (a mistake I made last week).

I am suddenly reminded of an Eleanor Roosevelt quotation (forgive me if I paraphrase): Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.

I believe I discuss all of the above. In fact, I believe I’ve done so in this blog entry (which is why I chose to quote Eleanor Roosevelt in the first place). I wonder what that says about me. Unless my brain grows and shrinks rapidly several times an hour, I haven’t a clue. And frankly, with all due respect to Mrs. Roosevelt, I think she was wrong.

May you take the time to discuss things outside of yourself, if only sporadically.

Much love,

~A~

(P.S. The title of this entry was stolen from the title of a song by The Weepies. You should check them out.)