Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Marsha Brady is a ho!

I used to pride myself on my patience, but I’ve noticed that the older I get, the more my patience wanes. I was agonizing how hearing back from my first agent; I was positive that I’d mailed the letter months ago. When I looked at the calendar, I realized that it had only been a few DAYS.

I feel the same nagging impatience when dealing with waiting for movies to hit the theater, albums to hit the stores (or the internet depending on how impatient I am), the new fall season of shows to start. I need my entertainment, damnit! And I’m sorry, "Entertainment Weekly", but “The Hills” doesn’t count. How disappointed I am in you for writing about that shit.

I am, however, oddly excited about the “Sex and the City” movie that will not even arrive in theater until next summer. Until then, I decided to dust off my old “Sex and the City” DVDs, and revisit the fabulous world of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. We’re going to ignore how self-centered Carrie is, and focus on Samantha. I’ve always had this sort of embarrassing theory I’ve always had about Samantha.

It hit me one day like a bolt of lightning. Samantha was none other than Marsha Brady grown up. It’s all there, ladies, the wide-eyes, the uncanny diction, the blonde hair, the selfless sharing…of orgasms! It’s all there. In some paralleled reality where television characters are real, Marsha Brady ventured off to college with her G-rated, Disney-approved views of the world and life, and was overwhelmed by a Brady-less reality. In the real world, people do drugs, parents die, people get sick and housekeepers don’t serve cutesy wisecracks with the morning coffee and eggs. After getting her heart broken, Marsha discovers the beauty of no-strings sex. No messy heartbreak, no divorce, and more importantly, no step-children. (Six kids and one bathroom? It had to be terrible). She even changes her name to Samantha Jones to save her family from the shame of her whorish ways.

Yes, folks, THIS is what I do at work.

Monday, August 6, 2007

Fucking Midwest...

Justin Timberlake—the unofficial male Oprah—got his brass note on Beale Street today just hours before kicking off yet another tour in his hometown of Memphis, Tenn. A huge honor of a Memphis-boy. It is also a lovely reason to talk about JT (I’m purposely ignoring the Nicole/Britney/Lindsay drama and I’m not seeing “Bourne” until Wednesday), since he’s newsworthy and all.

When Justin was one of five guys, and I was considerably younger, I survived my adolesence by waiting for them to roll into town. At night, I’d lie in bed, listen to the moonlight mooing of the cows in the nearby pasture and dream of white-hot pyro, storms of confetti and my five favorite guys flying over the crowd. As a *NSYNC/Timberlake fan, I can tell you that the diehard fans come from the middle of the country for no other reason than there is nothing better to do. Sure we could stare at cows, tip cows, watch cows graze, but generally, it’s pour over celebrity gossip and dream of escaping out corn-rowed prison or partake in the smoking of those wacky weeds that grow in secret in those cornfields.

Fast forward, eight years, one indefinite hiatus, and one member stepping out of the closer, and it’s a rarity if any big acts step foot in my town. Let’s focus on JT, shall we?
Since Timberlake has re-emerged from nearly two years of silence with the Grammy-winning “FutureSex/LoveSounds,” he has embarked on four separate tours: a club-tour, an arena U.S tour, a European/UK arena tour, and finally, a second U.S tour. Three out of the four tours have been in the continental United States, and there have been no shows in my city. None at one. It is as if all the maps provided to the tour manager, have a gaping whole where the Midwest should be.

Granted, my city is not a giant market, but we have a professional basketball team, soccer team, baseball team and some form of hockey team. We even have arena football! AND THE ONLY FANDOME IN NORTH AMERICA! That has to mean something!

Unfortunately, that’s what happens to musical acts grow too big for their britches, and it’s all about performing eight shows in New York and L.A.

While I am considerably grown up, a part of me still that under-stimulated, bored sixteen wishing she had another concert to look forward to and wishing she could escape the fucking Midwest and the other part is the adult woman who can’t afford the flight to L.A.