Friday, August 26, 2005

Last One in the Pool's a Polyester Bride

And then he said, "Do you wanna be a polyester bride?
Or do you want to hang your head and die?
Do you want to find alligator cowboy boots they just put on sale?
Do you want to flap your wings and fly away from here?"

"Princess, do you really want to flap your wings and fly?
Because you've got time."
He keeps telling me, "You've got time."
But I don't believe him
"You've got time."

I keep on pushing harder
I keep on pushing farther away
But he keeps telling me, "Baby,"
He says, "Baby, yeah."

Yup, it's Liz Phair. Posted here perhaps in honor of her reappearance as a live performer at the Black Orchid at Pipers Alley (whatever...). Not that I am going. Not that I want to go, because, as Jim DeRogotis eloquently cranked in the Sun-Times about her current output of "adult contemporary radio pap a la Sheryl Crow" (whose lyrics I would never post publicly even though I've been known to touch a couple at Karaoke):

My God, what happened to this woman's self-esteem, let alone her brains? What possibly could have inspired one of the sharpest songwriters of her generation to turn to writing such utterly banal crap?
I know who's a Polyester, Sarah McLaughlin-ized Bride.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Move Over

"I like to use the expression 'to get out of your own way'...if I get out of my way, I won't make any mistakes, I won't have any regrets, I can do something I believed I could do but didn't know I would do. I find that works for me in film, and it works for me in life."

--Bill Murray, 2004

Flab, Thy Name Is Boyfriend

The road to weight loss--or let's just call it healthy eating, since I don't believe in dieting and I submit that stress and exercise drop pounds--is paved with rotten, fridge-chilled produce and boyfriends. I’ve had boyfriends whose diet consisted of, collectively: hot wings, dill pickle-flavored Lays, fried white meat dinner from Golden Chicken in Milwaukee, Leona's Cobb Chicken Sandwich, Tombstone supreme pizza, more hot wings, Hungry Man chicken pot pies, Blueberry Machine smoothies, beef nachos from Flash (In Your Pants) Taco on Damen, Coca-Cola, General Tso's Chicken, Orville Redenbacher butter popcorn (stovetop-cooked, thank you), and more fried chicken from the Shell gas station on the corner of Grand and Ashland.

Let me ask you, how can you eat room-temp iceberg lettuce and croutons while they are on the other end of the couch or table chowing on stuffed-all-over Pizza Hut? And breadsticks? You either fight ‘em or join ‘em. Oh--and be prepared to eat it all between the hours of 10 pm and 4 am.

On the other hand, there are those couples that discover the joy of cooking in their cozy, couple-y world. Armed with stainless steel pasta makers and George Foremans and the Rick Bayless cookbooks, they sequester in the kitchen. Then you run into them six months to a year after their first date and they’ve, collectively, put on at least 40 pounds: “Hey, wow, you guys. You all look…happy!”

I like to call it neck spread. It’s the first place couples pack on the pounds. Right under the ears.

[This post was meant in no way to offend and names have been omitted to protect the innocent. And guilty.]