Jersey Shore. Whether you like it or not, this show is everywhere. It's on TV, it's in the gossip mags, it has Facebook applications, and now they're getting ready for season 2. Jersey Shore is not going anywhere. So my friends, let's face our fear and deal with this head on.
The general attitude seems to be that these are vapid, ignorant, juice-head guidos and guidettes who are giving Italian-Americans a bad rep and the Seaside Heights P.D. enough overtime to buy their own summer homes on the boardwalk. For the most part I agree, although being half-Italian and originally from Long Island, I gotta say that while these kids are characaturesque (if that wasn't a word before, I just made it one), all you have to do is walk into a bar on LI and the blinding glare of gold chains and painted on t-shirts lets you know that MTV's casting office knows what it's doing. Do we really have to tell people that not everyone with a last name ending in a vowel from the NY-metro area is like that? Um...unfortunately, I think we do. But that's now what I'm here to discuss.
Everyone talks about the craziness of this show. It's true, it's a train wreck that beckons us to keep watching. But hearing about the negotiations that went into securing a second season has raised some existential questions. WTF you say? Hear me out:
In negotiating for Season 2, the cast pulled a Friends-like maneuver and rejected MTVs low-ball first offer. I don't know the ins-and-outs (isn't it enough that I'm devoting a blog entry to this?) but word has it that they settled on $10,000 each per episode for a 12 episode season. Um, that's 3 months of sitting around talking about protein bars and push-up bras in a rent-free beach house on the boardwalk for a cool $120,000. Plus, they are getting paid for club and party appearances and whatever other ridiculousness reality tv-fame has to offer. And I heard that Snooki is getting a show of her very own, Snookin' for Love. (FYI, I'm 2 inches taller than her, take that Snickers!)
This begs the question, WTF am I doing? Maybe a membership to a tanning salon would have been more lucrative than my graduate degree. It definitely would have been cheaper, and thus, possibly a better investment. Should I have been working on the perfect poof instead of the perfect resume? Instead of climbing the corporate ladder should I be working on my pole dancing?
I joke of course, but you know what they say, there's much truth in jest. I may not have my own show or $120,000 for a summer spent at the shore. But I have my dignity, my self respect, and my student loans. Could I really live with myself if I made a living by being a national laughing stock? Of course not. But then again who knows what I could've become if I grew up being known as The Princess of Poughkeepsie.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
No Pain, No Gain
We are now firmly implanted in 2010 and apart for a few stragglers the New Year's resolution crowd at my gym has pretty much given in to their couch potato ways and things are back to normal. I don't have to wait an hour to get on a treadmill and the staff has dropped their phony cheerful dispositions designed to sign up fresh meat to annoying two-year contracts with hidden fees and caveats in favor of their more natural, bored, jogging-suit clad, manicured selves.
For the most part, the "normal" crowd at the gym is your typical working gal trying to burn some calories after work and before the new episode of Top Chef comes on. But there are a few who make you wonder why they bother. Here they are:
"Chatty Kathy": Why else were cell phones invented if not to sit in jeans and boots in the locker room for an hour talking about what a bitch your ex's ex is? I cannot help but overhear these conversations while I'm trying to change into my gym clothes with the speed and dexterity of Romanian gymnast and the self-consciousness of a pimply-faced tween. Does the whole world need to know your business? Do you enjoy watching middle-aged women in their granny panties? It's a locker room, not a phone booth. Sheesh.
"Jane Fonda": You know the type, leotards over the leggings. Inappropriate thong-age. Women dressed like this make you want to find the nearest Delorian and hit 1985. I have to admit though, it is sort of amusing to see people who are either so oblivious to social norms that it borders on sad or they just don't give a shit, and on some level, I respect that.
"Heathers": Chatty Kathies in a bunch. Instead of blowing up each other's phones, they sit in an inconvenient place on the gym floor and just, like, chat, or something. You know the beginning of that song "Baby Got Back" ("Oh my gosh Becky...) picture that conversation in the middle of your gym while you're trying to find the zone so you can squeeze out another 3 squats. What's worse about these stupid beotches is they are ridiculously skinny. They work up a sweat just figuring out the combinations to their lockers and couldn't do a push-up to save their lives, and yet they have bikini-ready bodies just by sitting on their asses and watching the rest of us work out like fiends. My only solace is that time and gravity will catch up with them and all they'll be left with is a muffin top hanging over an old Juicy Couture workout suit.
Despite these pet peeves, I still enjoy the gym. It's true what they say, "no pain, no gain."
For the most part, the "normal" crowd at the gym is your typical working gal trying to burn some calories after work and before the new episode of Top Chef comes on. But there are a few who make you wonder why they bother. Here they are:
"Chatty Kathy": Why else were cell phones invented if not to sit in jeans and boots in the locker room for an hour talking about what a bitch your ex's ex is? I cannot help but overhear these conversations while I'm trying to change into my gym clothes with the speed and dexterity of Romanian gymnast and the self-consciousness of a pimply-faced tween. Does the whole world need to know your business? Do you enjoy watching middle-aged women in their granny panties? It's a locker room, not a phone booth. Sheesh.
"Jane Fonda": You know the type, leotards over the leggings. Inappropriate thong-age. Women dressed like this make you want to find the nearest Delorian and hit 1985. I have to admit though, it is sort of amusing to see people who are either so oblivious to social norms that it borders on sad or they just don't give a shit, and on some level, I respect that.
"Heathers": Chatty Kathies in a bunch. Instead of blowing up each other's phones, they sit in an inconvenient place on the gym floor and just, like, chat, or something. You know the beginning of that song "Baby Got Back" ("Oh my gosh Becky...) picture that conversation in the middle of your gym while you're trying to find the zone so you can squeeze out another 3 squats. What's worse about these stupid beotches is they are ridiculously skinny. They work up a sweat just figuring out the combinations to their lockers and couldn't do a push-up to save their lives, and yet they have bikini-ready bodies just by sitting on their asses and watching the rest of us work out like fiends. My only solace is that time and gravity will catch up with them and all they'll be left with is a muffin top hanging over an old Juicy Couture workout suit.
Despite these pet peeves, I still enjoy the gym. It's true what they say, "no pain, no gain."
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
29 Again, for the First Time
I am on the cusp of turning 30 (tomorrow to be exact) and like any milestone birthday this one has me questioning my life and the choices I’ve made thus far. For the most part, all is well, (decent career, my own apartment, etc.) but no matter what I have, or could have achieved in my three decades of life, there are of course, stones unturned, paths not travelled, and #1 New York Times bestselling novels not (yet) written.
Which brings me to this blog. Writing seems like an inevitable part of my future and yet I cannot seem to finish anything I write, making the great American novel that I can feel in my bones somewhat atrophied. This blog is an attempt to revive it. (Peeps in the know, did I get that medical metaphor right?). Short little blurbs and observations in my witty yet profoundly thought-provoking prose under no dead-line, for no money, published by the power of the internet seems like a place to start, or at least one that I can stick to (we’ll see). So, if you are intrigued, read on, if not, who asked you?
Ok, tomorrow I turn 30. What have I done with my life? I am not married, let’s just take care of this little Victorian nugget right off the bat. I always knew that if ever I got me a husband, it wouldn’t be until I was in my 30s anyway. My 20s were for me, to move out of my parents’ home, start my career, have crazy parties all over Manhattan until all hours of the night with no one to answer to but myself. You know, your typical Holly Golightly-minus-the mean-reds lifestyle (although let me just state right now that if George Peppard walked into my life looking like he did in Breakfast At Tiffanys, things would have turned out a lot different, I mean, honestly). Sometimes (or mostly) that swinging NYC lifestyle manifests itself in my watching Jeopardy and my latest Netflix selection in the blissful peace that for some reason can only be found in my apartment because, unfortunately, in my world margaritas are $8 a pop if you’re lucky and there’s no such thing as $50 for the powder room (that practice is itself grounds for an entire blog entry). So thank God we’ve evolved beyond the mentality that 30 + single = old maid. So to sum up: single and ready to mingle (cue modern George...or Paul Newman, I'm not picky).
Next up, career, this I'll keep short. I work in publishing and I've read enough manuscripts by people who've gotten fired for writing about their jobs in their blogs enough to know not to do this--then again, these people are getting their books published sooooo....nah, in this economy it's best to play it safe. I have a job, I'm happy to have a job and hope to continue to have a job. 'Nuff said.
I'm dubbing 2009 The Year of Suck because it well...sucked. The year started and ended with death, in my family, my friends' families, my co-workers' families, celebrities and even informercial pitchmen; the economy continued to tank; it rained for the entire month of June; and just when we thought we had seen the last of Sarah Palin, she writes a bestseller (I mean, if that woman can do it, WTF is stopping me?). Obviously the Gods were not happy in 2009. And so, I say bring on 2010 and turning 30! I'm putting all the negativity, grief, and depression about the abundance of Republicans in my life (Lenny, Jayne,) behind me.
My 20s had some highs and lows, but I'm looking to the 30s with optimism, a new set of goals (Pultizer), maybe a new gig as a columnist for the NYT when Gail Collins and Thomas Friedman are on vacation or something, and of course world peace.
Farewell my youth...
Which brings me to this blog. Writing seems like an inevitable part of my future and yet I cannot seem to finish anything I write, making the great American novel that I can feel in my bones somewhat atrophied. This blog is an attempt to revive it. (Peeps in the know, did I get that medical metaphor right?). Short little blurbs and observations in my witty yet profoundly thought-provoking prose under no dead-line, for no money, published by the power of the internet seems like a place to start, or at least one that I can stick to (we’ll see). So, if you are intrigued, read on, if not, who asked you?
Ok, tomorrow I turn 30. What have I done with my life? I am not married, let’s just take care of this little Victorian nugget right off the bat. I always knew that if ever I got me a husband, it wouldn’t be until I was in my 30s anyway. My 20s were for me, to move out of my parents’ home, start my career, have crazy parties all over Manhattan until all hours of the night with no one to answer to but myself. You know, your typical Holly Golightly-minus-the mean-reds lifestyle (although let me just state right now that if George Peppard walked into my life looking like he did in Breakfast At Tiffanys, things would have turned out a lot different, I mean, honestly). Sometimes (or mostly) that swinging NYC lifestyle manifests itself in my watching Jeopardy and my latest Netflix selection in the blissful peace that for some reason can only be found in my apartment because, unfortunately, in my world margaritas are $8 a pop if you’re lucky and there’s no such thing as $50 for the powder room (that practice is itself grounds for an entire blog entry). So thank God we’ve evolved beyond the mentality that 30 + single = old maid. So to sum up: single and ready to mingle (cue modern George...or Paul Newman, I'm not picky).
Next up, career, this I'll keep short. I work in publishing and I've read enough manuscripts by people who've gotten fired for writing about their jobs in their blogs enough to know not to do this--then again, these people are getting their books published sooooo....nah, in this economy it's best to play it safe. I have a job, I'm happy to have a job and hope to continue to have a job. 'Nuff said.
I'm dubbing 2009 The Year of Suck because it well...sucked. The year started and ended with death, in my family, my friends' families, my co-workers' families, celebrities and even informercial pitchmen; the economy continued to tank; it rained for the entire month of June; and just when we thought we had seen the last of Sarah Palin, she writes a bestseller (I mean, if that woman can do it, WTF is stopping me?). Obviously the Gods were not happy in 2009. And so, I say bring on 2010 and turning 30! I'm putting all the negativity, grief, and depression about the abundance of Republicans in my life (Lenny, Jayne,) behind me.
My 20s had some highs and lows, but I'm looking to the 30s with optimism, a new set of goals (Pultizer), maybe a new gig as a columnist for the NYT when Gail Collins and Thomas Friedman are on vacation or something, and of course world peace.
Farewell my youth...
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