Lady Gaga needs a sandwich.

For the last few days, at work, I keep passing by the magazine rack and spotting the cover of the latest Rolling Stone magazine, featuring Lady Gaga. Check it out (look above this text). Here we see a strangely made-up lady with Betty Boop curves, Geisha-white skin, covered in bubbles. And it's all so gloriously PINK. How could it not catch my eye? The bubble get-up reminds me of a popular burlesque routine I have seen a few times, in which the dancer is covered in balloons and pops them one by one with her hair pin. Obviously, Lady Gaga decided to scale down with the bubbles so we can all see her magnificently airbrushed bod.

I really wasn't quite sure who this woman was, to be honest. Sure, I had heard of her. I think I even saw one of her music videos in a bar. But now she's on Rolling Stone and I felt like I had to investigate. I read her Wikipedia page (my source for useless and skewed information). Then I looked up some images of her on Google. Lady Gaga did "burlesque." Right. Pussycat Dolls-style burlesque that revolves around placing black duct tape X's over the nipples and hootchy dancing. If this is burlesque, I'm left to wonder, what is she teasing us with? There's nothing left to reveal when one prances onto stage and does this:

How charming! I have a few tips for Lady Gaga, based on the images and depictions of her in the media:

- Eat a goddamned sandwich. It will taste good, really.

- Wear some PANTS. I read some quote about girls in the UK searching for "knickers" like Gaga's. LG wears her panties in public. I say, put it away. People should pay to see that crap and you're giving the world a free show. Tacky.

- Do not ever claim to have danced "burlesque." You did some jacked up neo-version of it. Burlesque is all about the art of the tease, and the only person you're teasing would need to be blind.

- Stop throwing yourself at the media. Let them come to you. Lady Gaga has some growing up to do, and unfortunately we all have to watch.

I suppose I'm ultra-fickle and senstitive today, though I really feel that Lady Gaga is the type of woman who makes the rest of us chickies look bad. In my opinion, the world would be better without little Donatella Versace wannabes flashing their butts on the red carpet.

Mike FM and his chauvanist antics

It's hard enough to find a radio station that doesn't suck out of sheer repetitiveness without having to deal with solicitation of the radio station that reeks of 1970's smarmy maleness. I usually listen to my college's radio station, WERS - probably the best college radio station in the country (from Emerson College). Yet, even indie rock has its own replayable canon.

I tuned into a station called Mike FM when I scrolled through the dial and heard REM's "Man on the Moon" playing. Then, comes the inveitable commerical that went something like this:

MALE RADIO ANNOUNCER VOICE: Your boss has only one request for you...that you stop sleeping with his wife.
VOICE OF THE BOSS MAN IN "OFFICE SPACE": Yeah, um, could you go ahead and do that from now on? Thaaaanks.

Haha! Soooooo funny. Right here we're assuming that A) One's boss is male, and B) Men strive to do nothing more than sleazily sleep with their superior's women folk. Did I miss something here? Are we still living in the Victorian Age? Do women not also listen to the radio and perhaps enjoy female announcer voices once in a while that they can identify with and male voices that don't push the sleaze and treat women (wives) as things to be had?

I realize I'm being a bit picky here, but it's precisely these short messages our ears are bombarded with all day long that create sexist attitudes.

Mike FM - kiss my un-wifely, female ass.

Yes, David, the is life on Mars.

One of my favorite daily activities is perusing Wikipedia to find little-known facts and general information about my favorite music artists (I do look up info. about others as well, but my main interest lies in those who create the music I enjoy). With that, I'd like to let my readers know that today, Eric Clapton gave me a reason to keep going.

Turns out that when Mr. Clapton received a guitar as a gift for his 13th birthday, and struggled to learn how to play it. He almost gave it up, tired of the tedious hours of playing scales. Instead, he sat around with his tape recorder, listened to the blues, and picked out chords to learn.

Don't give up. If Eric Clapton did, we wouldn't have "Layla." And I really like that song, dammit. Especially the bluesey, acoustic version. As I write this, Bon Iver is playing over the airwaves, and I am happy.

The Lady Boss

7:37 PM - Medford Square - Monday night, December 1st

I was heading out of CVS, birth control perscription in hand, and feeling bummed that the song "November Rain" was no longer applicable to the current weather and month. Two short kids, who I judged could not be any older than 12 years, came around the corner. One of the kids was on a bike, and one strode behind him.

"Hello." He looked me up and down.

I nodded, gave him a weird look, and said "Hey."

"WAIT UP, N*$$*R...WAIT UP, N*$$*R!" Smooth talker called out to his pal on the bike.
I wanted to snap at the kid to never use such a horrible and degrading word, but didn't have a chance as the two kids shot out into the middle of the road, nearly getting hit by oncoming traffic. Now, across the street and behind me just a bit, smooth talker decided to try something.

"Hey, baby?! BABY! Hey SEXY!" This kid hollered across the road to me. Already feeling odd swinging my birth control in a baggie, I kept on trucking.

"YO! My friend likes you."

End scene.

* * * * *

10:02 AM - My place of employment - Tuesday, December 2nd

Two young men step up to the counter as I'm training one of my employees on a transaction.

"Do you like having a lady boss?" the short guy asks my male employee. Prajesh, unsure what to say, gave him a funny look and chuckled a little.

"Excuse me? A what?" I asked.

"A lady boss. You like when she bosses you around like that? (directed to Prajesh)."

I stood, bewildered, unable to keep myself from making various comments - "What the hell?" - yet not wanting to tell off a customer.

"I have a lady boss too."

"Oh yeah, and how is she?" I inquired.

"She's bossy."

End scene.

Overheard at the Airport

Last night I gave thanks. I thanked the stars as I flew into the night sky over Pennsylvania, and pushed through the freezing air into New England, for this life. Being home for Thanksgiving made me realize some things that I often forget; for one, tolerance is a skill, and, Mom makes better food than anyone else in the world. Something about the fact that the food was prepared by my mother, or grandma, makes it taste better. Coffee is a necessary and joyous beverage. And, my family will always be there for me when I need them.

After the very homebound and low-key weekend with my family, Rodney (little bro) drove me back to the airport so I could catch my flight to Boston. The flight was delayed, due to a sort of plane traffic back up in the inclimate weather of November. Originally intended to leave at midnight, my flight got pushed back an hour. I expected to board around 12:20, and was let onto the plane at 12:30. But not before I had the pleasure of finding irritation in just about everyone around me.

I got a set of headphones and sat down to work on my crossword book before catching an episode or two of Buffy on my laptop. At the same moment, a curly-haired young woman behind me ripped open a large bag of chips and began devouring them. CA-RUNCH-RUNCH-RUNCH-MUNCH-LIPSMACK-CRUNCH. My hair stood on end with each chomp. Force yourself to deal with it, Jamie. Sit here and deal. It's just chips. No one is coming after you. Chip-chewing does not merit murder.

The sound of a bag popping open resounded from another seat.

CA-RUNCH. CHOMP...Arghhhhhh!

Unable to deal, I heaved my backpack onto my back, scooped up my coat, and began my search for a new place to sit, void of people. There was a small room filled with old payphone terminals that were no longer in service. About three other people sprawled in various corners of the room with laptops were all removing chips from bags and chowing down. My skin crawled. I sat down and jacked up the volume on my laptop and began to relax at the sound of Spike's British accent, and Buffy's beat-em-up moves biffing and bopping on the screen.

Worried I would miss my flight due to Whedon (an embarrssing situation indeed), at midnight I re-joined the cast of mainly young persons like myself waiting for the plane to arrive. A young blonde girl sat to the right of me, chattering loudly, on and on to her friends about going to Boston College, cab fare, and the MBTA.

"I walked all the way to Southie one day with my friends," the girl said. "It was SO SKETCH. I seriously felt like I was in The Departed the whole time."

Excellent! Comparing Boston to a Scorcese flick - that's realistic! Southie, whoa now, look out, you might get knocked off by the Winter Hill Gang if you walk in that area. Gimmie' a goddamned break. Was I shocked that a prissy little Boston College student from Mt. Lebanon (affluent 'burb of Pittsburgh) made such a comment? No. Nonetheless it was disheartening. It's like reducing Pittsburgh to Flashdance. Last I checked, Jennifer Beals was starring in The L Word, and chicks don't typically work as welders/flashdancers in the 'burgh. But, that's what one might assume if they project Hollywood's image of a city onto it and tout it as "the way it really is."

Suggestion: give thanks if you can see past stereotypes.

Women Who ROCK

During my lunch break, I checked out The New York Times website to catch some fresh news, and, to my total surprise, found this monumental tidbit:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/24/world/middleeast/24saudi.html?_r=1&hp

For a debriefing, it's about three girls in Saudi Arabia who started a rock band. In Saudi, this is incredibly taboo. Imagine busting out of your black robes, picking up a guitar, and rocking your ass off in a country that believes women should be covered and quiet. I can't describe how much hope this gives me for women in the Middle East, and how much I admire these young women for their courage and creativity. I'm thinking of writing them a letter, and I'll surely check out their myspace page to hear some of their music. (They are called the Accolade).

Bottom line? Women rock, and they rock now MORE THAN EVER.

Put out the fire with ice cream

I hate when I wake up in the morning and my ass muscles burn. This is especially disconcerting considering I spend all day sitting on my ass, which hurts. I wonder if one can break their ass. I'm guessing this is entirely possible. Surely, the ass is smarting a bit due to the actual exercise I did last night at rehearsal for my burlesque troupe. One of our members is a belly-dancer and taught us some lovely hip-swiveling moves. Instead of looking like a delightful woman from a Bollywood film, I looked like a white girl attempting to shake it like a Polaroid picture (which reminds me, I should really get out Mom's old Polaroid and take some cool shots). The worst part was watching myself in the mirror and quipping my "ain't I cute!" face for myself. It was pathetic. This could be an opportunity to lose a few vanity pounds and practice my exercises daily. Or, it could pose an even better opportunity to gorge on junk. After rehearsal, I took my hour-long trip home on the MBTA in the bitter New England cold (it's not even winter yet, eek!) and made myself a huge hot fudge Sunday upon arrival at the home base. Tasty. Fattening. I feel like a stuffed duck. QUACK!

The election is tomorrow and I'm fairly pumped to vote. Tonight I must check out the dreaded Garment District for photo shoot clothing. You would think Wednesday could be busy enough with the photo shoot in the evening, and the need for an appropriate costume, but I also must go to Worcester for an Assistant Manager's meeting. Horrid. I have no desire whatsoever to do this, but I must, for the sake of keeping my job. Hello, Commuter Rail, how do you do?