So This One Time I Judged a Children's Beauty Pageant at a Ramada...

Since I lived in Denver for 3 years, I always enjoy going back - even for an extended layover when I'm on my way back to my hometown in Nebraska.  On my last trip I got one night to live it up in generally make poor decisions in Colorado.  But, as with any impromptu trip, you're at the mercy of your company.  And in this case, my friend Lindsey had already agreed to be a judge in a children's beauty pageant that was being held at a Ramada in the suburbs. So, what's a boy with no car to do but tag along?

Don't get me wrong.  I was elated.  I love anything that feels like a live episode of The Office - that feeling of awkward dread, yet pity, mixed with superiority and general sadness.  This place had the potential to elicit a cornucopia of emotion.

We got there an hour early so Lindsey could judge the girls' headshots prior to the competition.  I had assumed such beauty shots had ceased to exist outside of the midwest circa 1989, but no, the soft light filter business still thrives in the suburbs of Denver, Colorado. Each girl had brought their version of a senior picture no matter the age bracket in varying degrees of suggestive dress.  They all looked the same to me, but then I'm not easily seduced by prepubescent sirens.

I had nothing to do, so I retired to the sports bar for a beer, spent an hour watching the mishmash of locals and businessmen and off season sports on ESPN, then went back to conference room C.  This is when my life changed forever.  The woman running the pageant grabbed my arm, pulled me to the front of the room, and said, "Come on.  You're gonna judge.  We're short one."  So before I knew it, I was sitting at a folding table facing a stage that could barely fit the huge plastic trophies. 

I got to work judging the girls from 1-10 on "community service."  Such selfless acts included"Sold cookies at a bake sale" and "Modeled in an event where all proceeds go to charity."  It all reminded me of the time Mother Theresa modeled in that fashion show. 'Member?  It was an arbitrary process.  I couldn't bring myself to circle any number below 7 and it was all such inconsequential nonsense that I might as well have been ranking my favorite Disney Channel sitcoms.

Then came the real treat.  4 and 5 year olds walking out on stage in tiny puffy dresses to Kesha's "Tik Tok." For them, the party don't stop.  They were absolutely adorable, no doubt, but there was nothing to judge on but how cute they were.  I'd been briefed before of course as to criteria, but they were on stage for a total of 20 seconds each.  So I picked the cutest one or the one I felt the most sorry for.  It was at this moment that I realized that I was terribly unqualified.  I know nothing of fashion or make-up or whether your 5 year old daughter's G-string should be visible.

But it was still cute.

What wasn't cute was what followed.  The pageant apparently included girls - nay women - of all ages.  Two girls even made up an age bracket that I can only assume was outlined in the official rules as "22 to infinity."  One poor girl with gums for days and nicotine-weathered, wiry hair strutted onto stage wearing a faux velvet dress with fringe and sequins. She was well past 30, verging on 40.  It was just too much.  I gave her as high of ranks as I could justify, but this was clearly not her forte.  Her Miss America registration window had passed.  Personally, I was just nervous that she forgot to crack the window of her Sentra for her cats.  I wish confidence could be administered in pill form.

In between each section, one of the contestants read the bio of a different judge.  The first judge's bio was a good 3-4 paragraphs long detailing past loves and children and a stint in regional theater...  Lindsey's was 3-4 sentences that we had written in the car on the way there, filling it with nonsense like "Lindsey has a passion for Thai cuisine."  When in reality, Lindsey has a passion for Happy Hour fish tacos.  It was a pageant of sorts for the judges as well, which I obviously lost when they read the bio that I'd hastily penned:  "Todd works in Entertainment & Syndication in New York and is looking forward to seeing the amazing young talent today."  I turned bright red when they read it.  I didn't even say what colleges I'd attended or my favorite brand of toddler mascara. 

At the end, all of the girls stood on stage awaiting whatever trophy they received.  They all got one.  Nobody went home empty handed, which is kind, but you still probably felt like a nimrod if you took home a trophy for "best community service" - which might has well have been an honorary certificate for "most bulimic in 5-10 years." 

Then it was just over.  A ham of a girl with red curls turned on an iPod and all the girls mingled with the crowd like celebrities hobnobbing with the creme de la creme of the Ramada off I-25 across the street from the Cracker Barrel. (Mmm... Cracker Barrel.)  But hey, some of them got savings bonds which will mature to a full $100 in 50 years when it will be worth the equivalent of 25 cents today.  Not too shabby.

I did my best though.  Circling numbers is hard.  I judged that sucker with the straightest face I could keep like a champ.  And all I got was this silly blog entry...

Why Facebook and I are Falling Out of Love

I don't really hate Facebook per se, but it does make me uneasy sometimes.  Posts of baby pictures and family get togethers and general merriment-style postings are all sweet and nice.  What bothers me is that there seems to be enough online posturing to rival a Kanye West video.  I have a hard time considering any FB posting genuine.  It's too calculated and phony - like a reality show for the layman.

Everybody thinks they're famous nowadays.  If you are stuck in traffic, even some of your closest friends don't care as much about that as Kim Kardashian's cuticles. It's just the way it goes.  Your traffic problems don't make the front page of US.  I hate to think how much Tommy in Mizzoula is cutting himself right now because he only got two likes on the photo of his new haircut.

As my years on Facebook accumulate (as well as my disdain), I'm starting to notice a prevalence of certain types of posts that have begun to creep under my skin.  See if you can recognize any of these.

• The overly positive status.  "Go grab today by the horns because the birds are singing and the sun is kissing your forehead with its golden beams."  Methinks you doth exaggerate too much.  I believed you're happy, but now I'm having my doubts.
• Some vaguely defined person is pissing me off.  "I thought we had something special, but I don't deserve to be treated this way, so f*** off."  Translation: "My feelings are hurt and I'm having trouble sleeping because I don't know why 'X' doesn't love me."  All the tweeting in the world will only work against you.
• The list of things you've done today. "Went to spin class, then to King Soopers.  Going to pick up Chloe from Gymboree and have a Sanka on the front porch."  Alright then.  Way to go.
• Promoting personal endeavors.  "My workout DVD is being released.  Buy it."  "I'm moving.  Rent my house."  "I have a blog, read it."  Wait.  Nevermind.  This one's fine.
• I'm just so in love I could barf rainbows. "Snuggling up next to my man while we watch NCIS and drink chamomile tea.  I'm the luckiest girl in all the land to be so head over heals in love for all eternity." I give it 3 months.
• Song lyrics or poetry. "I want to stand with you on a mountain.  I want to bathe with you in the sea."  Even when Savage Garden said it, I think we all cringed a little.
• Pretentious blather.  "As Sylvia Plath would say..." She wouldn't say anything.  She killed herself. Food for thought.
• Politics.  "Obama doesn't rhyme with Osama for nothing!"  Granted that's pretty silly, but you get my gist.  No matter what, 50% of the people will not be happy and it's a cowardly way to incite controversial discourse. 
• Religious beliefs posed as truths. "Jesus loves you.  Sadly 98% of people won't repost this."  Yes.  And that's because there is more than one religion (Sorry Jewish friends, but apparently you're "sad") and also because most Christians are discerning enough to recognize pandering.
• Condolences. This one really bothers me for some reason.  It is so disingenuous to post condolences.  Death hurts and virtual support equals no support.  There are some reasons that a phone still exists, and no, not to text said condolences either.

Call me old fashioned, but I think Facebook is supposed to just be silly.  Like it was back in the days of yore when MySpace ran the meadows freely and we could rank our top eight friends - subtlety be damned.  Save the poignancy for appropriate times.  What makes you laugh - share away.  What restaurant should I try when I get a chance? I hate to say how many opinions of mine have changed based on carefully (or not so carefully) chosen soundbytes.  I don't want this.  I don't want insight that makes me not like people.  I want to see the good in people - I swear!  But, if identity is found in a Facebook post, I think we're all in trouble.

My Worst Bloody Temp Job

I decided to go to grad school on a whim.  I hated my dead-end retail management job (Hollister, anyone?) and felt like doing something nutty.  So, I quit, applied to schools and ended up in New York City eight months later.  I gave all my furniture to Big Brothers, Big Sisters and packed two suitcases.  I arrived at JFK with two bags and $2000.

Little did I know how difficult the NYC job market would be.  After a stint as a server in a pretentious restaurant with a rat problem, I ended up doing temp work.  Not administrative temp work.  Pretty much anything temp work.  My first job was spending a Saturday helping two young girls move out of their apartment on the Upper East Side.  It was harmless, I got some exercise and they gave me a Coke.

Others followed.  I sorted a rich guys bills that he'd collected in a giant cardboard box.  I ran an errand here or there.  Then I accepted an afternoon gig that truly threw me for a loop.

The agency described the job as "An elderly woman whose husband had passed away and needed help packing up the apartment."  No problem.  It paid well, it was mindless, and I could wash my hands of it after eight short hours.  Only the description had been muddy at best.

I arrived at the Tribeca Tower to see a morose, frail woman speaking harshly with a doorman who was avoiding eye contact.  She knew who I was right when I walked through the sliding doors and she greeted me with a warning in a broken Russian accent.  "I don't know what the agency told you, but..."

The "but" was a big one.  It wasn't her husband.  It was her son.  And it wasn't just a death, but a bloodbath.  When we arrived at the door of the apartment on the 52nd floor, the door frame still had yellow police tape that had been torn off, but left frayed pieces behind.  Then the odor hit me like a wall of smoke.  Though every window in the apartment was open, the smell of decaying blood was startling.  As I looked around the room, I noticed several bath towels on the floor with dried brown blood stains seeped through at the entry way to the kitchen.  On the stainless steel dishwasher, there was a bloody hand print that slid down to the floor. 

Dutifully and with limited verbal interaction, I began to pack up what she put in front of me.  When she placed female clothing and jewelry in front of me, she said cryptically, "If it wasn't for her, he'd still be here."  I nodded with my best attempt at empathy over the vague, but grotesque circumstances.

At this point she started to offer his possessions to me.  Not the cherished ones.  She asked me to go through his closet and take anything I wanted.  I did to humor her, but he was an extra large and I would have looked like a kid playing dress up.  By the time she'd unloaded all she could on me (and all I could carry on the subway back to Queens), I had some lingonberry juice, 2 bottles of champagne, 2 bottles of Cabernet (which forced me to have to step on the bloody towels), and a $400 kindle which I packed up nicely for the ride home.

Toward the end of the day, we had everything packed up and taken what we could to the Fedex downstairs She refused to ride the elevator alone or stay in the apartment in solitude, so she made every trip with me, though she carried nothing.

I gathered my freebie box and stood by the door as we prepared to leave the apartment for the last time.  She then said, 'I need five minutes' and walked to the bay windows that looked out onto a stunning panorama of the city with the Empire State building standing tall not far away.  She clasped her hands behind her back, bent her head down and sobbed uncontrollably for a good ten minutes.  The deep, hard kind.

Frozen, I just stood there.  She had had  such a harsh demeanor and seemed uncapable of such frailty.  I walked toward her to offer a hug, but she just held out her hand and said bluntly, 'No.'  I went back and stood by my box at the front door.  We then rode down the elevator in silence and I left her forever.

I got a text from her several weeks later simply asking for her FedEx receipts to be mailed to her.  Which I did. I don't remember her name.  God help me, I will never temp again.

When You Grown Up in a Small Town and Leave...

"I was born in a small town.  No smaller.  Nope.  Even smaller.  In the middle of Nebraska.  You've never heard of it."

It truly boggles peoples' minds when I tell them I'm from a town of 211 people.   Especially when I'm sharing it with coworkers on the 42nd floor of a skyscraper in Manhattan, a stone's throw from Central Park.  Most of them come from such far off places as "Upstate" and "Philadelphia." 

Then I prattle off my list of facts that are equally mystifying:

• I had a graduating class of 8 people.  8.  (However, this allowed me to be salutatorian and give the lamest, last minute speech ever; also I'm not counting the one kid who didn't walk in the ceremony, because I wasn't fond of him anyway)
• The nearest movie theater, fast food, or bowling alley was 65 miles away.
• I grew up on a cattle ranch.
• I could legally drive alone to school at age 14.
• My father made me pull wild marijuana so that it wouldn't spread. 
• We chopped our own firewood for heat.
• Cattle brandings were considered a social event.  Townspeople gathered, drank cheap beer, burned cattle flesh with a scalding iron, and threw calf-balls on the fire - then ate them right there.

What I also have found, 13 years removed, is that I'm the only one allowed to make fun of it (or others who grew up similarly).  Because here's the deal, it does have it's pluses.  Chiefly among them:

• Most people are so nice.  My theory is that it is because they rarely encounter each other.  Here I'm not ever sure if there isn't somebody sleeping in my closet.
• Nature.  Dear God, I remember that.  Tubing in the river is one of my favorite childhood memories. Also, yards.  Some places people get to have yards.
• Freedom.  I rode my bike everywhere.  I swam in the river without parental supervision.  Before I was even 10!  I even kayaked by myself when I was 13.  But that was against parent's wishes.
• Prices.  I think houses there are going for $12.99.
• Nostalgia.  I like it a whole lot more in retrospect.  Those wide open spaces can seem freeing now instead of suffocating.

But when you leave a small town and return for any reason, it creates an odd sensation.  Nearly all of my friends are gone, and the one that remains has made it clear that it's a temporary stay.  My grandparents have passed away, my parents have moved, but what remains is the very fabric of the town.  You have amazing salt-of-the-earth, God-fearing people on one hand and on the other you have your run-of-the-mill washouts.  (They don't call the Midwest the meth capital of the world for nothing.)  Lovely women and steadfast gentlemen I once knew still hug me and shake my hand as if I've never left.  And if someone hated me all through high school, odds are pretty excellent that they have a bowling ball sized beer belly, still say "Git er done!", and are out shooting pheasants for no real discernible reason. So, I guess life evens itself out.

And also, I'm pretty sure I buried a Folger's can as a time capsule somewhere on our old property.  If somebody finds it, you can keep the five dollars, but I want my D.A.R.E. t-shirt back.

Contemplating 'Cabin in the Woods'

I can't stand horror movies.

I don't like watching people get murdered.  I don't like seeing organs cut out of people's bodies.  I don't like slick banter during slayings.  Call me old fashioned.  Please.

In high school, I think I even did a speech about Kevin Williamson after he started writing the Scream trilogy, so I wasn't always so stuffy.  (They were very lax with speech topics in my high school.)  I couldn't get enough of Neve Campbell, David Arquette, and Courtney Cox running for their lives while still being just too cool for school.  But then, I also used to like singer-songwriters.  Now both are equally painful for me.

So, I decided to go see 'Cabin in the Woods' this weekend as a change of pace.  I tend to agree with most film reviewers and this one got atypically positive reviews.  Intrigued by the 91% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, I decided to put aside my distaste for the genre and pay $13 for thing.

During the trailers, I realized I'd made a horrible mistake.  Particularly creepy was a preview for a movie about people who lived through the 80's Chernobyl disaster and (I would guess) suffered from radiation that causes you to murder people for some far-fetched reason that will be posited as totally normal.  The radiation altered the brain stem to where it only can survive on human flesh. Some nonsense like that.  But there is a child and an abandoned warehouse so I can imagine what sort of visceral pleasure suicidal teenagers could get from it.  Either way, my palms were already sweating.

Then Cabin in the Woods started.  And it was like nothing I've ever seen before.  It was a more brutal Hunger Games movie with even higher stakes (if you can believe that).  It was self-referential in a way that Scream was, but the settings were all mythological and over-the-top.  Believe me, the way this movie ends, is in no way what you would expect from how it begins.

I hated every minute of it, reminding myself that I could go to Panera after it was over.

However, when it was over, I couldn't stop talking about it.  What did it mean?  Was it supposed to be campy?  Did they know those parts were as silly?  I texted friends about it, read reviews, and forced myself to think about it before bed so that I wouldn't dream about it.  (I often employ this sort of reverse psychology on myself).  This movie really got into my head.  Everything I expected to happen, didn't.  The murders weren't even the unsettling part.  It was the general idea, the human lack of empathy, the way they weren't afraid to go there.  What's more interesting is that previews didn't even hint at the bizarre events that were going to unfold onscreen. Now there's a rarity.

Then I thought - how many movies can I say that about?  Almost none.  There are movies with little twists and turns that are twisty and turny in that way we've come to expect.  This was unexpected without being expected.  I swear that makes sense.   The closest example I can think of is 'Closer' with Julia Roberts and Jude Law from several years ago.  That movie was extremely unpleasant, but I couldn't shake it. Just the fact that I can compare this to a drama based on a play hints at how themes from this movie didn't have the typical empty horror origin.

I recommend it. I didn't enjoy it, but I recommend it.  Strangely I feel like that's the highest form of praise you can give.  And it will be YEARS before I see another horror film.

Blogging is a "Thing"

I've decided to become a more dedicated blogger.  Why?  Because it's a thing now.  As I stumble around New York City peering through its smoke and mirrors, I have noticed that even what seem like the most ridiculous things are still in fact things that people really care about.  Every woman in my office reads Gawker and talks about it, so I guess it's somehow valid.  When I worked at an overrated restaurant in Chelsea, word would get out that a blogger was in our midst and then their meal would be comped.  Free food and potential advertising dollars?  The pros seem to outweigh the cons.  I'm late to the party, but I brought the Bartels & James.

So, I've decided that perhaps I can stumble onto some of that lightning in a bottle.  All I need is a focus. A gimmick.  Thoughts anyone?  I don't care enough about celebrities to trash them incessantly and without remorse.  I can give no Suze Orman-esque financial tips or you'd be sleeping in Zucotti Park, wondering how you were going to put your next marijuana and Boca Burger dinner on the table.  I am WAY too camera shy to do a video blog and too many people think they're far too captivating on camera anyway. 

Deduction:  Until I find a focus, I'm still going to be more dedicated to this blog.  I'm going to share my opinion about things that don't really matter with reckless abandon.  But I'm open to suggestions...

Go.

2011 Will Be the Same as 2010

Believe me, I want 2011 to be transcendant.  I want to lose 5 pounds of fat, gain 15 pounds of muscle and make the equivalent of 1 million British pounds in American currency.  Yes, I know it's Euros now.  But let's not mince words. 

But it won't change. At least not much.  Consider my redundant predictions.

In 2011:

- Somebody will die on Black Friday when they're trampled racing to a $65 iPod Nano.
- Some US state will pass (and then revoke) some bill forwarding the rights of homosexuals.
- A reality show will have us predicting the apocalypse like 2010's 'Bridalplasty.'
- Rihanna will release her 97th CD.
- There will be a news story about it snowing outside and one interviewee will say something along the lines of, "The city really should be more prepared."
- I will visit my homestate of Nebraska expecting some catharsis.  I will not get one.
- A nice meth-addicted young woman will get a black eye when the Huskers lose their first game of the season.
- There will still be no Arby's in New York City.
- I will leave at least 5 combination locks at the gym.
- I will hear a Black Eyed Peas song, think that this band can't get more ridiculous, and then end up secretly liking it. (See: My Humps, Imma Be, Boom Boom Pow etc.)
- I will spend $6 on a bottle of Bud Light.

The list goes on and on my friends.  Revel in the consistency that this beautiful world keeps throwing our way.  Celebrate the lack of processed roast beef in urban areas.  But don't expect this world to segue into a utopia any time soon.  And if you're up for it: Donate to my combination lock fund via paypal.


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