I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. Anyone from the New York City area knows that it is a very large place, made up of five boroughs: Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, the Bronx, and Staten Island.
Many people who visit “New York” believe that the island of Manhattan is all there is to New York City, but that isn’t the case. Brooklyn, in and of itself, is more than double the size of Manhattan, but for the past few years, all attention has been focused on one small section which has been gentrified to the point of being unrecognizable.
I was actually pretty busy during the month of December, and sadly, it caused me to neglect my blog. I am hot with shame, in addition to my regularly scheduled hot flashes, but I vow to make up for it in the days, weeks, and months to come. After all, this is my name, my livelihood, and my lifeblood.
In lieu of a November beauty favorites post, I’ve decided to tackle a subject I’m becoming a little irritated by, and it happens to involve makeup and skin care.
My favorite militant feminist organization, Breast Cancer Action, has lightened up on the mammogram debate for the time being, and is now focusing on the dangers of makeup and skin care products. Do some makeup and skin care items have harmful ingredients in them? Yes. Does there need to be more regulation on the part of the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) to keep us safe from dangerous products? Maybe. At this point, waking up every morning puts you at risk for something. I’m not sure we should be all that concerned that our moisturizer or lip balm might be killing us.
I usually like to make a list on Thanksgiving of the things I am grateful for, but this year, I think that would be a tad disingenuous. Don’t misunderstand me; I have plenty to be thankful for. The problem is, it is tough to wax rhapsodic about all the good things without making mention of what irks the shit out of me. To sweep all that is evil under the rug causes more problems than acknowledging that which pisses me off.
It’s been a particularly busy week in the assholery department, starting off with an unprecedented amount of ignorance towards Syrian refugees, and ending with a dumb blonde (let’s be completely honest here) attempting to convince the world that Charlie Sheen tried to give her AIDS.
In March, 2011, I wrote a blog entry about Charlie Sheen’s meltdown after being fired from the hit sitcom, Two and a Half Men. I’ve always admired Sheen’s acting abilities, dating all the way back to Platoon and Wall Street; especially Wall Street because he personified a certain type of asshole that my generation must claim responsibility for. What type of asshole is that, you ask? The yuppie (young upwardly mobile urban professional) – the hipster antecedent who cared about nothing except making money, and gave birth to the materialistic mindset we’ve been cursed with since Michael Douglas’s character Gordon Gekko uttered the phrase, “greed is good”. The yuppies have now descended into middle age, but you can tell which ones are still a little “Bud Fox” around the edges, and long for those Halcyon days of insider trading and Reaganomics.
This blog entry isn’t a rant about Ann Coulter and her inflammatory rhetoric. I am using her image as representation of all that is reprehensible about North America.
When I write about life in my tiny corner of the world, I often say “North America” rather than “America” or the “United States”. That’s because I am literally a citizen of the continent; I am American and Canadian. And I am somewhat obsessive when it comes to keeping up with events in both countries.
The older I get, the more I think the world is becoming a place I no longer want to be a part of.
Some of you might remember a slightly obscure 1991 movie called “Defending Your Life”, starring Albert Brooks and Meryl Streep. The plot of this movie is about proving your worth as a human being in a pit stop named Judgement City, before moving on to the afterlife.
I’ve spent most of my life in the company of sports fans. I blame my older brother for afflicting me with the condition known as “fandom”. Once you’re stricken, there is no cure; you carry it with you forever and always.