I Survived Jason Wu for Target

... Others were not so lucky

The initial announcement for the Jason Wu for Target line showcased simply adorable, gamine, and precious clothes. Sweet, really. Parisian chic. Civilized.

The roll-up gates raised at Target at 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday, and the stampede began. I crossed the threshold at 8:02 a.m., and found bare racks (save for the XL sizes), wild-eyed and crazed (primarily) female shoppers, the lucky few grasping a mound of clothes and sprinting for the dressing rooms. The Target employees gathered around, trying to soothe nerves and keep the peace. One ran to sporting goods to outfit himself with a taser (unfortunately, the line of designer tasers that launched the week before had resulted in a pared down stock there as well). 

A three-item limit was imposed on those attempting to use the dressing room, so others just dropped trou in the clothing section and even in the aisles of housewares, using the rugs and throw pillows to shield themselves from the eyes of curious Sunday-morning shoppers.

After the initial wave, a few rejected items replenished the racks. The gathered crowd sprang in for the deposited skirts and dresses. In one such case, two ladies grabbed hold of the same item, and fought. One shrieked the explanation that she deserved it because "I got here BEFORE eight!" Well, well, well. I wouldn't argue with the other woman, who was built like a linebacker, and could certainly level you to the floor. The shrieker, eventually, gave up.

Then the barter system reigned. Girls who had just grasped items willy-nilly were now left holding precious cargo that didn't escape the others' eyes. So they began offering their own misguided pickups in a trade for the other offcasts, before the clothing could be put back into the open market. Shirts changed hands for skirts; a flouncy dress traded for an 8 ball of cocaine. One woman, who was pushing a stroller with twins, decided she could spare one of her babies, and swapped for the trench coat. I'm sure her husband will understand.     

Only three major casualties were observed: One woman tried to stand her ground, holding a couple of dresses for a friend, waving back the hoard with a tiki torch from the outdoor section. The crowd pushed forward, undeterred, and bludgeoned the girl with a Michael Graves toaster. The second girl was strangled by the very object of her desire, a Jason Wu scarf with a sweet little kitty on it. Third, yet another girl was smothered by a Tickle-Me-Elmo, a former exclusive item that caused a Target frenzy. Elmo cackled maniacally throughout the proceeding. 

On this Superbowl Sunday, the true battle was not between the Giants and Patriots. It was between the XLs and the Wu loyalists. 

Btw, I came away from the store with three pieces, two of which I may be putting up for sale later. I'll take a large suitcase full of money for the black lampshade skirt and a unicorn for the red striped dress (shown above). 

Does Anyone Really Like A-Rod?

Alex Rodriguez is fairly universally hated, disliked, scorned, mocked and trashed, even by Yankees fans. Does anyone really actually like him?

Does it really matter if he's liked? Well, no. I hate him and hate to admit this, but he is supremely talented, drug-use aside. But talent does not make asshattery any more palatable. And he seems to be successful at the baseball regardless of whether he's admired for being himself.

Admittedly, as a long-time Mariner's fan, I have 252 million reasons to hate him, to think he's a selfish jerk and a turncoat of Lebron Jamesian proportions. He's the guy who claimed that, after he departed the team and the Mariners went on to win 116 games in 2001, that those wins were courtesy of him—that he helped create that team, and he was, therefore, a part of all those wins. Yes, while he played for another American League West team. Seriously?

But it seems that the team members in Texas disliked him, the fans despised him and felt that his huge albatross of a contract meant that they couldn't gather up a winning team. So all those people are out of the likers too.

And even Yankees fans do not seem to be a fan of him personally. I'm sure they appreciate him helping the team out, but I don't think he's winning any personality contests there, either, which is striking, because few Yankees fans would win them either. Hardee har har. I'm joking. Don't come after me.

And now he has even filed an objection to the poor bankrupt Texas Rangers, because they haven't compensated him all the way, and when he's swimming through his Vault O'Millions, he can detect that he's missing a few cool pieces of coin. Seriously? When you make gobs and gobs of money, is $25 million really going to change things all that much? "Oh, well I was going to buy a fleet of 747s, but if I had that extra $25 million, I could add a 777 for those special trips" (Silly me, I just looked it up. Apparently, it costs at least $205 million for a 777. Though, with what Alex has made so far in his career, he could actually afford that ...).

Clearly, also, his ex wife is not a huge fan, and I wonder how Madonna and Kate Hudson feel about him now.

Anyhoodle, I guess the point is that I don't like him, I don't know anyone who actually likes him, and I wonder if there is anyone out there who would want to go hang with A-Rod, go have a beer after work, and talk all about him and his various achievements and his awesomeness and how he's the youngest to 600 home runs blah blah ... I sure wouldn't.

The Meaning of Skinny ... Redefined by Marketers

This morning I received a message advertising a new sandwich being offered at Potbelly as part of the company's skinny offerings. The name of the sandwich: 3 Cheese Bacon Tomato Melt. So you have a sandwich with "skinny" as part of its name that includes not one, not two, but THREE cheeses and BACON? It sounds amazing, but not at all healthy.

Perhaps it's the size of my pinky toe, which means you can eat it and only gain 12 pounds.

Let's just use Potbelly's handy nutritional calculator. The new sandwich doesn't yet exist as part of the selection there, but lets assume (even if it will make an ass out of u and me) that all three cheeses offered at PB are part of it. So I selected Swiss, provolone and American. When I tacked on the bacon, here are the deets: Calories: 379 (actually not too shabby); Total Fat: 15 grams; Saturated Fat: 8 grams (38% of Daily Value); Sodium: 732 mg (31% of DV). Might as well tack on some Mayo to make it really good for you.

Jumping the Jersey Shore

Jersey Shore Season 2? Bad, terrible, horrible very bad idea MTV. An even worse idea than a woman buying one of these and wearing it to a job interview.

Now don't assume that I'm some TV snob and I'm writing this from some sort of high horse where I'm claiming the show is trash, not worth watching, etc. I would never say such a thing, because I happen to lurve junky reality television. It's such a pleasure for me I wouldn't even say I feel guilty. (And a Catholic girl who enjoys something that doesn't riddle her with guilt is a very big deal indeed.)

The thing with a second season of Jersey Shore is that the magic of eight fame-seeking so-called (by themselves) Guidos and Guidettes, whoring themselves at the expense of their dignity, will be lost. They all signed on to a television show meant to spoof their chosen or adopted lifestyles. Jersey Shore had the makings of a hit show from the start and the ability to propel those who could stand out into instant footnotes on pop culture history. Consider this, two days after the show aired, there was already a Jersey Shore nickname generator. This thing was gold.

Just so we're clear, I'm not arguing that reality television represents reality. There's two segments of reality stars that constitute the most compelling of characters. You have those who know that they're on a show, and they have to make a name for themselves; they have to stand out. These are the characters that invent catchphrases that will be uttered and replayed for years until they overplay (and sometimes then reappear years later in ironic usage). Consider Cristian Siriano and "fierce." On the other side of the coin is the pure crazy, the guy or gal who was cast for the show, but who has no idea how he or she is going to be perceived by the American public, and therefore becomes legend (Tatiana del Toro). The second type is prone to epic meltdowns, and the promise of such is the reason that people tune in to watch. In some ways the pure crazy contestant is the sadder of the ones who are remembered for their stint on a show, because they had no idea they were set to be mocked and ridiculed before they disappear.

Now how does that relate to Jersey Shore? Admittedly, these eight ranged from various degrees of self awareness and delusion.

You have Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino, who developed a schtick that could extend to future reality superstardom or, perhaps, even beyond. I'm not saying this guy is the future governor of the state of New Jersey—especially since he's actually from New York—but he has developed a very marketable persona for the cameras, and that just may land him his own show. But the thing is he's in on the joke made at his own expense. He's clearly playing up the whole ladies-man thing, the greasy charm that has led to countless hookups at the shore, but he almost carries that off with a half wink at the cameras that are going to carry his nickname, and his persona, to the masses, and at the same time, to the bank. "The Situation" has become a pop cultural phenomenon in himself. When you have various people instantly spoofing you on television talk shows, on blogs and through their Facebook status updates, you've made it.

At the other end of the spectrum was Angelina, whose bitchness played terribly on TV and was self-deluded that people would find her brand of crazy appealing.

But what about Snooki, who has both a touch of self-delusion and crazy, but also has seemingly warmed the hearts of America? She's found fame outside the show as well, having appeared alongside "The Situation" on many a late night talk show. On the Shore, she didn't seem to have the shrewd head for, well, anything, but her stupidity masks a higher ambition: her own show, which she offered up just after Jersey Shore aired ... Snookin' for Love.

And then you have Vinnie, who's a snoozefest and actually a bit high brow for the Jersey Shore set; unless I'm wrong, you won't catch Vinnie as part of the future airing of VH1's, I love the Aughts. Not interesting or crazy and not trashy or catchphrasy enough. (Though he did fist pump with giant pit sweatstains, but that was completely unintentionally funny and likely something that caused him great embarrassment when he saw the show later.)

Now back to my point, which is this, Jersey Shore won't have the same appeal, especially if either of two things happen: The same cast is used and the cast is actually paid thousands of dollars to appear. The cast members that are aware of how they are perceived on the show and online will milk their faux personalities to the hilt, and it'll grow tired so quickly. The others are either too self unaware or too boring to really make up for it, and what was once a pure genius glimpse at a set of fame whores before they found said infamy will be tainted by that achievement. Case in point: Milking MTV for $10,000 an episode.

The guts of the show will be ripped out; the phenomenon should just end with the tanning-making, gym-going, laundry-doing original.

Jokes for the Restaurant Thaitanic

While driving past the restaurant, Thaitanic, in Northwest D.C., a couple of jokes came to mind:

1. After eating there, you get a sinking feeling in your stomach.

2. No beverages are served with ice.

3. The band members are the last ones to leave at night.

When Morning People Attack!

Yesterday was particularly frosty in the D.C. area, and trudging to the Metro and from the Metro in the virtual darkness of a winter morning while half asleep was considerably lame. Let's just say the melatonin buildup in my body was especially high, and my psyche was burdened with having to be at work on a week that should have been a holiday, as many others in the area were off toasty in their beds, sleeping off the nog.

So, I wasn't very aware of my surroundings, is what I'm saying; in other words: dark, cold, sleepy, depressing ...

I emerge from the Metro tunnel and ride the escalator up, still aforementionedly groggy. Posted at the top of the escalator is a woman handing out brochures. She attempts to shove one at me, but my hands were buried deep in thick gloves, and further buried deeply in my pockets. I didn't reach out for one, as it would likely have caused my body temperature to drop 6 degrees, sending me in to hypothermic shock. Further, my fuzzy brain barely registered the interaction, which wasn't the case on her end ...

I walk past, and she says in a sickly sweet tone, "Good morning to you, TOO!"

Whaaaaa??? I was judged by the brochure passer-outer! How unfair is that? It's not like I was expecting to have my path crossed by someone I had to interact with, much less someone trying to make me do something. It's probable I didn't even want the brochure, whatever it was. And, I'm not a morning person, and shouldn't be judged by those who are.

I guess this is a sign that I've fully assimilated into D.C. culture. When I first landed here from laid-back and friendly Seattle, I would've likely taken six brochures and carried on a 12 minute conversation with the lady out of politeness. But now, I have one thing to say to her: Suck it, Judgey Brochure Lady.

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