it’s been awhile.  how is everyone no one?  

there’s something nice about writing into an empty blogosphere.  two things that were really getting to me about this blog: (1) fame; (2) fortune.  that public eye was really exhausting.  to all my remaining readers – hi, mom – welcome back. i’m happy you’re here.

*disclaimer: the likelihood that my mother actually reads this blog is negligible at best.*

i thought about writing an organized recap – breaking this up into the  days and weeks and months since i last posted – but the thought of doing that just overwhelmed me. so allow me to overwhelm you instead:

i went to italy all by myself and it was wonderful. amy winehouse died.  i got sixteen manicures.  i made poor life choices, and a few good ones – all of which involved boys, booze, or some combination thereof.  i explored - dupont circle and u street and h street and capital hill – and remembered again (and again and again) how much i love this city.  steve jobs died, and i was sadder than i could ever have expected.  don’t ask don’t tell was repealed, and i felt better about the people in charge (for a little while).  i moved to a sweet little apartment outside the city and walking distance to the bar. as a result, i saved on cab fare and spent on whiskey.  i went to brazil for 24 hours for my grandmother’s 80th birthday.  joe paterno resigned and everyone seemed to miss the point.  i guest bartended at my favorite dive bar.  my roommate and i hosted friendsgiving (and my culinary contributions to the event were box mashed potatoes and many bottles of cheap wine.  the 99% got angry.  i learned how to make a breakfast sandwich.  i spent christmas in new york and visited old friends for the last week of 2011.  for the first time in several years, i didn’t kiss anyone on new year’s eve.  (i was strangely okay with it.)  i actually started training for that marathon (it’s in october.  and i can now run uphill, in case you were wondering.)  i decided to apply to teach for america, and realized that my shoe addiction is less pronounced than my desire to love my job.  i drank approximately 600 cups of coffee.  whitney houston died.  i had the best valentines day i’ve had in years… without a date.  we still don’t know who is going to be president come january 2013.  i ate a lot of pizza. 

instalife:

…. peace out, homesnake. 

• Eat healthier

• Train for that marathon

• Take up swimming

• Read more classics

• Achieve a better work-life balance

• Drink less

This is where I am.

• Thomas Jefferson (or possibly one of his relatives, but let’s go with the big man himself, in the spirit of supporting evidence) was confirmed in 1998 to have fathered the children of Sally Hemings, one of his slaves.  Yup, they DNA’d that shit.  Maybe we should be saving those supercool sciency resources for more… pertinent cases?  Like the 400 people currently on Death Row in Texas?  But I digress.

• In 1920, the GOP paid Carrie Phillips (Warren Harding’s mistress) over $20,000 ($215,736.66 today, adjusted for inflation) to agree to a lifetime gag order so they could get ol’ Warren elected president.  She took it – smart girl.

• Eleanor caught FDR red-handed during his 20-year affair with her secretary, Lucy Mercer, and actually offered to give him a divorce so the lovers could be together.  Sadly for Frankie, though, Lucy ain’t want no part o’ that baby mama drama.

• JFK – need I say more?  His infidelity was about as subtle as a gun.

1. What the hell could she possibly have to say?  She’s calling it a memoir.  She’s fucking 20 years old.  What exactly does she have to memoir-ize about?  I took issue when Rob Lowe published his autobiography, Stories I Only Tell My Friends - but that had more to do with this burning question: Who gives a flying fuck about Rob Lowe?  This also applies to Bristol, by the way.  And she’s from Alaska.  Nothing happens there.  I’m still shocked that she was able to fill 272 pages with content about an upbringing in the country’s least populous state what I thought was the country’s least populous state before googling it and finding out that it is, in fact, not.  (It’s actually 5th behind Wyoming, Vermont, North Dakota, and – ironically, given my contempt – DC.)

2. She didn’t actually write it.  Someone named Nancy French did.  Now, I don’t have hard evidence as to how much of it Ms. French (who shares the byline) actually wrote, but I have a hard time believing Bristol knows half the words she used.  Mind you, the book (or at least the one-page excerpt I read) doesn’t use particularly advanced vocabulary – but the girl doesn’t know the word “condom,” so I’ve gotta go with the odds on this one.

3. She’s an unreliable narrator.  Yes, kids, the haze of alcohol (and no other factor, mind you) impairs the credibility of what is otherwise (ALLEGEDLY, since I haven’t read the book) a narrative tour de force.  Darling Bristol was shit-canned – at the very least when she and Levi first bumped uglies, more than likely during the writing of this book, and, at worst, every minute of the day.  But that’s not the part that gives me pause.  God knows if I gave a damn about unreliable narrators, I’d stop smoking crack before posting to L&L.  (This is a joke.) What gives me pause is her chosen means of intoxication.  Because Bristol didn’t do shots of moonshine perhaps befitting the eskimo redneck we know her to be – no, she got hammered on WINE COOLERS. She writes that she doesn’t actually remember losing her virginity.  This admission of amnesia is probably a tactical move – she leaves an opening for a Tea-Party-leaked Virgin Birth theory, thereby establishing her son, Tripp, as Jesus, Jr.  and giving Sarah enough Bible Belt street cred to win the nomination in 2020 (by which point – fingers crossed! – newspapers will be obsolete and Katie Couric will be busy).  This is all well and good and perfectly believable.  Except to anyone who has ever actually ingested a wine cooler.  One of those disgusting syrupy nightmares shares roughly the alcohol content of a Stella Artois.  Far be it from me to judge, but how many of those fucking things did the girl drink?  Because I’m pretty sure the number of those babies required to induce blackout wouldn’t have fit in the kid’s camping cooler.  (Oh, that’s right.  Did I mention she was camping?  I know – it just gets better and better.)

I’m sure if I read the book, I could give you more reasons not to do so, but I think I’ve made my point.  All politics aside, my literary advice is as follows: Don’t ever buy a book by someone who wears a bumpit.

She looks like Elvis.

I was so sorry to hear of your recent breakup.  Having recently been through one myself, I know exactly how hard it is.  People learned of my breakup on Facebook, but I thought it was very admirable of you to take the high road and release a statement to Entertainment Tonight.  And then to ask people to respect your privacy, and hers.  So noble.  Speaking of the media, each and every press outlet has referred to your recent split as a “failed relationship,” but I would really call it a tactical escape.  Can you believe people thought you would marry her?  Have they seen Elisabetta Canalis?  Ew.  She’s so hideous that looking at her in lingerie just makes me angry.

What a dog.

… But not in a jealous way, because I know all about the photoshop.  I’ve heard she actually weighs two hundred pounds and that when she walks the earth shakes.  And she looks tall enough to swat planes from the sky, Godzilla style.  And you know what I say about outrageously tall women: never trust a giant.  So good for you, George.  You deserve so much prettier.  Next to Godzilla up there, my ass (with its cute little bumps) and the skin on my upper arms (which sways so gracefully in the wind) are actually quite appealing.  I know my aesthetic is exactly the one you’ve been seeking.  I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses.

And you should really also be with someone a bit more accomplished.  And philanthropic.  In 2005, when that ugly skank was making a name for herself in the silver-screen classic Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo, I was making my  professional debut here:

Doesn't look like much, but their hash browns are like crack. Check it out if you're ever in Tenleytown. Osman and Joe's Steak and Egg Kitchen.

This makes me superior for a number of reasons: 1. In my capacity as a part-time burger-flipper, I fed the hungry.  2. I also helped the homeless – one night as I took out the trash, a drunk homeless man peed on my foot.  And I let him.  That’s just good hospitality.  Which brings me to my next point. 3. I was such a good hostess.  When the drunk and/or hungover would stumble into my twelve-seat diner, I would berate and ridicule them, asking whether their mothers would be proud of their early morning whereabouts.  4.  I also encouraged kids to stay in school.  Hungover American University students were my bread and butter – I changed lives.  They pretended to be angry when I barked, “Do your parents know they’re paying 50 thousand dollars a year so you can be out drinking at 3am during finals week?!” But I know they appreciated my subtle guidance.  See, George?  That Elisabetta didn’t help anyone out – but I, I changed the world. 

As if you needed any more convincing, I will present you with the zinger, the winner, the irrefutable logic that will convince you of my certain place in life as your future lover.  You mentioned in January (yes, I was listening) that you didn’t plan on getting married again.  Unlike that fat cow with the long legs and the serpentine tongue sticking out, I won’t ever ask you to.  That’s right, I am happy (deliriously so) to live with you in sin until the end of our days.  No pressure, no ultimatums, no nasty little expectations to speak of.  Just ravage me, that’s all.  Often.

So Georgie, I hope you see, my dear, that I am the clearest choice.  They say you are a cereal monogamist and, my love, I want to be your Fruit Loop.

All my love,

Iz

In recent weeks, I’ve spent an enormous number of hours with my fabulous (read: insane) friends.  This is in part because it’s summertime and school is no longer in session, thus eliminating my academic responsibilities and allowing me to shirk my professional ones (I work in education).  And it’s in part because of my recent breakup, which has left me without a constant companion but still happily enshrouded in the love of close friends.  Most of whom are men.  Which brings me to today’s lesson…

How to be friends with lots of different people and *gasp* not have sex with any of them.

Now I hate to jump right in with my high-horsey, superior “as a society” bit, but I really don’t at all, so as a society, we have been groomed to expect that male-female friendship is merely a precursor to something greater.  (Read: Fornication, and all that ensues when the glow of that particular sin wears off.)

Remember these guys?

Yup.  They were friends for about eight seconds in Season 1, when Cory thought Topanga was weird, before he realized a girl with hair like that was not to be fucked with.  She had serious hair.  Then they got married.

Okay, how about these guys?

I probably could have found a more mainstream photo, but this is my absolute FAVORITE Mark Seliger photo, so it stays.

I tried to put this baby in Photoshop and draw some arrows to denote romantic interests between friends, but two things happened:  1) I don’t know how to use Photoshop and 2) I couldn’t keep track.  Phoebe kissed Rachel, and also Joey, and even Chandler; Rachel kissed Ross, and then Joey, and then Ross again; Monica kissed Chandler – and I think at some point Joey, but not Ross because he was her brother, and so it goes.  That purple apartment in the Village might as well have been a whorehouse.  And “Friends” was right there in the title.

So back to our society.  With these horndogs as our cultural role models, it’s no great surprise that we see sex in every relationship, not just the sexy ones.  But I’m always flabbergasted at the number of people with whom the grapevine pairs me.  I’m not drop-dead sexy, I’m not a big huge slut, and under normal circumstances, I’m not even of public interest, so what gives?  Well, kids.  I’ll tell ya what gives.

We don’t like friendships that are messy.  Female friendships are things we can handle.  They make sense.  Rarely are others threatened by a platonic relationship between two women.  In theory at least, they share similar interests, similar life experiences (attributable only to the fact that both lack that pesky Y chromosome), and (again, in theory) they can likely be friends forever and ever, till death do they part.  *Note: Anyone who has ever borne witness to drunken cattiness between women might argue that the chances of being involved in a female friendship with any degree of permanence is roughly akin to that of being killed by a flying bear.  (Unlikely, but not impossible.)

But men and women do not share the basic human experience we’re so fond of referencing, and this bothers us on some psychic level.  A strange criteria for friendship, because I can count on one hand the number of occasions on which I’ve had any sort of meaningful conversation with a girlfriend on what it’s like to be a woman.  (I cannot, however, count on both hands and feet the number of cocktails it took us to get to that particular subject matter.)  In this enlightened age, it seems silly and antiquated to believe – however subconsciously – that men and women have such a limited number of shared interests that any relationship between the two will ultimately result in a manifestation of their one common interest.  (Carnal pursuits of the flesh, in case I lost you there.)

I think the other thing that bothers us about these “unconventional” relationships (if you can even call them that), is that – at least for us twenty- and thirty-somethings – they tend to come with an expiration date.  If I may generalize, I think it’s safe to say that we as a group like to think of ourselves as highly evolved human beings, far more open-minded and pioneering in our relationships than members of our parents’ generation.  And as such, we like to believe that we’re comfortable enough with our partners and our friends to maintain close and platonic male-female friendships well after the dawn of a serious relationship.  Frankly, though, that’s bullshit.  In my limited experience with marriage (i.e. spying on my friends’ wedded bliss), I’ve found that the party line usually reads something to the effect of: “We can be friends with whomever we choose, but he/she satiates my need for close male/female interaction.” Yes, people have actually said this to me.  Who’s highly evolved now, cavepeople?  Like it or not, though, this is how we think.  And I think this seeps into how we view the relationships of others.  Why, we ask ourselves, if we are all doing what we’re supposed to, evolutionarily (I know it’s not a word) speaking, and stumbling around the planet looking for suitable mates, would we start something we have no hope of finishing?  If there’s no hope for sex, love, marriage, and ultimately divorce, why bother getting it started at all?  Furthermore, if when the wedded bliss and ensuing alimony kick in, we’re giving it all up anyway (in favor of our loving partners, who then become our ambassadors to the opposite sex), what’s the point?

I’d like to share a personal experience on here, specifically because the gentleman involved asked me not to do so, and I like to push his buttons.  I have a dear friend with whom my relationship has always been strictly platonic, brother-sister style.  In recent weeks, we’ve spent a great deal of time together, nurturing the shared interests we couldn’t possibly have because I’m a woman and he’s a man.  And nothing short of everyone we’ve ever fucking met has asked if there’s something going on between us.  I recently described us to an outsider as “intellectual fuck buddies,” a phrase I’m more proud of having coined every time I say it.  People still don’t believe me, but I’m sticking to my guns in that it’s important to have people around you that turn your brain on.  Sad, though, that with all the rumored sex we’re having, neither of us is actually getting laid.

And now an example of the expiration date I was referring to.  Some months ago, I was talking (talk – v. Speak in order to give information or express ideas or feelings; converse or communicate by spoken words) to a platonic male friend in a bar.  Mind you, we were standing in a group of about six people discussing Dr. Seuss (a clear marker of infidelity, if ever there was one).  His girlfriend stormed in, pulled him aside, and proceeded to ask – none too quietly, mind you – if he and I had recently engaged in illicit activity (Copulation, et al).  He vehemently denied any relationship (a fact that didn’t bother me since, in fact, there was none), and told her she was being ridiculous.  The scandal continued into the evening and has since subsided.  But when she’s in the room, I try to steer clear of him, lest my efforts at mundane conversation about the weather should lead me to a future social casting as as Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

Because who wants to be associated with this chick?

Sadly, I totally understand where all of these opinions are coming from.  I’ve harbored supreme jealousy over my exes’ friendships, and I’ve engaged in shameless speculation over the (ultimately fictional) love lives of friends.  We all do it.  Everyone does it.  There is no relationship we don’t categorize – social navigation is just easier that way.  But wouldn’t it be nice if high school ended at graduation?

Things that have happened in the six months since I’ve contributed anything to cyberspace:

1.  I discovered self-help books.  After the heartrending end of a three-year romance – it happened last month, it was my decision, yes, I’m still hurting, I’ll write more on this sometime, or maybe I won’t – I decided to seek advice from those obviously more stable, mature, and generally figured-out than I.  I devoured both of Greg Behrendt’s tough love chefs-d’oeuvre: It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken and He’s Just Not That Into You (preemptively, of course).  Add in a third reading day, and I covered Bethenny Frankel’s A Place of Yes.  Perhaps because of my recent love-yourself-self-helpy-I-am-woman-hear-me-roar kick, I am able to admit to you (all one of you – thanks, Mom) that I actually LOVE self-help books.  (*Stream of consciousness sidebar: Being single is lonely and sad and shitty, but it has freed me to admit – to myself and everyone else – that I am not, nor ever have been, a sports fan.  Revelations all around.)  I like to consider myself an optimist.  I think I can honestly lay claim to being a glass-half-full person, but damn! these self help people put me to shame.  They’re all There is a wonderful man out there who is not gay and loves to do laundry and cook for you! and You are a beautiful, sexy beast, and you will rule the world!.  It’s doing wonders for my confidence – both in myself and in the universe.  *Disclaimer – I still feel lame when people at the gym ask me what it is I’m reading so intently on my iPad and I have to tell them it’s something called This is Why You’re Fat (or any of the above titles, for that matter.)  No one ever asks me that when I’m reading Kerouac.  Harumph.

2.  In a delectably satisfying moment of something between poetic justice and irony, a man named Weiner resigned after Tweeting a picture of his wiener.  It’s too good.  It makes me giggle every time I think about it. Uncontrollably.  I’m not even sure there’s any valuable commentary I can add to this.  It’s that good.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, crawl out from under that fucking rock and Google it.  

3. I got all Eat Pray Love-y and decided to embrace spontaneity.  I abandoned my control-freak ways (if control freaks were messy and forgetful to begin with) and took risks!  I lived with abandon!  This is a gross exaggeration, actually.  But I did go to my first professional soccer game with the 12 people in DC who watch pro soccer (*Stream of consciousness sidebar addendum: I still love going to games.  Where else can you have beer, pizza, and cotton candy for dinner?  Maybe I’ll try a state fair next.); I went to a bar with a mini-golf course in it (highly recommend this for anyone who panics at the idea of any recreational activity that doesn’t include drinking – here’s another place you should check out); I went to my first Dubstep show (after which, I must confess, I still don’t know exactly who or what Dubstep is); and I went two whole weeks without eating a single meal at McDonalds.  And then I got extra Eat Pray Love-y and bought a ticket to go to Europe next month.  No plan or premeditation, just because.  I can’t wait.

4. Michele Bachmann decided to run for president. I’m reluctant to even say anything on the subject because this idea scares the motherfucking piss out of me.  Maybe, like the Boogeyman, if I ignore it, it won’t exist.  Oh, Conspiracy Theorist Nut Job (read: Tea) Party.  What are we going to do with you?

5.  I’m aware other, more important things have happened in the six months since I’ve published anything.  I will never forgive myself for being on hiatus when Donald Trump pretended to run for president, or when The Situation roasted him:

or when Obama picked up where Sitch (as I’m told his friends call him) left off:

But such is life.  I just hope The Donald’s ratings drop enough in the future that we’ll have the privilege of watching him fake run for president next election season as well.

Okay, I’m tired and bored with myself.  And dammit, I’m going to take a nap.

I LOVE the holidays. Christmas music, lazy days off, presents and free-flowing cocktails at every juncture… What’s not to like?  But there’s also
the refreshing sense of starting fresh, of abandoning all one’s
humanly foibles and becoming just a little bit more fit, more
literate, more Jesus-like. But every couple of years in Washington,
a new type of renewal begins, and it has everything to do with a
cutthroat, strategic, manipulative spirit of which I hardly think
Jesus would have approved. That’s right kiddies, coming soon (two days ago, actually) to a CSPAN channel near you, the 112th United States Congress. *Trumpet music plays.  People cheer.  Or not.*

While watching The American President on HBO the other day, someone asked if I thought the film’s producers had rented out the Capitol.  Without thinking, I replied, “If it is the real Capitol, I bet this scene is the most that got done in there that year [1995, in case you were wondering].”  Its overwhelming popularity aside, I acknowledge the unfairness of this statement.  But it isn’t just me!  As long ago as the year 1948, even Harry Truman blasted the “do-nothing… good-for-nothing 80th congress.”  So, as Michael Douglas conducted the State of the Union Address as leader of the free world, I got to thinking: Why is it there’s this notion that nothing ever gets done on Capitol Hill?

A series of options crossed my mind.  The first: Well, they’re always on vacation.  But this isn’t entirely true – it just seems that way.  Strictly speaking, members of congress receive roughly two months per year of vacation.  This may be a bit excessive, but in the ten remaining months, surely, they must get something done?  So that can’t be it.   Then maybe it’s because they defend that vacation time to the death.  On a national stage.  In the middle of the worst recession this country has ever seen.  See: Sen Jim DeMint (R – S.C.), who declared it “sacrilegious” to work in the week leading up to Christmas.  But DeMint is just one man… So maybe that’s not it either.  Think about it – presidents take vacations all the time.  Every other week, Obama is photographed spending time with his family, and Dubya took over 250 vacation days by mid-2003.  But they tend to be left alone by at least half of the political spectrum – everyone hates on Congress.  But why?

And then, like a bus, it hit me.  We tend to feel as if nothing happens on Capitol Hill because a great deal of the energy expended up there is devoted to ensuring that things don’t happen.  Even virtuous things that should happen are held hostage by filibusters and the like, suspended in an actionless vacuum until one party or the other backs down.  “Why is this a bad thing?” you may wonder, “That sounds like a great way to get things done!”  I kid.  You’re not wondering that, you’re far too wise.  And you’re right.  It’s a crappy, crappy way of getting things done, and it should change.  But it won’t.  Because we, as humans, love to be right.  And those who have actually made the professional and financial effort to get themselves elected to public office are, according to Machiavelli, obsessed with power.  Are they good people who want to serve their country?  Absolutely.  But it takes a certain zest for victory to run around touting your own positive attributes and bashing an opponent’s negative ones in order to get yourself a job.  So much of the time, it’s about politics rather than public service, about winning rather than doing good. 

I thought about telling you all exactly how congressional infighting is exactly like an Anna Nicole Smith legal battle, but I realized it wouldn’t do any more to drive the point home.  You already know just how silly all this is. 

Until next time, kiddos.  I promise it’ll be less than a month between posts!

Ready?

Are you sure? It’s pretty scary…

Okay.

LINDSAY LOHAN GOT HER CAR KEYS BACK.

I know.  You would think that after her last accident….

Grazie, buzzhollywood.com

Or the one before that…

Merci, honk.com

Or just the general car wreck that is her life…

Arigato, weirdworm.com, for your feature, "5 Celebrities Who Just Went Crazy"

Someone would have permanently committed this girl.  But nope, as of yesterday, the brilliant minds at the Betty Ford clinic have given LiLo back her keys.

But the issue at hand today isn’t Lindsay’s car, it’s her… um… well, it’s her vajayjay.  But not just hers – we’ve brought in the trifecta of productive members of society and included Britney and Paris, too.  Get excited.

Show of hands – who’s been on vacation?  Good.  Isn’t it great?  The sun shining on your sunburn (ouch! but also, so nice…), the sand between your toes (ruining your pedicure…), the handsome young pool boy rubbing lotion on your back…

Okay, now snap out of it, and let’s backtrack to airport security.  This time, instead of the sun, it’s fluorescent lights, and instead of the sand, it’s linoleum, and instead of the handsome young pool boy it’s a woman (who may or may not be a man – hard to tell).  By the way, your sunscreen is now a night stick.  Nice, right?  Just recently, lucky for you, the TSA has found a way to recreate at least one aspect of the tropical vacation experience: crippling physical insecurity.

That’s right, folks.  The kind of fearful inadequacy you used to feel only while lying on a beach in a bikini (that’s Speedo to you, boys) is now available to you for the bargain price of a plane ticket to Milwaukee – about $142, in case you were wondering.  The TSA has recently rolled out a fancy little machine they’ve seductively dubbed “the body scanner.”  While those who set off metal detectors were previously subjected to the investigations of a smaller metal detector, they’re now pushed through what I like to call “the naked-maker.”  I don’t know how it does what it does, but its images look something like this:

Thanks for that, boingboing.net. She's hot!

The last time this much of anyone was seen on film, you know either LiLo, Britney, or Paris was involved.  Let’s take a look, shall we?

ininb.com. barf.

And again…

I had to Google Images "Lindsay Lohan vagina." Truly. Thanks for censoring, Perez.

And, ladies and gentlemen, the creator of the crotch shot, the Queen of Cooch herself, Ms. Paris Hilton!

Love the censor on this one... Source: skyscrapercity.com

Now, you may be wondering what Britney Spears’ undergarment choices have to do with the TSA, and you’re about to find out.  But first, I should mention that everyone is really, really, really mad that Joe Schmoe, TSA Agent, is about to get a front-row view of their collective lady/man parts.  Incidentally, when the above “Crotch Crew” photos were published, there was a bit of uproar about invasive paparazzi.  The chorus to these two (contextually, pretty different) complaints rang basically the same: our privacy is being invaded, and we’re sick of it!

But wait, you may say, I’m diligent about my underwear!  I don’t want anyone to see me naked on quite the same obsessive level that Britney Spears does.  And, if this is the way you feel, you’re right.  But in the same way that Paris Hilton needs paparazzi attention in order to continue existing (we can only assume), we need airport security to perform diligently in order for us not to get blown up (and, consequently, stop existing).

At the risk of sounding Machiavellian, let’s ponder whether the ends justify the means in this particular situation.  For example: would Paris rather the paparazzi stop following her around, thereby rendering her irrelevant; or would she prefer to suffer the potential embarrassment (which some might argue is considerably less embarrassing than her multiple DUIs, cocaine arrest, and blurry green sex tape) of baring it all while getting out of a Maserati?  Time and time again, she’s chosen the latter.  And quite frankly, I’m inclined to agree.  Between the destruction of one’s existence (in the case of the Trifecta, fame-whoredom; in our collective case, maintaining all body parts attached at all times) and privacy, I think we’re all pretty much on the same page in choosing the body parts thing.  But I could be wrong.  Thoughts?

So there’s been quite a bit of buzz lately about the 2012 presidential election.  Pundits love to speculate and criticize – they’re a bit like gossip columnists in that way.  Missing from their speculation of late is a vital element, however: candidates.  The last election was approached with a tremendous sense of desperate urgency; by the 2006 midterm elections, we had at least a fluid idea of what our options would be as voters two years later.  There are a few reasons for which that election was approached somewhat differently than the upcoming one: the first is that having George W. Bush in the White House felt like an insult to the collective intelligence of the entire planet, and we were all ready for a change.  (Mind you, I’m choosing not to comment on his politics, but the man actually spoke the phrase, “Before I arrived in President”).  The second reason is that McCain had actually become a viable candidate, and we were all rightfully uncertain of the expiration date on that one.  (Still going strong 4 years later! You go, John!)  And the third reason is that this time around, we’ve all had a rough few years, politically speaking, and would just like a moment to relax.

But all this buzz inspired in me a thought: Wow, the US electoral system is pretty boring and complicated.  Wouldn’t it be just splendid if someone could make it interesting?  Huh. Well I guess I could do that.  So, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to present you with today’s lesson: The Academy and the Electorate.

In order for what follows to make sense, we need to talk a bit about the Academy Awards (the Oscars, silly! You knew that.)  We’re all familiar with the red carpet portion of the evening – the part during which Ryan Seacrest (or Joan Rivers, or anyone else whose face is composed entirely of silicone) weasels his way up to real men (like George Clooney – sigh…) and asks what they’re wearing (Tom Ford) and what they expect from the evening (um, hopefully a statuette?) – and the subsequent Monday-morning skewering of the fashion decisions of some of the world’s most beautiful women.

God, he's handsome. Thank you, Esquire.com. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

But before the dresses and the Seacrest and the Clooney (swoon), at some point in late November (the awards are usually scheduled sometime in mid-March – set your TiVo) the nomination process is set into motion.  Oscars.com describes the nomination and voting process as follows:

Each November, an election campaign commences that rivals the passions and sometimes the excesses of the quadrennial race for the nation’s presidency.

Wow, really?  I guess it’s good to know that narcissism is alive and well on the West Coast.  But I digress.  So members of the Academy (of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, in case you were wondering), who are carefully selected only after they’ve achieved distinction in the field – the Hollywood equivalent of discovering a cure for cancer, apparently – need to be sponsored by other members in order to gain entry.  The Academy has established a strictly enforced set of rules in order to guarantee that undeserving films aren’t nominated as a result of bribery or coercion.  So in the weeks before films are to be nominated for the awards, each filmmaker does everything in his power to guarantee that each of the 6,000 voting members of the Academy has viewed his film.  They can’t send jewelry, but they can send movie tickets.  Score.

In December, the fun begins.  Each member of the academy receives a ballot, to be completed and returned by January, at which time the nominees will be announced at a press conference.  Then new ballots are sent out, containing only the names of the nominated films, at which point the whole process repeats itself, and winners are chosen, and everybody lives happily ever after.  Everyone but the losers, that is.

The electoral process for the US presidency is basically the same, but with lower salaries and higher stakes.  In the same way that the film community appoints a select group of experts to decide which projects merit recognition, the states appoint electors – representatives whose job it is to pick a president on our behalf.  So the electors (a group equal in number to the combined membership of Congress and the House of Representatives, plus three for DC!), usually state and local officials, party leaders, or people who are affiliated with the candidate in some way, are basically the Academy.

You know how, every four years, you scurry on down to the voting center, pick out a president on your ballot, ignore the rest of the names on there, and proudly sport an “I Voted” sticker for the rest of the day?  You feel pretty virtuous, don’t you?  Well, I’m here to tell you a secret: Your civic responsibility is a lie.  That’s called the popular vote and it means about as much a rottentomatoes.com review of a Jennifer Lopez film.

Just like the Oscars, the presidential election has two rounds.  And just like in Hollywood, no one’s allowed to send jewelry.  Ironically, the Academy is better at enforcing this rule than the US of A is.  This is the point at which we introduce a concept with which you all may be familiar: the campaign.  The strategy here is similar to that of the Oscar campaign: name recognition is key – by and large, we tend to elect only people we’ve heard of.  But if citizens don’t personally pick the president, why do candidates run around the country kissing hands and shaking babies, you ask?

Well.  Here’s where it gets really silly.  The first round, where a candidate is chosen from each party, involves the opinions of about 4,000 delegates, chosen on the local level to represent the opinions of voters regarding specific candidates.  Then there’s even more campaigning.  A great deal of weight is thrown around, and everyone peer-pressures each other into voting in exchange for a multitude of totally unrelated favors.  It’s quite messy and very Hollywood.

Before we know it, it’s election day, and we’re all parading around wearing the aforementioned “I Voted!” (or, alternatively,”¡Yo Voté!”) stickers, thinking we’ve made a difference.  And we have, just not as directly as we think.  We’re actually choosing electors, who will then scurry down to their respective state capitals and go about pickin’ us a president.  Once their votes have been cast, majority gets it.  (A note: the popular vote sometimes differs from the electoral vote because electoral votes are counted on a “winner take all” basis, which means if 51% of the state’s allotted electors choose a candidate, that candidate wins the state.)  Exactly like the Oscars.  Eventually, the envelope is opened, the winner announced, and the speech made.  (A note on the speech – you may remember Julia Roberts’ 2001 win, after which she silenced the conductor with, “You’re so quick with that stick, mister man, so why don’t you just sit down,” annihilating the two minute time limit for the acceptance speech.  Perhaps not surprisingly, the leader of the free world rarely faces such issues.)

http://www.ew.com. Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

So there it is, folks.  It turns out all those vapid Hollywood narcissists are onto something – while they don’t actually run the country, they share some fundamental practices with those who do.  (No, George Clooney, don’t get ahead of yourself.  When you stand up in front of the world, like you did while accepting for Best Supporting in 2005, try not to have your head so far up your ass that you pat yourself and Hollywood on the back for singlehandedly spearheading the civil rights movement. Watch the video here.)

That’s all for today, kiddos.  Stay out of trouble this weekend, and we’ll regroup on Monday for a lesson on the TSA and why it’s better to get felt up than blown up.  And as always, remember to comment below.  Participation is 20% of the grade.