Sexy Kitchen Cabinets

The day started early - and ended rather early, too, as it is only 7pm and I am quite done - and included a preparation of finger sammiches (cucumber, turkey & muenster, portobello & goat cheese, egg salad), all too many finger sammiches, a detour to Arlington before commencing the planned event of the day: PICNIC IN THE ARBORETUM.

I won't bore you with the picnic in the Arboretum story. There isn't much to tell because I trust you can imagine a 70-degree day completely immersed in all sorts of nature. Lots of maples, lots of oaks, lots of trees I couldn't even begin to try to name, lots of flowers, LILACS!! An orgy of sights, sounds and smells to tickle the fancy of anyone not completely dead.

Anyway, back to Sexy Kitchen Cabinets. On the detour to Arlington pre-Arboretum, I stumbled across an appealing (because I aspire to be a totally respectable housewife) cover of Traditional Home magazine. I lost myself in a world of wall paint colors and restored historic colonials. But every other page turned I found myself at once ooh-ing, then gagging, then ahh-ing, then frowning.

What could have possibly made me so upset (besides the smattering of what I think was bad taste/cheesy accents in some rooms featured), you wonder? Or maybe you're not curious at all.

It isn't a matter of being upset, per se, anyway. It was a bit... off-putting?

We read Vogue, Cosmopolitan, GQ, Maxim, Elle, etc. etc. Heck, even National Geographic. And we expect certain things from these publications, including the content of their enclosed advertisements. We expect lots of shoes, handbags, accessories and designer clothing ads from such magazines (excluding NG, of course) and they're all sorts of sexed up - subtly, not quite so subtly. That's okay because sexy men in sexy jeans sells jeans. Sexy bitches in sexy blouses sells blouses. Sexy bitches' legs topped (bottomed?) with sexy shoes sells shoes. You get the point. (Pointed out NG as a non-fashion example. We know there's no sexiness in there - just lots of pretty pictures taken by not so glamorous folks.)

But sexy men "wearing" sexy tiles to sell... tiles?

What was so shocking in Traditional Home was in their advertisers. Sex sells. We hear it a lot and we are fed it all the time. But to superimpose tiles onto a bronzed and toned man's unbuttoned shirt (yes, I wish I had a picture of this guy's tile shirt) to sell your tiles through his hard abs and seering gaze is just WEIRD.

Same goes for the super-swanky bedding collection advertised (don't ask what companies these were - their marketing vision clearly didn't work out as planned) by a woman with long flowing locks rested on the pillow (but next to her face, as if placed there by the hair & makeup team participating in the shoot..) in a shift dress sitting upright with legs straight in front of her and in bed next to her, a scruffy hot gangster man with tattoos and guns for arms sleeping in a languid position, sheets twisted around his hot bod.

What was the point they were trying to make, exactly? I have no freaking idea.

I wish I retained more because I am dead serious when I say it was like this with every other advertisement - dripping with sex, sultry stares and... siding? Hardwood floors (ha, I said "hard" and "wood" - why don't they use THAT to their punny advantage?) Wallpaper?

But to end this rant and fascination, I leave you with my favorite ad that came at the very end, the inside back cover, from our friends at Kohler and their AWESOME ads. Upon further investigation, I can now see that the advertising of Kohler products is rife with creativity and awesomeness.

How fun it would be to work on these types of projects. This goes up there on the best jobs ever list along with working for OPI as a nail polish color namer. Come on: Melon of Troy? Bastille My Heart?

For other fun colors and fun color names vist OPI

Other fun magazines: Wallpaper, Juxtapoz

That's all folks.

I had a witty title but I forgot to write it down

It may or may not have had something to do with the swine flu. Hopefully not.

I'm going to take this opportunity to tell the two people who read this (that many?) that this Saturday will be the public opening of the Ali Cann-Clift and Marco Abarca exhibition at Pucker Gallery. Come one, come all. Free wine and water (free water! GET OUTTA TOWN!) Free art.... GOTCHA! Freedom to look at art. Ali will be present.

OperaBoston. I am not one to take to the "avant garde" when it comes to taking the classic(al) and making it "edgy" (*AHEM* American Repetory Theater) but OperaBoston did a splendid job - most especially with set design - with The Bartered Bride. Obstacles along the way to get to the point of enjoying the production but once seated (in different seats, mind you - what the heck is up with me and not getting the seats I was intended for?) the story was quite enjoyable. In a musical theater kind of way, which got me to thinking about how I used to really love musical theater and now I ask myself, but whyyyyy? The over-acting, the singing, the dancing. I must have gotten BORING over the years because now I find it difficult to get past the hilarity of people singing what they are saying -- never found it so hard to believe before; why now? Anyway, once over all of that, it was a great production. Orchestra and its conductor (too lazy to dig around for the night's program so just make up a name in your mind - we can call him Sassafras Humphrey) were wonderful, the leads I could have done without, but the character of the sss-ss-stuttering Vasek, betrothed to the already in love Marenka, was PERFECT. The most enjoyable character for sure.

Then as I was sitting in the middle of Act II (I actually don't know at what point, "the middle of Act II" just sounds good) I got to thinking about how the storyline is so dang universal and trite (and then the thoughts went further and on to Korean dramas... Of course). Girl is forced into marriage. Father is in debt. Girl is already in love with Poorboy. Parents cannot approve. Poorboy is SECRETLY rich. And dramatic irony after dramatic irony, the audience is forced to wait for the TADA moment at the end of Act III; while from the start of Act I we knoooooow that Girl will be in disbelief and, for drama's sake, it's not as if Poorboy will reveal to her immediately that he is, in fact, her betrothed, given the stipulations of the marriage contract ("Marenka will only marry the son of Micha" -- guess who "the son of Micha" is?), and thus relieve the tension and the hatefulness Girl now harbors for the "lying, cheating, will take $300 in exchange for the woman he promised to love and marry forever and ever" man she thought she loved. There was an entire scene devoted to Jenik repeating "Just trust me. Will you not let me explain?"

JUST F-ING TELL HER! WHY DO YOU NEED HER PERMISSION, YOU TWERP!

Onward. The Crystal Method at The House of Blues last night was pretty incredible. The lights, though blinding at times, were well done, and the guys were really into it - one definitely more fucked up than the other. He dropped his keyboard, and thus damaged some equipment, not once but twice and during the performance he just got progressively more and more aggressive and out of control. He also said some pretty lame crap - like how he didn't get his monitor checked before the show because he was so into watching the Sox game.

Okay. You are an anomaly unto yourself for caring about baseball when you doctor these sounds with all this magical equipment (maybe that's not anomalous - maybe I just don't think people should be as obsessive about sports as they are) but of course his comments met a dead silent audience. We had waited long enough just for your arrival onstage - now we all know it was because you were watching the stupid game - nobody wants to listen to you babble about your love for the Red Sox. We came to listen to music, dummy!

I'm just hatin'.

Tonight we eat pizza and collate postcards; then it's King Khan & the Shrines at the Paradise.

You kids have fun NOT seeing opera and live music like myself. Ha. I am so much cooler than you.

Swine and Pearls

Swine, always a favorite word of mine for no other reason than its sound and elevation of "pig" to a much more elegant word, has taken on a new connotation. A friend in Mexico City can poke fun at the "epidemic" or cusp of "epidemic" and I have a tough enough time making light of the matter, but is it something to joke about?

Marco Abarca will no longer come for his opening. A precaution, and a well-thought-out, totally rational and precursory decision at that, but are we overreacting? Underreacting? My heart truly hurts because someone so in need of the attention and good feelings a trip up to the U.S. would bring is now at the mercy of unpredictable circumstances.

But honestly, WTF: incredibly and inexcusably sad that people are still this dumb.

This is just shameful. Go to hell, Jay Severin, and catch all the VDs there are to catch in this world and beyond, for being the most ignorant asshole EVER.

But in more uplifting news: begins and ends with our children.

A hand-me-down  swatch watch from 1996 beeps, though its batteries are very much dead. Makes me wonder...

Too excited for Pops season. Swingin', Benny Goodman-in', ahhhh... Speaking of, and totally unrelated, The Crystal Method at the House of Blues is coming up. Gotta ready my glowsticks and brush up on my head-tossing, swaying-like-I'm-tripping-and-just-can't-help-it, killer dance moves.

P.S. Happy May Day to all (MAY? Whaaaat?) and to all a good night.