Sunday, May 09, 2004

I meant to write something under here yesterday. It was going
to be about my love/hate relationship with magazines. I grew up
in a house with every magazine subscription known to man. It
was a great way for my family to emulate spending quality time
together when in fact we were really just sitting side by side
drooling over the glossy pages of other people’s exciting lives.

When I left home I went to an all women's college. My first
class was taught by an amazon New Orleans woman who made
a mean gumbo and encouraged the class to work on an assignment
that involved ripping up magazines into a collage of sorts.
The theme was how badly magazines portray women. For a
couple of years the project and images my classmates
chose to glue to poster board stuck in my head. A hand
reach for a Vogue suddenly turned into an automatic
response-an electronic shock of sorts. I was too shameful
to buy mags anymore and thanks to the money I saved my
pride made me a rich woman.

A nice story-but it wasn't long until I was back on the
Magwagon again. Currently in my house I have more trashy
mags then I'd care to admit. While E pretends to hide
them away it is him I find laughing at a photo of Mike
Tyson walking to his car with TP coming out his pants.

Trashy mags break the ice. After a few beers at a party
they can be a great topic of conversation. Men pretend
to be bored by it all but trust me when I say they are
right there in it. When family comes to town and there
is no more wine and cheese there are always enough
trashy magazines-common ground for all to talk about.

All I know is yesterday sucked and if it hadn't been for
photos of Scarlett Johansson chewing with her mouth open
at the Ivy...I don't know what I might have done.


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