I went to a puppet show this past weekend. I hope you don’t think I’ve been keeping the life-changing news from you. We went on Sunday, but I wanted to take a few days to digest it. I had first/seen heard about Bob Baker and his little puppets when I saw his theater whilst driving around . I immediately thought – anyone with half a mind is all up in this shit; I have to go, and there I eventually went.
Google research proved fruitful. Come to find the damn thing is kinda popular or at least historic – oldest surviving children’s theater in LA. Dates to the 1920s. LA Historic-Cultural Monument.
I was surprisingly excited about the whole thing. And then we got there.
Yeah, LA has offered me a “stable job” in a “rough economic climate” and given me the opportunity to make a few “friends” I can “shoot the sh*t with” and count on “when times get hard.” But that’s the small stuff. What about the fact that The New Mickey Mouse Club‘s Ryan Gosling is practically a neighbor? You know, somewhere in the city? The triple-threat talent, soft-spoken feminist and movie star who I must interact with at least once in my lifetime in order to validate my existence as a human being?
It’s easy to romanticize bikram yoga if you haven’t done it in over a year. I made good on my promise to myself last night and got my 168-pound girl body downtown to get my bikram on. I was all excited to go – you know, except for the dealing with people (social anxiety), parking, traffic, mat-etiquette, skimpy-clothing parts. But the exercise I was confident I could get through this time – I would skip out of the studio – like LITERALLY skip – exhibiting that lightness-of-existence Mary Tyler Moore had in the opening sequence of her eponymous TV show.
Yeah, not as magical as I remember. 1.5 hours later and I felt like I had done pretty much all the exercise required of me for the next two years, all the while facing a mental challenge I have no interest in facing – watching my puffy, scantily-clad body (because each garment of clothing means you are one step closer to death when practicing bikram) perform the postures in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that spans the length of the studio. Bikram, please remove the mirrors.
I have seen a lot of stuff on the streetz lately.
In his autobiography (yes, read it. yes, signed copy), Fiddy Cent talked about how in the ‘hood your car is all you got – it’s the mobile way to show people you’ve made it, cause if you a crack dealer you can’t be takin people back to your house. It was a really insightful theory. I love Fiddy Cent.
When I read over the summer that Peter Gabriel was touring around the 1986 album “So,” I got a leetle beet OCD, didn’t consider whether or not I truly wanted to see the show and bought tickets.
Of course last night, I’m like whatever. I totes didn’t want to go. I’m glad I did. John Cusack was there.
I think most girls are familiar with the fat-pants day, but I’m certain there are a number of individuals who have engaged in the ritual without giving it a second thought. I seek here to illuminate this very special day, one that can take the grossly heavy cross that is life and turn it into a small cotton satchel that carries only flowers and invisible rainbows.
At its core, the “fat pants” day is one in which one wakes up and realizes she won’t be at all “productive” during her next 14-16 hours unless he/she wears pants that either utilize an elastic band and/or are one-to-two sizes too big.
You better believe that when I feel like I can mold my slimy little hands around my waist and have a solid grasp on all that tight terrain I am not getting anywhere near the fat pants. They become the leper in the closet.
On other days, the very idea of slipping into them is akin to the feeling I imagine Coleridge or what’s-his-face conjured as they idly spent their days skipping through the Lake District and deciding what constituted art, poetry and literature in the late 18th century. I digress.
There are a number of reasons one might engage in a “fat pants” day.