Literate and Stylish

Liars and a Lesson on Properly Adding Insult to Injury

Dalia — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 01:08:06 +0000

Saying to someone, “liar, liar, pants on fire” is both juvenile and cruel. It seems silly to announce to someone that their pants are on fire unless one suspects the victim is unaware he’s roasting. If this is the case–and I’ve already said that it is–why waste time with the offensive part? Just yell fire and be done with it. Putting it out might even earn you a badge. If it still seems necessary to explain how clearly one recognizes his penchant for lying, then one could quip at the end, much more effectively, something like: “I told you God hates liars. This is your preview of the hellfire that awaits you if you don’t knock it off and get your life together!” Much better.

On writing

Dalia — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 00:57:21 +0000

According to a You Tube video I watched once, tweeting isn’t quite “writing” and neither is the new Wii game that simulates typing into a word processor. So I joined a writing circle to find inspiration and support for a book I’m writing. It’s creative non-fiction but that’s as far as I’ve gotten so far. I don’t think I’ll lead with any of this at our first meeting. . .

Allegories Ruin Relationships

Dalia — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 22:23:11 +0000

Not long ago, I was walking to campus alongside one of my professors. I hadn’t taken one of his classes in over 3 years but we had established a rapport and have stayed in touch since. So when he asked me, this particular morning, to “tell [him] a story,” I didn’t think twice about saying whatever came to mind. As best as I can remember, here it is:

There once was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children–she didn’t know what to do! So she sold the kids but found that, because they were relatively old, she couldn’t get much for them. Soon regretting her decision, she attempted to buy back the brood but found that the market had shifted such that older children were now more expensive than when she had initially sold them. With this diminished return, she could no longer afford to keep her shoe, so the old woman and her children moved into a sandal and her kids never forgave her. The End.

The professor asked if I was crazy and hasn’t spoken to me since.

Notes to Myself in and out of the Potty

Dalia — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 04:50:07 +0000

I go into the restroom immediately after someone comes out–like she holds the door for me, and I have to look her up and down to decide if she’s safe to sit after. Then I texted a note to myself reminding me to blog about this later. Then it dawned on me I’d been there a poop’s amount of time (longer than just peeing requires) and my coworkers might think I’m the type of person who poops away from home (spurious?). Just as I typed that, a woman came in and knocked on my door. Definitely poop-time. So I had to flush, wash hands, and run out, all before she could see me. Then I cut around the corner and went outside… into the cold, to lessen the chance she’d find me (and recognize my…shoes?). Just then, a cold, homeless man, possibly toting a six pack, passed me with a wave and a confused look, likely because he was wondering why I’d be outside alone in the cold texting. Texting is stupid.

Paging Dr. Carter; You’re needed in cell block 4

Dalia — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 20:46:02 +0000

Imma let you finish Lil Wayne, but TI had the best weapons charge of all time

I read that self-described “best rapper alive” Lil Wayne was set to appear in court two days ago (October 20^th) on gun charges. I also read that after a lenient New York State Supreme Court allowed him to finish his most recent tour, jury selection would commence. My question is: how does the court establish a jury of Lil Wayne’s peers?

I do not expect T.I., Remy Ma, Lil Kim, or DMX to appear in the box, but how the hell does this selection happen?

Lawyer: Have you ever heard of Lil Wayne?

Potential Juror #1: Is he the guy with the lollipop?

Lawyer: Um

Potential Juror #1: Did he ever find out how many licks it takes?

Lawyer: Stop talking, sir

Who could be objective? Probably not the following groups:

White people

Lawyer: How are you today Mr. Kramer?

Potential Juror #1: Swell! Ready to send this monkey to jail!

Lawyer: Um.

Old people

Lawyer: What do you think of sagging, ma’am?

Potential Juror #2: It’s a natural part of aging and I take umbrage that you’d so blatantly condemn my breasts. I wanna talk to one of your lawyer friends about suing you, sir, for sexual harassment.

Lawyer: Wait, what?

Fans

Lawyer: Thank you for coming Ms. Jones

Potential Juror #3: This doesn’t look like a tour bus

Lawyer: This is a court room, ma’am

Potential Juror #3: Oh, for real?? We’re doing a video shoot?? I gotta text my girl, she just got laid off.

Lawyer: Veto

Haters

Lawyer: Do you think Lil Wayne has mad skills?

Potential Juror #4: Hell no! I, however, got real dope skills. Watch out while I spit a quick line…

Lawyer: This isn’t Freestyle Friday, sir

I guess we’ll never know because he pleaded guilty.

Next blog idea…

Using the Grammy to guard your butthole: A How-to-guide

The Hokey Pokey is for Children until Debbie Allen Declares Otherwise

Dalia — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 23:10:58 +0000

Thanks to the magic of digital video recording (DVR), I watch “So You Think You Can Dance” whenever I think I have time. This part is actually unrelated to my point, but I’ll continue unabashed: The final number of last Wednesday’s show was an African group dance in which the remaining male contestants donned apparently African hemp skirts and leopard print undergarments – undoubtedly made of real leopards. The guys had worked with a renowned choreographer who specializes in African dance and explained how critical it is to feel and move on the rhythm, rather than count – sort of an organic vs. manufactured approach, I think. At any rate, most men had difficulty trimming back their trained and calculated muscle memories to perform a dance style that erupts on-beat. Upon completion of the studio performance, the judges asserted that the contestants had not truly pushed themselves physically and artistically until this night with this performance. In fact, Debbie Allen continued that “not just anyone” could dance like that.

Isn’t that an odd thing to say, or to believe? We are a culture that asks one another if we “can” dance, sing, paint, and perform any other number of artistic tasks [with skill], but this isn’t how any of the dances that wind up on FOX came to be. If art is an expression of self, an explanation for love and death and life and tragedy, then why limit its production to people who have graduated from an accredited program?

In whatever tribes from which the aforementioned dance was synthesized, children are doing it. Elders have been doing it for decades, and mothers teach their children without a dance studio or formal training. Yet, Debbie Allen and many of her dance dance revolutionaries — who in one interview talk about the merits of dance, the expressive nature of moving the body to communicate that which is unspeakable, and then in front of millions more says it takes years of practice and keen talent to dance like that –are effectively saying, “dance is powerful and emotive… but only if you have talent according to my professional rubric.”

That can’t be right, not for any art form, because art is collateral, belonging to everyone. Guitar belongs to me just as much as it belongs to George Benson, and my neighbor should sing in public squares regardless of her ability to match pitch with Mariah Carey. My friends’ canvases should garner respect because their hearts are identical to Georgia O’Keefe’s. And we should remember that dance originates in streets and alleyways where lovers matched feet-to-music before it was called the Tango, and that young kids put fists-to-air before it was called unparalleled talent on So You Think Can Dance.

Hooters Fail

Dalia — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 15:30:34 +0000

Your days are numbered, Chuck E. Cheese

Just last week, while running-around (whatever that means), a friend and I passed a Hooters.

Normal enough; Hooters appears along the highway, sometimes in more interesting places than others do – like next to the BINGO hall or a Christian bookstore.

At any rate, there was a “Kids Eat Free on Tuesdays” sign out front and, upon reading it, my head exploded.

“C’mon kids, load up the Preva! It’s Tuesday and your mother and I would like some beer, wings, and a sprightly woman with knockers the size of Cambodia to serve ‘em to us!”

Not normal.

What does the children’s menu look like? Obviously, Hooters is a themed restaurant, so I expect that the menu would reflect the Hooters theme in a way that makes sense for kids. Perhaps that is the most disturbing part.

Somewhere in Hooters Headquarters, a team of marketing demigods was working on the perfect combination of color-by-number-Hooters-shorts, a word search comprised of only owl-related words, and adolescent Sudoku to fill the opposing side of their pervert-inspiring food phrases:

Chicken Tender Thighs
Bend Over Burgers
Fish-n-nips
Macaroni and Cheese

Doesn’t it seem strange that, rather than offering Tuesday night specials on adult stuff to reel in adults, Hooters is focusing on the family? Is it like with McDonalds or “The Wiggles Live” where the advertisements target the children who are in turn supposed to convince and bring their parents with them? Are 6 year-olds all about the ass too?

GPS Lingerie, Panty Tracking

Dalia — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 07:41:41 +0000

GPS Lingerie

I just read about a new line of lingerie from Lucia Lorio that comes installed with a GPS device. It’s aptly named “Find Me If You Can” and many women are outraged at its oppressive potential. Opponents are concerned that unsuspecting women could be gifted these satellite panties while their stalkers, er I mean significant others, monitor their whereabouts. Or, I suppose, women could be forced by their partners into wearing the high tech underpants whenever they leave the house. Still, there are some who see the lingerie as a lifeline of sorts, much like a cell phone. They expect that an abducted woman wearing the GPS lingerie could be more easily found than a woman without a built-in Google map.

I’m not going to comment on its utility or anti-feminist nature, but I am going to ask some questions:

· Look at the photo again. The GPS device is in the see-through bodice and looks like a two-way radio holster. Without discretion, we’ve just got a lacey battery pack with bra cups. Who’s going to, after getting GPS-jabbed in the ribcage, pursue an illicit affair with this pseudo-naked woman? It could be a taser and without a safety word, that’s just dangerous…

· This whole set-up is expensive! It retails for $500 to $700. So I want to know just how many of these privates investigators Mr. Suspicious is willing to buy for Ms. Run Away This Man is Crazy. I hope this doesn’t surprise anyone, but women don’t want to wear the same panties each day, and she will definitely get suspicious if Mr. You Always Stalk the Ones You Love demands that she does.

· What does the $700 GPS do that the $500 GPS doesn’t?

· I really do believe that this is an inspired idea, but I’d like to know what’s on the horizon for future models. Will Panty Tracker 2.0 come with voice response capability and updated maps so I can ask my crotch for the fastest route to the airport?

Mostly, I want to know how Lorio conceived of this idea. Did she get tired of her partner using all her daytime minutes calling and asking her where she was? Does she think the only way she can meet Gloria Steinem is by provoking a Steinem-ass-whooping? Does her dryer lose socks AND panties?

What Barack’s Body is Really Telling You

Dalia — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 20:56:06 +0000

President-elect Barack Obama snapped shirtless on the beach

Barack Obama was recently photographed on a public beach near his family’s vacation rental in Hawaii. Internationally, our shirtless President-elect is making tabloid headlines as the elusive “they” are calling him a “Hawaii hunk”. I contend that there is another message to be gleaned from this photo and it is the following: Barack Obama is an elitist.

I know it may come as a shock because this is the first time you’re hearing that term in relation to our every-man Obama, but this picture is proof! Clearly, Mr. President-elect thinks he’s too good for McDonald’s, high fructose corn syrup, and Cheetos, and I just can’t trust the man. I can’t trust a President who wears baby oil around his navel so his four-pack glistens in the winter! I can’t trust a President who seems, by all appearances, not to see the merit in Hostess snack cakes or loafing in the bed with a cheese and pepperoni snack tray balanced on his fluffy man-breasts.

He’s not one of us and if you think I’m mistaken… check out the look on his face. That’s revulsion that you see; He just saw Joe’s plumbers’ crack and love handles.

Who the hell’s going to run the country in the 4 – 5 hours a week that Obama’s lacing up his Asics and hussling his trainer? I’m looking for the rotund type of chief who sits near the red button, just waiting for something to pop off. Most importantly, I’m looking for my President to know what it’s like for me to film a submission tape to NBC’s Biggest Loser.