Emily Volman

A New Year Twitter Contest!

When I’m having a bad day or hating myself or would rather spend the day eating ice cream in bed, I find it’s best to GIVE to other people to feel better. (Although sometimes a trip to TJ Maxx HomeGoods makes me feel better too, but no one is supposed to know about that.)

Anywho, today I need to GIVE. Therefore, for the next 24 hours, all those who tweet the following from their Twitter account will be entered in a random drawing to be GIVEN a $15 gift card to iTunes (although my podcast is free…hint, hint…).

Tweet this:  “Just so you know, @emilyvolman thinks I add value to the world, and that’s enough for me.”

Rules:
• You have to be following me to win (so I can DM you the code. If you hate me enough to  stop following me afterwards…hey. I get it. I hate me today, too.)
• You have until Saturday 1/12/2013 at 6:00pm Eastern to enter.
• Do something nice for someone else for no reason to make yourself feel better.

That’s all. Good luck. And thank you for being you.
-Em

When the internet gets it wrong…

I saw this “Run The World vs Bohemian Rhapsody” picture (left) on Facebook this morning and it really irritated me. Typical of internet memes, this one is now making the rounds with comments attached like “sad” and “accountants created cookie cutter pop songs and marketed eye candi [sic], where are the real stars today?”. I’m sure the picture was intended to be funny in some way, but people are stupid…or worse, lazy. They don’t want to research the whole story about something randomly posted online to see if it even holds water, yet they will happily repost it and send it on to the next lazy ignoramus.

So let me do the work for you here…

The Judgement:
First of all, we have to assume that this photo is saying “Beyonce’s song took 6 writers and 4 producers to come up with utter crap, and Queen’s epic, amazing piece of art only required 2 geniuses.” Now let’s explore why this argument is so flawed.

The amount of writers and producers credited on both these songs is listed correctly. Notice I said credited. But you should also know that on “Run The World”, (credited writer) Beyonce and (credited writer) Dave Taylor are also part of the producer number. By that logic, all of Queen should’ve been credited as producers on “Bohemian Rhapsody”, skyrocketing that number from 1 to 5. But they weren’t. Why? Also, three of the “Run The World” writers are the creators of the music sampled in the song, which means they probably had little (if any) to do with the end product.

This is why the silly internet photo above riled my dander in the first place. The whole comparison is ridiculous. These two songs are from completely different eras. Technology and the music business have changed so dramatically in the last 40 years, you can’t compare. According to the argument of this photo, “Bohemian Rhapsody” is a piece of shit compared to Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender”. (Obviously, depending on who you ask, many would agree with this statement, too.)

The Reality:
How art is credited has changed dramatically throughout the history of popular music, thus to fault “Run The World” for crediting 6 people is not fair. It is true that Freddie Mercury is given full writer’s credit for “Bohemian Rhapsody” but he “wrote” it (in pieces) over a 15 year span. (And since we’re making ridiculous musical comparisons, Rossini’s opera The Barber of Seville was written in a week and is still one of the most performed operas today, while Wagner – who labored for years with snippets of music – doesn’t get nearly the same amount of stage time these days. However his epic and plentiful works overall are considered the best of the opera genre. Is Rossini the Beyonce or Mercury here? I don’t know who to judge anymore!)

As usual, I digress. Back to “Bohemian Rhapsody”… It has been noted in interviews and past documentaries that much of this finished piece was “written” while they were recording it. Brian May’s guitar solo (which is an intricate part of the composition as a whole and without it would not have had the musical dichotomy that makes it epic) was all his. Not Mercury’s. Why was May not credited as a writer? Why wasn’t Roy Thomas Baker (the solo producer listed on “Bohemian Rhapsody”) credited for co-creating the harmonies? Well, you’d have to talk to every band ever about that one. They all have their understandings. Paul McCartney and John Lennon gave writers’ credit to both for all Beatles songs. Garth Brooks insisted on being credited on most of his songs, even if he had to change one word to “deserve” it. Credits are the bane of art.

Technology:  Let me go back to my Elvis Presley comparison. The songs of that era were recorded on two tracks, which was the technology at the time. Voice and live instruments…just an amazing song performed in its purest state, some would say. “Bohemian Rhapsody”, on the other hand, had the newer (better?) technology of a 24 track. Baker earned* his measly one credit by stacking the vocals and then bouncing them down to one track and bouncing and bouncing…eventually technically creating 180 (one hundred and eighty!!) tracks of vocals for a correctional-facility-worthy wall of sound. (Sorry, Mr. Spector.) You could argue that Bohemian’s songwriting needed all that technology to make it great and that, perhaps with just the four voices on one track, it would have sounded limp and disjointed.

Now jump to 2011. The technology used today in music is far more superior than 1975 and, whether you like it or not, listeners expect more (and they don’t even want to pay 99¢ for it. But that’s a rant for another blog). The film and television industry is the same way. Is the production of The Avengers (2012) any better or worse than The Magnificent Seven (1960)?

Your answer to all of these questions most likely depends on which of these came out during your rite of passage years. Music, movies, books, etc will always seem best if they’re attached to memories of you making out with your first love in the back of a car.

Comments: As I mentioned in the first paragraph, I saw a comment stating the entertainers of today are just “eye candy”. (Well, that dumdum spelled it “candi”.) I hate to break it to said dumdum, but Freddie Mercury was TOTAL eye candy. Maybe not for this female commenter, but there was a reason Mr. Mercury wore tight pants and tank tops! Sex, baby! Elvis’ shirt was unbuttoned to his belly because women wanted to see the goods (and bads). People that are willing to get up in front of mass crowds and shake what their momma’s gave ‘em are “real stars” to someone. It hasn’t changed since the beginning of time.

Let me also make it clear that I am not defending “Run The World” or Beyonce or even new music. I have actually never heard “Run The World” all the way through, and I love “Bohemian Rhapsody”. But it doesn’t matter what I personally like or dislike. It doesn’t matter what you like or dislike. It’s ART, jackwipe! Everyone likes their own thang, so stop judging it like YOUR opinion matters.

I could go on and on about these types of internet postings and why they are perpetuating everything that is wrong with the universe, but I know you guys want to get back to watching “Dance Moms”. So let me just leave you with this: Take responsibility for the information you spread. In fact, if I’m wrong on any of what I said here, leave a comment! Correct me, but only if you have the references. I have tried to do my fact checking, but this is just a website. There are no rules out here. Just our own ethics. MEME RESPONSIBLY.

*As I ranted about this at home all today, my husband (Mark Volman) also added that Roy Thomas Baker’s vocal layering concept came to life when he was working with Flo & Eddie (um…my husband and his vocal partner for 40 years Howard Kaylan) on T Rex’s album. Thus, I think Mark was saying HE came up with this idea and HE wants credit for “Bohemian Rhapsody”. I think. Freddie probably won’t mind now.)

**This picture was apparently originally posted (created?) by the following people: http://www.facebook.com/lolwall.fp

Good Gaga…

Last night my husband, Mark, and I went to the Lady Gaga Monsters Ball tour in Nashville. It was Mark’s birthday and that’s what he wanted to do. Don’t ask me. I’m 99% sure he’s not gay, but he does like to listen to dance music when he works out. However even if he is gay, I will support and love him no matter….wait. I’ve taken a wrong turn with this concert review!

We started our evening getting drunk at Bella Napoli. Their pizza is amazing and I ate a whole one. By myself. Then we had Tiramisu (the best I’ve EVER had…and I’ve had it all over the world). While delicious, our getting drunk was completely thwarted by eating. I need to remember not to eat when I drink.

We headed off to the Sommet Center or the Bridgestone Arena or the Gaylord Entertainment Dome or whatever corporate Nazi has named it this week to get our Gaga on. I have to admit that I’ve been poopoo’ing this experience from day one. Mark bought the tickets for the show without asking me. Since it was his birthday, I couldn’t argue, but I thought it was strange. You see, Mark goes to concerts for a living. He HATES going to concerts unless he’s being paid. He doesn’t even like to go to concerts when he can get free tickets. In the 15 years we’ve been together, I don’t think we have EVER paid to go to a popular musical concert like normal people. Ever.

So why Gaga? I think I know why. In October of 2009, Mark (and his musical partner Howard) were asked to perform in a charity concert being produced by Bono and Hal Willner (SNL). During that trip, Hal invited us to come watch a mid-day SNL rehearsal. The musical guest that week was Lady Gaga. Admittedly, Howard, Mark and I mocked her as we sat alone in chairs and cast/crew scurried around us rehearsing sketches. We hadn’t even seen her yet, but…come on!…we all know she’s horrible.

Yeah, she’s not. We apologize.

When it came time for her to rehearse her two SNL numbers, she came out in one of her crazy costumes (a movable gyroscope that required 20 minutes of just practicing how to SIT DOWN at the piano because she couldn’t reach the keys without one of the sphere’s bars hitting her in the head) and we practically went blind rolling our eyes at each other. But when she finally got the “technical” issues out of the way, she started noodling on the piano. Just Gaga. No one bothering her. She seemed comfortable and intimate sitting there, singularly playing unbelievably beautiful melodies. If I were an 1800s poet, I’d say something cheesy on how her fingers battement glisse’d all over the ivory. But I’m not. I am an 80s television kid, so I’ll say her fingers were like that episode of The Littles where Dinky tries to rescue Lucy from that leaf that’s being washed down the sewer water.

ANYway, we only continued to be impressed with m’Lady that day at 30 Rock. She began to sing as she played the piano. Gorgeous voice. Soulful. Throughout her rehearsal time, she was extremely professional and not diva like at all. She even came over to where we were sitting and chatted with us for a few minutes while they prepped for the next sketch (that she was in with Madonna – we were right there for that, too…but that’s a different story). Gaga was down-to-earth and normal. Sure, she was in her underwear as we talked (where I happily made mental note of her thigh cellulite), but you could tell she was not what she perpetrated to be in the public eye. The three of us admitted later that we were wrong. She actually is quite talented.

Now cut back to last night. Why, given my new found respect for her, did I dread going to her concert? Because I had seen her perform already and anything else would now be over the top and annoying. Especially with all her “little monsters” around. And I was right. Little monsters were everywhere. Looking just like monsters, actually. But these monsters were not Gaga fans. These were poor, teenage African-American girls who were clearly “encouraged” to stand in front of the entrance to the concert wearing the following:

I say “encouraged” because as we passed by, they listlessly muttered “God hates gays…Sinners Repent. God hates gays…Sinners repent.” as if they worked at Walmart and had to tell each passing customer about the clearance sale on bananas. I even asked to take this picture of them and they perked up (Someone was actually TALKING to them!), said “Sure!” and posed like I was yearbook editor for Homophobe High. They were sweet, and I almost felt badly making fun of them. But I did anyway. God probably hates comedians, too.

We entered the insanity that was the arena lobby. Gagas everywhere. Male Gagas. Females Gagas. Not-Sure Gagas. They even had a Little Monster Pix booth, so you could one day show your kids how ridiculous you were when you were 42.

Before we could grab our seats, I had to get earplugs. I’ve never worn earplugs to a concert before and only did this time because I’ve been having some eustachian problems lately…but now that I’ve worn them, I may never not wear them again! They’re great!! I might even wear them at home, at church…there are so many uses!

We arrived at our seats just in time to be tortured by the opening act. Semi Precious Weapons….which the leader singer elongated every time he said their name…which was a lot. The Andy Taylor-esque lead singer called us bitches about 10 times within a minute. As a performer, I usually like to have people like me, so I’m not sure I would choose his audience-warming technique. But he seemed comfortable with it. AS comfortable as he seemed in his very high heeled boots. He did the splits and a cartwheel in them…that is, after he ripped off his regular pants to reveal only nylons. It was impressive…and painful looking. If, by chance, I were to run into him personally at some point in the evening, I would’ve have already felt like I had intimate relations with him. We’d all seen everything he had to give.

Wait! Not everything! He had t-shirts to throw to the crowd!! Oh man, did I want to get one of those….hold up…did he just wipe his crotch with that shirt? I don’t want it anymore. But thank you.

This act went on at 8:30 (concert was supposed to start at 8PM) and lasted about 40 minutes. They were set up in front of Gag’s stage, so the turnaround should’ve been quick. Nope. We sat there…and sat there…and sat there. Mark and I began a discussion on how Lady Gaga would enter for the first number. I voted in a giant peanut shell as Mr. Planter. Mark voted as a cowboy on a real live horse. “You know, for Nashville!” he said.

That conversation grew old quickly, especially since I kept screaming “WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU WITH MY EARPLUGS IN!”

As we patiently waited, the nice young flamboyant gentleman next to me touched my arm and leaned in, saying “Do you have any gum? My mouth is so dry.” I did! I always have gum! … And I’m guessing me, sitting quietly with my earplugs in, my big mom purse (which I prefer to call a “tote”) clutched on my lap gave this fact away. If I had been grading papers as I waited, it would have completely clinched the becoming-your-parents transformation.

During this time of silent observation, I noticed a suspicious absence of beach balls in the crowd below. Is that concert phenomenon passe? Please don’t tell me! I so enjoy standing (at 5’3″) in a crowd, barely breathing beneath the taller nostrils stealing all oxygen before it reaches me, only to be suddenly smacked on top of the head by colorful fun! Please say I will experience this again at my future Jessie J concert!!

Finally, at 10PM, Gaga starts her part. Oh shit. We have to stand. I mean, I knew it was coming…but so soon? I should’ve used that precious hour and a half between Semi Duran Weapons and now to bribe my section with glitter! I could have gotten them to sit the entire time! WHAT WAS A I THINKING!?!

Too late. I’m standing. Tote clutched. The curtain is rising. Oooh, this is gonna be BIG! I can feel it! I’ve been cringing at the thought of this moment for weeks, but now that it’s here I’m excited. I almost WANT to be standing!

WTF?? No pod. No peanut shell. No horse. Just a shitty ridiculous looking green prop car with smoke machines under the hood. And Gaga’s not even in it. She’s up on a riser, singing, making poses.

And her outfit? Nothing to write about. (Although I guess I will…since you’re still reading. You’re kind of diehard for doing so, by the way. You’re my Little Diehard.) She wore a bikini with fishnets and a Michael Jackson military jacket with pointier shoulders. Black. Boring.

I have no idea what this first song is. Then I don’t know the second song either. I sit back down. It’s not like I don’t know any of her songs. I know the hits. Who doesn’t! She has not sung one of those yet. All of the sudden the music stops dead. The crowd goes wild. What am I missing?? I stand back up. Oh, she just dramatically turning to face the audience. That takes approximately 18 seconds. The crowd loves it. I can’t decide if I’m the douchebag or they are.

Wait! I know this one!! JUST DANCE…IT’LL BE OKAY…RECORD BABY…DANCE…DOO DOO DOO DOOOO. I’m dancing…with my purs, er, tote. I think my husband has fallen asleep. I look over and he gives me a tired look and mouths “I’m ready when you are.” What! I finally know a song and he wants to leave? No way. I’m dancing so hard, I don’t even notice that the stupid green car is gone and now Gaga is wearing a funny purple hat. It’s not a great hat. But it’s funny looking, so it serves its purpose. She sings another song I don’t know, so I sit down.

Then it starts. The “thing” that will eventually ruin the evening. She starts talking…and talking. This is “the place” where all her “little monsters can be super free.” A “place where all the freaks are outside,” but SHE “has opened the door.” “FOLLOW THE GLITTER!” She’s making me hate glitter. And I love glitter!

All of the sudden, she’s gone again and suddenly there’s a subway car on stage. I get it! A transportation theme! Chiseled men in white jockstraps pour out of the subway car like an ejaculation scene in a Woody Allen movie. Gaga exits lasts wearing a…nun outifit? I’ve seen this one before. Lame. OOH! But she sings another song I know. The disco stick one! She has a claw or something on her hand, yet she never utilizes it. Curious. It doesn’t even come up when she randomly screams “Get your dicks out! I heard they make some pretty cocks in Nashville. Now DANCE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!”

There’s something going on here that is just now starting to become noticeable. Before (and/or) After every song, she tells the audience that she loves them, for about 5 minutes. At this moment, she says that she used to not be brave “before her little monsters.” Before they did what?, I wonder inside my muffled head. She continues, “Forget your insecurities! I used to wear a mask because I was afraid and wanted to hide. I still wear a mask, but now it’s with pride!” She’s so full of shit. And it’s so obvious. I look back at Mark, who is no longer looking tired but annoyed that he’s still sitting there. I press on. I must know more!

The next song is “dedicated to all the Tennessee gays.” The handsome lesbian couple in front of me embrace. I suddenly feel excluded. I’ve never wanted to wear a mask and be gay more than I want to right then. But I am suddenly snapped back into my reality when the Jockstrap Joe’s take over the stage. That’s not dancing, I proclaim loudly to no one. Gaga leaves and comes back to sing another unknown song and breaks one of her nails on the keytar she played dramatically for a second. She notes the breakage to the crowd, and a dancer comes to take it. She stops him. “One of my FANS might want this!” And they do. They want her broken fingernail. Fabulous.

Someone is smoking a cigarette in my section. I do not like this, but I stop caring when Gaga announces something about a “Telephone.” The third song I know! Woohoo!! But before we can get to that, she pulls out a cell phone and says she’s going to call someone in the audience. Someone who has been selected, mind you, and placed in a perfectly lit spot. He is dressed like a flaming Capt. America. He cries a lot. She speaks fake British a lot. It reminds me of Swept Away. Gayptain America cries even more when Gaga announces she’s going to donate $20K to an LGBT organization…though I’m not sure why. HE’S not getting the money.

“Telephone sans Beyonce” is played. I like it. She calls us all bitches again. I’m starting to not like that. The acoustic portion of the program has begun. Mark and I hit a wall, which is punctuated by more pandering to the crowd. The fans are her “blood flow” and if you “cut them off,” her “heart will stop beating.” She loves them so much, she says. In fact, so much that she has written a new song (that will conveniently be on her new album available in the fall) dedicated to Nashville. That’s right. NASHVILLE! NO OTHER CITY!! ONLY US! She plays the song and starts pandering some more. Something about how a fan made a vest that was delivered to her dressing room before the show and she cried when she put it on (which must’ve been why she was so late…they were waiting for the bomb squad to dismantle the thing.)

We couldn’t take any more and left. How’s that for a full recap?! We left! We saw nothing more. The pandering was killing us. Appreciating your fans a couple of times is cool. After every song is phony. I wonder if God hates phonies. We went outside to ask the African-American girls still standing there. All they said was “God hates gays…sinners repent.” Then their wires short circuited. It was definitely time to go home.

Ultimately, I was disappointed with the concert. I was planning on thinking it was over-the-top and crazy, but really it was boring and wordy (just like this review!). It’s a concert…SING! Entertain me! We expected a Michael Jackson style “spectacle,” instead we got a Lee Press-On sleeper. Also, while she continued to inspire her little monsters, she called them bitches and motherfuckers at every opportunity. The entire show was filled with a bitterness and anger that could not be hidden by a plastic nun hat and cliche love poems. It was sad. She made me sad. She made me not want to take a ride on anyone’s disco stick. And, let’s be honest, that’s what I came for.  Perhaps my husband did, too.  Oh well.

Boo Bop Bopbop Bop

Hardly a day goes by that I’m not asked, “Emily, tell me more about your obsession with the movie Pete’s Dragon.” (That’s because my dog knows I like to tell the story. She loves me.) But today, in tribute and remembrance of Charlie Callas, the best non-talking-yet-I-kind-of-know-what-you’re-trying-to-convey-through-your-sleep-apnea voices to have ever been recorded in the history of cinema, I share this story with you…my imaginary friends.

I’ve never really liked Disney anything. I didn’t even like cartoons, truth be told. I had a Gem and the Holograms thing for a few months and went through a short Smurfs phase, but I pretty much jumped right into sitcoms and pirated-interference-ridden Spice Channel porns by the age of 7. I like to think it’s because I was on a higher plane than other children. Or a hormonal imbalance.

But long before that, Disney made one of the worst creative decisions since Song Of The South. Pete’s Dragon. Although, I’m now realizing I liked Song Of The South, too. Fascinating. I need to process this…grab a knapsack & hobo into the freight of my thought train, if you’d like.

Both have live action mixed with animation. As I’ve already noted, I wasn’t a fan of cartoons, but being the compromising, flexible person I naturally am, I was apparently comfortable proceeding with each film’s 50% non-practical life applications.

Both had songs. If I was Christina Aguilera, you would already know from my A&E Biography how into singing and music I was coming out of the womb.  ESPECIALLY bland heart-stroking songs about hope for tomorrow and black people.

Both had rascally influential friends. Most people identify with the protagonist in movies; not me. In my mind, I have and will always only ever be the “funny friend.”

Most importantly, both movies were something my father and I shared. My dad used to read to me from this very big yellow Uncle Remus book, with its smelly old pages and slightly torn jacket.

I’ve kept it all these years because it meant so much to me. My dad would do all the voices. He was terrible at them – butchering the English language even further than Joel Chandler Harris wrote it – but he did it with gusto. Because he knew I loved it. I didn’t know what the stories were about. Guess that’s why I liked him to read Little Black Sambo, too. Wait. WHY DID WE OWN THESE BOOKS?!

I prefer not to address the white elephant in the room. I mean…!  Moving on.

Pete’s Dragon came out in 1979. I was five. I would attempt to blame naivete for my immediate fixation on Helen Reddy in lace-up boots and barrel dancing petticoats, but I still like that shit. My dad, meanwhile, got the biggest kick out of the Doc Terminus character (played by Jim Dale). Because of this, he didn’t mind watching this movie 5 times a day, as I insisted. It probably grew to an unhealthy situation at some point, but I was sitting in front of a television not bothering my parents, so what the hell did they care.

I still know every line of Pete’s Dragon. Every lyric. Every lip slap & snort. Every hitch-step. It’s never really paid off with any significance, except that my Elliot impression once scared off a creepy guy I dated AND I’ve never let a household chore get me down.

And now, decades later, I have become one of “those” people. I collect Pete’s Dragon pins. It’s the only thing I collect. (So all your Star Wars fucknuts need to pipe down.) And because some are slightly hard to come by, I find fun in the challenge of hunting down the rare pins.

I keep them in a really shitty shadow box I got at a craft store. But I like them. They remind me of my past. My childhood. When I was the center of the universe. …I have revealed too much.

Thank you, Charlie Callas. Thank you turning “[Dragon Scatting]” – as the script officially called for – into unforgettably stupid noises that still bring great joy into at least 263 human’s lives. You will be missed…by your family most likely. I mean, I’m good. I own the movie on DVD. No, but seriously, rest in peace.

Honnygate

Brilliant, beautiful and funny Redbook Blogger Alice Bradley recently posted a piece entitled “Go Ahead, Hire That Hot Nanny!” where she tackles the internationally controversial subject of man-stealing babysitters. Ms. Bradley’s article makes several valid points on why mommies-on-the-go have little to worry about when it comes to hot nannies (which I have taken the liberty of renaming “honnies”) wrecking their homes, but I found myself worried nonetheless. So worried that, were I a currently unemployed writer with little else to do than pine over matters that don’t even concern me, I would consider writing a counter-article on this very hot topic (which I have taken the liberty of renaming a “hopic.”)

Due consideration is not one of my strong suits, so here I go…

First of all, I don’t have children. Technically, this may invalidate everything that is to follow. However, I do have dogs that my husband and I treat as children, so much so that we only go out of town if we can find someone to live at our house and adhere to the dogs’ schedule as we would. Since live-in dogsitters are harder to find than one might think, we usually end up taking anyone that will do it…regardless of physical attributes.

Secondly, I don’t even know anyone that has a nanny. I am of the age where all my friends have newly gestated humans, but not one of them has a full-time nanny. They painstakingly take them to daycares or begrudgingly have their mother-in-law corrupt them on a daily basis. Ms. Bradley makes the argument that hot nannies are only really a problem if you’re a celebrity, but who else necessitates a honny in the first place?

Thirdly, are honnies that easy to come by? Are there model-esque debutantes standing on every street corner, just waiting for their big break into hardcore babysittingland? The real life nannies that I have seen tend to be…how shall I say this…more maternal looking. And usually of a different nationality than the couple doing the hiring. Where are these hot nannies?! And how can I look like one?!

Since I am dedicated to the truth, I called up my friend who owns a high-profile nanny agency in a town primarily focused on musical entertainment. For the purposes of this hardly-important-to-the-betterment-of-the-world article, I have decided to protect her identity, but I asked her how many “hot” nannies she has in her cache and how many, if any, have been linked to breaking up a family. She answered: “The reality is that we do have a lot of truly pretty/beautiful and I guess ‘HOT’ nannies in our group, but it has never been a real issue.  It’s been brought up jokingly when I meet with families and ask about what they think of as being the nanny that might work best for them.  But really, I haven’t heard of any of those ‘nanny broke up the family’ stories.”

What does she know.

Fourthly, men are men. No matter how lovably dorky you think your husband is at this point in your marriage, they still have eyes and they notice pretty, young ladies. Why wouldn’t they? We do. They are a ghost image of our former-selves. Before real life occurred.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting these coquettes are more interesting, more seductive or more attractive than the wives hiring them, but I am saying that we all recognize there is a reason why people of beauty are described as “fair.” Because their life is…and the rest of us are on our own. While that doesn’t mean that a husband is going to run off with the first Teen Vogue reader he sees buying a Victoria’s Secret bra, don’t think they haven’t had an intimate fantasy or two. We are all sexual creatures; men lean towards the sex part.

And, while Ms. Bradley is correct: it is most likely that any honny you hire will NEVER be interested in the man you call Snugglebuns, there are a lot of smart, ambitious, lovely young ladies out there that prefer the attentions of a wiser, more charming version of their high school sweetheart.

It is now in this text that I admit I am married to someone 27 years my senior. Relax. I didn’t “steal” him from anyone. And, in my defense – for the sake of society’s norms, I never had an interest in older men before I met my husband. We have been married for over ten years now, but I was 22 when we became a couple. In hindsight, it was his life experiences, his lack of having anything else to “prove” and his genuine joy in ME that made him that much more attractive. (Luckily, I still find that to be true.) But I was twenty-two…with far fewer gray hairs, less “cake frosting” on my behind and certainly less naggy than I am today. If I were married to someone closer to my age (with all the same daily-mid-life-crises that I have), I would wonder when – not if – my husband would start to wander. And if I planted a compelling alternative in front of him on a recurring basis…well, I’m just asking for it.

Fifthly, finally and most judgmentally (yes, that’s possible), honnies are suspect child-watchers in the first place. If they’re that siren-like, they spend way too much time thinking about themselves and not your children. What makes you think your kids won’t set the living room on fire while the temptress is texting and applying extra mascara?

I think you see my point: I have trust issues. But ALSO hiring a hot nanny is like setting out a super size bag of M&M’s on your desk everyday for a year. Sure, you’re smart, disciplined and full from that “yummy” salad you had at lunch…but why take the risk?

A present for YOU!

I’m not fat with white hair. Yet. … I will not be doing this for eight days. Just two. … And Maya Angelou will not write a poem about the this. Thank goodness.

BUT two wonderful human beings (or at least lucky sons-a-bitches) WILL get a present for Chrismahanukwanzakah! Here’s all you have to do:

#1: Follow me on Twitter (so I can DM you with prize info after you win – see, I’m already thinking positively for you!!)
#2: Tweet the following message on December 16th OR 17th ONLY, which will serve as your entry form. (One per person, please)
“My holiday wish is for @emilyvolman to give me a subscription to @NeverNotFunny along w/ @ComedyDeathRay’s charity Xmas CD! And world peace.”

That’s it! Easy, right? Two winners will be announced on December 18th and will receive a season-of-their-choice (audio & video) subscription to the Never Not Funny pardcast, as well as a copy of Comedy Death Ray’s xmas cd 2010 benefiting the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank. (A big thank you to my longtime friend -and infamous producer/comedy record co. mogul- Matt Belknap for helping put this together.)

I wish you much luck and Happy Whatever-the-hell-you-celebrate!

It’s The Holidays…Let’s Get Dirty!

It’s that time of year again…the reason for the season…The Dirty Santa Game.

In some regions it’s called the White Elephant Gift Exchange, Parcel Pass or Yankee Swap (appropriately named by Southerners because the rest of the country is not to be trusted). No matter what the name, it’s the crux of all good holiday parties. Eats, drinks and merriment cannot exist without fights, steals and piece of shit pawn-offs from the back of your closet.

I know you’re wondering where this ritual came from. You’re in luck! I’m naturally didactic!! White elephants are sacred in Southeast Asia. Because of this, laws protect them from being used as work animals. Thus receiving one as a gift is simultaneously both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because the animal is sacred and a sign of the monarch’s favor, and a curse because the animal has to be retained and can’t be put to much practical use, at least to offset the cost of maintaining it.

As far as how it became a party game, nobody really knows. Many attribute it to rich socialite Ezra Cornell (co-founder of Western Union and Cornell Univ)…which is why I should NOT be looked upon with disgust when reflecting aloud “I wonder what the poor people are doing…” while shoving Peppermint Bark down my piehole this year.

I admit. It’s no longer 1842. The game has changed. What was once, I assume, an intimate-friends-only trading tournament of exotic birds and trunks full of spirit photographs is now a humdrum social obligation of school coupon books and free credit card enrollment t-shirts.

So in honor of this calendared giving month and to help you endure another holiday party procedure, I have put together a Dirty Santa Survival Guide. Print it, store it, live it, re-gift it! You may just go home with that Darth Vader voice-changing mask this year after all!

There are only two types of parties where this game will take place: The Friend Party and The I-Hardly-Know-These-People Party

The Friend Party is easy. You know the other guests well enough to know they’ll either all be fighting over those hilarious fake teeth ice trays or selling the crap out of the Morris Day & The Time CD to everyone else. It’s fun. It’s lively. It’s the way Ezra intended.

The I-Hardly-Know-These-People Party, on the other hand, takes a little more Machiavellian reservation. Your festivity foes here are people you work with/for, people your significant other works with/for, people you go to church with or people with whom you share some sort of self-righteous interest. All that is to say, these are the people you don’t want to know “the real you.”

Of course you don’t want Betty Boop salt and pepper shakers. Nobody does! But you can’t go all Classic Die Hard Christmas about it. You have to control yourself to get what you want, and the best way to do that is to know the move of every Hans Gruber in the room.

#1) The Fake-Out Wrapping:
You think this is a no-brainer, but hold up, yo. This shit’ll trip yo’ ass.

Yes, there’s at least one scrapbook supply seller at every party in America who can turn that disgustingly smelling votive into a Tiffany’s wrapped dream, so it is wise to beware of pretty packages. BUT, remember SALAD! : “Scan, Assess, Listen and Deceive” Single men can’t wrap for shit. Don’t try to argue that you’re going to a theatre company’s party and they’ll be lots of single gay men. Hear me! Single men don’t wrap! However, when going to I-Hardly-Know-These-People Parties, they like to impress, so be on the lookout for store wrap jobs. What do those look like? It’s all in the bow. Fake fruit or glitter bobbles attached = dead giveaway.

Let’s recap: Scan incoming guests for single men (if you’re a single woman, you’ve already done this). Assess their package (not that one…stay focused!). Listen for clues (if he b-lines to greet the boss, gold is in them their hills!). And Deceive everyone in the room by going right for his present when your number is called.

#2) The Present Placement Pickle:

Going for SALAD gifts could prove difficult depending on when he arrives. If the party is being dictated by a hostess, the SALAD schmuck was doted on the second he got there and his present was whisked away to safe keeping. Basically, I suggest staking out a spot near the gifts with your jacket, purse or stadium chair, getting your food as soon as it’s uncovered and let the party come to you! This way you see each gift as it’s brought in.

This is also good if you brought something you really want picked. Some of you losers may have gotten your Dirty Santa gift months ago and have been checking Facebook every day for a holiday party invite. If you’re early to the party (which, if you’re that into this fucking game, you probably will be), your present will be buried by cooler guests’ gifts. You may want to continuously move your gift to the top of the pile. No one will care if you do because no one ever pays any attention to you anyway.

#3) The Extra Gifter

You know who they are. They’re every party’s camp counselor. They’re the person who comes early to help in the kitchen. They’re the person who greets people even though it’s not their house. They’re the secretary…be it at the office or of the club. But when it comes right down to it, they know they’re better than you. They know you are an idiot and will not remember to bring a Dirty Santa gift for every person in your family and then they can sweep in as the hero when your 3 year old daughter is crying because she doesn’t have a present to open. Don’t be fooled. The Extra Gifter is not there for you and your kid. She/He is there for personal glory.

Problem is, The Extra Gifter brings the shittiest, cheapest gifts of all because they had to spread the wealth. They bring items like LED Pig-Shaped Keychains, Hello Kitty Magnet Notepads and Plastic Faux-M&M Filled Candy Canes. They NEVER taste like M&Ms!

#4) The Nonchalant Gamer

This person rolls their eyes throughout most of the game. (No, this is not you and I – we roll our eyes internally – never show your hatred! Just smile and drink more.) No, this person is outwardly against the trivialities of this game and the consumerism of the season in general. But wait until he/she gets that Over-The-Maximum-Spending-Limit-Amount Starbucks Gift Card. Suddenly they’re not so loud. In fact, they may even try to escape the room altogether by going to get more food. It won’t work. Everyone wants what he/she’s got. Your job is to be patient, Danielsan, and hold off taking it from him/her until the second dope has. In the words of Ezra Cornell, “Don’t be deterred, be the third.”

#5) The Punk Kid

If the I-Hardly-Know-These-People Party that you’re attending is open to families, this might be the end of you. There will be at least two families there with terrible little spawn and you CANNOT hurt them…no matter how badly you want to.

You will be in particular trouble if these human-like creatures are between 8 and 11 years old and are the boss’ kid. You will have no choice but to graciously accept the fact that you will not be able to choose the gift you want from the pile. This self-appointed gift-dispensing brat will give you what he/she thinks you should have. And if you’re not good-looking, you’re probably screwed. (Don’t scoff…kids like good-looking people better. That’s science.) You will want to knock them to the ground when they bring you the “gift bag” gift (we all know what gift bags mean: lazy gift givers), but take it in stride because when that kid gets the iTunes gift card, you’re going to walk right over, pat him/her on the head and take it out of their elf-like hand while loudly proclaiming, “You’ve just made my Sponsored Chilean Orphan’s* Christmas wish come true.” The kid will cry, but even your boss will not feel bad at that point. Who knows, you might even get a bigger year-end bonus! (*Note: Always have a picture of a clothed Chilean kid in your wallet, should you need to prove it.)

———

I’m sure I’ve overlooked something in this Dirty Santa Survival Guide, so, in the spirit of giving, please comment below if you have other tips, tricks or trivialities regarding this ritual. It can only help us all. Perhaps one day, Ezra’s vision will be reclaimed…or we’ll all get so savvy about this game that people won’t want to play it anymore.

And finally, I wish you luck. Luck in competition. Luck in gifts. Luck in life.
For, the better you do, the better chance I get to take it from you! Happy Holidays!!

Top 5 Coolest Female Movie Characters I’d Marry If I Were A Guy

While I was running this morning, the song “Eastbound And Down” by Jerry Reed (from Smokey and the Bandit) came on my mix. You may ask yourself why I have that song on my iPod. It’s awesome, that’s why. Eff you.

Anyway, as I was throwing the hammer down and giving it hell, I started to think how cool Sally Field’s character Carrie (or “Frog” as Bo Darville called her because she “hopped around” and he wanted to” jump her”) was in that movie. If I was a guy, I continued to ponder, I think I’d like to have her around more than just on high-stakes roadtrips. The guy-me imagined roaming around the countryside, drinking beers with her. She was so carefree and fun on our trips…a real firecracker but not too opinionated…hot AND adorable…can drive a car…she needs me, yet doesn’t need me. We’d be perfect together.

I was almost hit by a car at this point on my run and jumping it wasn’t really an option by foot, so I stopped daydreaming about being a man and spending my life with Sally Field. But damnit. Quickly enough, guy-me sucked me-me back in by wondering what other cool chicks would be good to marry. After all, guys like to collect girls, right? Especially polygamists.

So, here are my “Top 5 Coolest Female Movies Characters I’d Marry If I Were A Guy”:

#5: Marge the Police Chief (Frances McDormand) from Fargo
She can crack a case, build up her man’s self-esteem, capture a killer and speak out for human decency, all while in an advanced state of pregnancy and at sub-zero temperatures. She may not be the hottest woman in the world, but if we’re living in North Dakota, choices are limited.

#4: Rachel (Kelly McGillis), from Witness
From strapping farm widow and obedient adherent of a marginal anti-modern, pacifist religion to luminous maiden straight out of de la Tour to passionate heretic and soul-changing lover. And she makes a mean glass of lemonade after a hard day’s barn raising.

#3: Kay Adams-Corleone (Diane Keaton) from The Godfather
If guy-me was in charge of an entire enterprise and community, I would want Kay to come home to. She quietly puts up with crazy family members, knows how to keep a secret and is always waiting for you when you’re ready for her. She also doesn’t ask questions. If she does…BAM! You can just lie to her and she’ll believe you.

#2: Dr Caroline “Cathy” Ryan (Anne Archer) from Patriot Games
This listing is admittedly influenced by a previous boyfriend who swore this was his ideal wife. Guy-me tends to agree, though, so she’s way up there. Beautiful, successful, supportive, a good mom, knows when to run when she’s told to and isn’t afraid to tell her husband to kill people for the sake of her family. What’s not to love?

#1: Mary Hatch Bailey (Donna Reed) from It’s a Wonderful Life
This is a no-brainer. It’s Donna fucking Reed, people! Quiet, unfussy, allows her husband to go completely mental looking for something better than what he already has. And why? Because she’s also smart and knows that men aren’t.

As I gathered my list, I noticed a pattern. All of the women guy-me was choosing were quiet-yet-intelligent, tough-but-innocent, not-too-needy-but-not-too-independent, beautiful, never too emotional and stands by their man no matter what they do…basically, me-me decided guy-me is an idiot. Or, at the very least, not living on this planet. Women aren’t like any of these women. Wait! I should say: Real women are exactly like these women PLUS a whole lot more.

I’m sure you can argue my list, but guy-me doesn’t give a shit what you think. And guy-me can kick your ass.

But me-me is more opened-minded and thoughtful. If you could be a man, are actually a man or were a man but now a woman, what are your top cool movie chicks worthy of marriage and why? ….Perhaps this wittle woman can learn a thing or two from all you smarter, stronger, manly-types out there.

Fuck The Sign!

I’m sure you are a very positive, confident person who never gets down on yourself or feels like a loser. Well, I’m not. I admit it. I come from a pretty success-oriented family and, if interviewed, they would probably smile and say they’re proud of me…but they’d be telling a half-truth…because they love me.

Their disappointment – and my many friends who have catapulted past me in this entertainment race we all started together – has continued to drive me. I’ve chalked it up to having always been a late-bloomer: Boobs, not until ninth grade. First kiss, not until summer before tenth grade (probably ’cause I didn’t have boobs). Interest in reading, 1998. Exercise, three years ago. Understanding how to calculate tips, five months ago. In looking back at these minor accomplishments, I think they took such a long time because of fear. Um, wouldn’t YOU be terrified of your chest skin having to stretch into bags?!

I turned 36 years old one month ago (there you go, person who has googled “emily volman’s age” nine times). On that day, I ran my first half-marathon. The day before that race, I ran a short 5 miles in Griffith Park in Los Angeles. I didn’t really know where I was going in that park, and I was afraid. Was I allowed to run here? Is this path for horses? Will they trample me? Are rapists hanging out behind bushes? Will a car randomly jump the drainage ditch between the freeway and the golf course and kill me? That run was exhausting and I don’t mean on my legs.

To make matters worse, I saw a very old sign along part of my path. I could barely read it, it was that old. It said “NO RUNNERS BEYOND THIS POINT.” Oh, shit!! I knew it!! I looked around and there was no one in sight. I’m totally going to get yelled at! Or tased by a Park Ranger! Or…yelled at!

I then looked at the sign again. It really said “NO R N RS BEY D THI PO N T.” I looked around again. There was a lady running not more than 100 yards in front of me…long past the sign. My heart was pounding at the rhythm of my feet, my adrenaline was coursing through wherever adrenaline courses and my emotions were high. That is my excuse for this next part.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I was so pissed at myself. For the last 36 years on this planet I have followed the rules because I’ve been SCARED! And 9 times out of 10, I have been scared of getting yelled at! What a waste. I totally know how to yell back (ask my husband)! So at that moment, I charged through the bushes (penis-wielding violators be damned!) and kicked the post holding the sign. It really hurt. Toe throbbing, I loudly proclaimed to the two Asian golfers on the other side of the safety net, “For the rest of my life, I vow to FUCK THE SIGN!”

Since then, amazing things have been happening. I won’t go into details, but I will tell you that it does not involve golf balls. Instead my new outlook has shined a light on new and old faces and opportunities, which has inspired me to say “fuck you” to other success-sucks…..like age.

You’ve always heard that “age is just a number.” But unless you’re that facebook punkass, I know you’re thinking you haven’t done all you could have by now in your life. Yeah, me too. In the book The Rhythm of Life; Living Everyday With Passion and Purpose, author Matthew Kelly sites various people who didn’t really achieve their greatest accomplishment until later in life. Between that list and the interwebs, I compiled a quick list for you to reference when you’re feeling like a big fat failure:

• Julia Child – Being a government spy until she was 36 seems cool to me, but as she wrote to her sister-in-law, “To think it has taken me 40 years to find my true passion [in cooking],” I guess it wasn’t.
• Peter Mark Roget – Actually, Roget had done some cool scientific shit long before he was 70 years old, but it wasn’t until he was forced to retire at that age that he focused on what he really wanted to do: make a book listing similar words in classifications. He got his first thesaurus published when he was 73.
• Ray Kroc – Maybe you don’t know his name, but he was a 52 year old milkshake mixer salesman whose best customers were two brothers that owned a few hamburger restaurants. Kroc liked how fast and cheap these brothers served people and he suggested that they franchise on a national level. The brothers were too scared to do that, so Kroc said ” fuck the sign”…and, 9 years later, created a whole new sign:  “McDonald’s – More Than a Billion Sold.”
• Colonel Sanders – Speaking of fast food empires, Harland Sanders didn’t start cooking chicken until he was 40 and didn’t franchise KFC until he was 65.
• Rodney Dangerfield – He started doing stand-up in his teens, but not having any luck, he quit. He could have been the most famous acrobatic diver in the world, but there’s no respect in that! He finally got back into stand-up at age 40.
• Andrea Bocelli – The dude’s blind!, so you’d think being a lawyer would make him feel complete. Nope. He liked his “fun” job as a piano bar singer much more, but he didn’t catch a break with that until he was 34.

How about these people? No one recognized them until they were dead.
• Vincent van Gogh – 2,000 pieces of art, but rarely seen until the end of his life. In 1990, his “Portrait of Dr. Gachet” sold for $82.5 million and is now valued at $134 million.
• Emily Dickinson – Infamously recluse caused by a romantic breakup, Emily wrote poetry that hardly anyone saw. Only 7 poems were published while she was alive, and those were highly edited.
• Edgar Allen Poe – He sold The Raven for $9 during his life. He published other works but was either paid nothing or very little…and certainly didn’t get famous from it. He died at the age of forty, moving from town to town to avoid staying out of legal trouble from debt and drinking.

That might not seem inspirational, but at least you’re alive…and not homeless (or if you are, at least you get internet access at the library you’re currently in)…
• Halle Berry was 21 and living in a homeless shelter while trying to make it as an actor/model in NYC.
• William Shatner had just wrapped the Star Trek series, so it seems surprising that he had to live in a truck camper with his dog. Divorce’ll do that to ya.
• David Letterman, Jim Carrey and Jewel…we all know they were once car sleepers waiting to be discovered.

I was also going to list famous people who married their cousins, but I would like to go eat lunch. Neither of which has anything to do with anything.

So what’s the point of this blog, you ask? At this point, I have no idea, and I really don’t have the patience to be your personal Deepak Chopra, okay. But if you remember anything, let it be “fuck the sign!”  Use common sense, of course, but run on whatever path you’d like! You’ll eventually finish and feel really good about your accomplishment; regardless of recognition. And if you’re truly lucky, someone will yell at you along the way! Start thinking of a response now.

Television Tard

From 1997 to 2007, I lived (read “survived”) without television. Having grown up as an only child, television was my family…so it was really hard to cut the cord. My childhood companions were Joanie, Laverne, Kip, Rudy, Blanche, Colt, Flo, Ralph, Balki and The Ricker. While in college, I admit to flaking on my “family” a bit, but I was always ready and available to listen about any drama Brenda or Lois might be having with Dylan or Clark [respectively].

But when I started living in sin with my eventual-husband, I had to ditch my clique. (Isn’t that what you do when you get in a serious relationship?) Being the responsible one of the couple, my husband got rid of his television long before meeting me because he knew it would distract him while he was getting his college degree. Since I barely got my college degree and was FINE, I didn’t get it.

I should clarify, my husband and I had a television. We just didn’t have it hooked up to cable; it was only for VHS/DVD. In 2004, we bought a 12″ television specifically to be used with our karaoke machine, but I figured out that you could get two channels with the rabbit ears, so…I now admit to having a secret daytime rerun affair with a few of guys named Doug, Ray and JerrY!JerrY!.

Three years ago, long after having attained his bachelors and masters, I demanded that my husband allow (read “let the cable guy in when he showed up at the door”) us to reconnect with the television world. Oh my gosh, you guys!!! Have you seen that show FRIENDS!?!?

Yes, I’m just now seeing and loving shows you people watched two decades ago. Yes, I’m just now caught up on what’s actually new on tv. And yes, I have NOT seen a lot of stuff because there’s just too much to see.

So, it is now that I ask you, my online friends – which is SO MUCH more normal than only having television friends, what scripted show(s) am I missing that will make my life complete? Help me. Mold me. Bend me. Shape me…anyway you want me… see, that’s how eff’ing far behind I am, folks!

Here’s what I have seen since 2007, so don’t suggest these:
Prime Suspect • Arrested Development • Entourage • Mad Men • Party Down • The Tudors • Secret Diary of a Call Girl • Dexter • 30 Rock • Glee • The Office • Flight of the Conchords • Extras • lots of dumbass reality shit, so don’t even think about suggesting one of those

I promise to watch at least two episodes (specify which, if you must) of the show(s) you suggest and report back to you. I don’t promise to like the show…or you, for that matter…but I will be appreciative of your time and your fake virtual friendship. God knows I need friends!

Speaking of…did you see the one where Joey speaks French? “Welcome to New York City! Or should I say ‘ghe deu flooff New York City’?” HA!