The Hard-Knock Life of Joey Mac

When I was in elementary school, in order to win friends and influence people (I was a precocious dictator you see), I always had a pool party birthday celebration. Because kids are shallow like that, it worked - at least until the girls started "their menses" and no longer were able to swim (back when America was but a shy country and collectively "not-so-fresh").

However, before the end of my magnificent reign, I did host a party that procured me one of the most memorable gifts I have ever received. A New Kids on the Block ACTION FIGURE. The Joey one, to be specific. Now mind you, this was when I was in 3rd or 4th grade - approximately 1988 or 1989 - long past when the Kids were actually popular, but not long enough for them to actually accumulate kitsch value.

Upon opening this present, the entire conglomerate of girls dissolved into giggles. My friend Lauren, the benefactress, laughed loudest of all - it was the best joke present she had ever given! As best I could through my shrieks of horror, I gave her the evil eye and immediately set about opening her real present.

The doll was immediately established as a sacrificial object. We girls set to work channeling our aggression towards the once-loved, now completely lame boy band by scraping poor Joey's face against the concrete walkways lining the pool. Within moments, his head was reduced to a flesh-colored pulp and we were getting ready for birthday cake.

That Joey doll stayed in our pool supply cabinet for years after, until my parents, apparently disgusted enough with the knowledge that such a "Lord of the Flies" moment had occurred in their very back yard, deposited him the trash once and for all. Sometimes I wonder what ever became of that wee action figure - did he become some dog's chew toy? Did he get melted down to make up an eyeball on a Tickle Me Elmo doll? Did some hobo at the landfill find him and give him a good home? Is he happy there? Does he ever think of his days as a pool toy? Does his wee plastic soul still hold a grudge against pre-teen girls for taking his radiant beauty?

Wherever you are, my New Kids' Joey action figure, I hope you find your way. Godspeed, little friend, Godspeed.

Tacky Blonde Ladies

I have recently discovered a trend that has most likely spanned the course of my life without my knowledge: a particular affinity for Tacky Blonde Ladies. Wherever I am, if there is a Tacky Blonde Lady in the immediate vicinity, any demons brewing within me are instantly appeased and my mood noticeably brightens. But what classifies such an elusive creature? And why are they such a priceless commodity in my mind? So many questions, the possibility for so few answers.

The first qualifier to be a Tacky Blonde Lady is that, of course, she should not be naturally blonde. The hair should be multiply-processed, so that it achieves a consistency rather like that of straw, and if roots are visible, all the better. Makeup is overdone - I saw a stunning example last night that involved quite a liberal use of lipliner, a rare treasure. In keeping with the tacky theme, clothing should be gaudy - beaded, spangled, fringed, or bedazzled, and far too tight, too short, too low-cut. The general effect should be that on an inhabitant of the tri-state region (excepting Connecticut) with a sincere appreciation of the 1980s.

As for demeanor, such Tacky Blonde Ladies can run the spectrum from slightly overly friendly to the full-on touchy and brassy, sprinkling her conversations with an overuse of "hon". One such example witnessed in her native habitat of New York (though probably née in New Jersey, come to think of it) several months ago managed to work her waitress's name (the wrong name, I might add) into two out of every three sentences! "Oh my God, Danielle [Stephanie], this salad is amazing. Danielle, you're our favorite waitress here. You make every visit such a delight, Danielle." Ad infinitum. This fine specimen was dining with her husband who was approximately 20 years her senior, probably a doctor from the looks of him - one of those men who, in exasperation of never being able to get a word in edgewise, has simply given up. She touched and patted him constantly throughout the meal, as Tacky Blonde Ladies love interpersonal contact, and chattered at him, eyes sparkling to match her outfit.

Needless to say, much like StephanieDanielle made her meal, so she made mine. There is something about Tacky Blonde Ladies that draws me to them, making me feel like I know them, making me want to talk to them. Call it charisma, call it rubbernecking at the scene of a horrible wreck, they make me want to know more. I have no idea why they comfort me so, make me feel at home; Lord knows my own mother, though blonde, is about the farthest thing from a Tacky Blonde Lady. Perhaps somewhere buried deep in my childhood was an encounter with a Linda or a Suzanne from Hoboken or Astoria who saw a young girl in need of guidance, and so unbeknownst to me, bestowed her unending wisdom upon me, binding me to her forever. Or perhaps it was the fact that much of my formative era was spent with the New York Jew neighbors at their family gatherings. Whatever it is, my life just would not be the same without them...I would not be the same without them.

The Feminine Mystique, By Jessica Simpson

In contemporary society, do women have any kind of power? Upon examining commercials and programs on television, one habitually sees attractive, skinny women with men that are fat or ugly, or even both, for example, in the sitcom "King of Queens". The wife is pretty, her hair is styled, and she is always wearing makeup, but her husband is very heavy and quite ordinary-looking. One would never see the inverse: a handsome man with a fat, ugly woman. This begs the question, do women have power outside of the context of their sexuality, or do they even have power at all? It seems that women only have power that has been assigned to them by men, and taking this idea further, it seems that women are only defined in the context of the men who have created them. In examining the Pizza Hut Cheesy Bites pizza commercial with the singer Jessica Simpson (which can be seen here), one can pose the question about the a woman's image and her relation with men.


In this ad, from the beginning it is apparent that the young, adolescent boy has absolute power over his family. He orders dinner for his father, mother, and younger sister: "We're gonna have the new Cheesy Bites pizza, please." Evidently, he is the patriarch of the family, he speaks for everyone, and what he says is indisputable. His mother gazes at him with adulation, how wonderful her son is! Even the waiter obeys him: he acknowledges wthat the adolescent says, and he starts to leave to realise the boy's desire. This adolescent, however, is not a man at all: he still has the curls of a young boy who has not yet had to undergo the obligation of cutting them to become a "little man", according to the traditional rite of passage for boys. This teenager is clearly a miniature despot, the golden boy of his family.


Suddenly we hear the first few notes of a song and the young boy is seen in a spotlight. Jessica Simpson enters the scene, dressed in boots and a short, red dress, with a pizza in her hand. Her movements provoke a reaction in the boy - he reacts to her legs and her walk; he is clearly attracted by her. She throws him some Cheesy Bites, explicit phallic symbols, and he catches them in his mouth. Finally, she approaches him and places a Cheesy Bite in his mouth herself, singing, "One of these days these Bites are gonna pop right into you." One thinks that it is Jessica who has this power to give, and that it is she who has this power over him because after this small meal, the boy faints - action typically perceived as feminine and passive. Now he is submissive to her power, to her charm. He is no longer a despot, but a sort of slave belonging to her.


However, there is a second interpretation to this ad. At the first glance, one believes that this commercial could be somewhat feminist: it is the woman who has control over the masculine signifier, who could easily usurp his role as the most powerful person. But upon closer examination, there is a troubling message.

How does Jessica have this power over him? Firstly, her power comes from her physique, there is no question about this. She is very feminine, not a hair is out of place, and she wears a little dress that shows her legs and breasts, the parts of the female body which are always sexualized. One always hears the question asked of American men, "Are you a breast man or a leg man?" Thanks to Jessica, here it is not necessary to choose: her sexuality is almost universal. Her hair is long and blonde, the standard of American beauty, the "All-American Girl" - a living Barbie doll. And even better, she's carrying food! - here is the good little wife and the femme fatale at the same time, the "ideal woman" of whom all men dream. This is hardly feminist.

Furthermore, only when she is carrying a phallus does she have power. In the same manner that femmes fatales like Marlene Dietrich had cigarettes to indicate their power (again, the cigarette is a clear phallic symbol), these Cheesy Bites represent the same thing. Evidently, the power of a woman does not count for anything. She does not have power over the young boy because of some sort of natural feminine power, if one even exists within the context of this ad, with its traditional role of the woman as the seductor. The fact that she gives the phallus to the boy is almost a rite of passage resembling the first sexual act. Through the female he receives his phallus, which he incorporates into his body by eating. She feeds him his masculinity, and from this moment on, the young boy changes state. He faints, which is parallel to orgasm, another change of state. He is now in ecstasy, a state literally "outside of stasis", and the transgression of this limit makes him, defines him as a man.


Therefore the power of Jessica exists here purely through the sexual act. She gives the boy his masculine identity and again, this begs the question, do women have a real power? If the feminine power exists only through the masculine sexuality, do women have a power outside of this context? This ad is intriguing but distressing because some viewers will only see its first interpreation: where the woman appears to be strong and dominant. They will not question how she gained this power, nor the limits or contexts of it. Additionally, this ad is poignant because only several years ago Jessica Simpson believed herself to represent a positive role model for women, especially for young girls, by demonstrating that one did not have to be sexualized to suceed in life; certainly this is no longer the case. It seems one must look elsewhere to find a good representation of feminine power, and hope that one even exists at all.

Communist Bloc Party

One lazy summer day, Leon Trotsky sat down with his morning coffee to read his daily copy of the Socialist Appeal.


"A Communist Bloc Party!" he exclaimed. "Why, what a wonderful idea! What won't my comrades think of next. Oh, but there's so much to do - I'm going to bring my famous borscht and that wonderful vodka Joseph brought me back from his favorite gulag." Leon set straight away to his cooking, and before he knew it, the day of the party had arrived.

Leon and his pal Vlad decided to go to the party together, so they wouldn't get stuck talking to anyone dull. When they arrived, they were surprised at the line to get in. Vlad started grumbling something about "where do all these people think they are, Studio 54?" and Leon tried his best to ignore him and relax his mind. Sometimes Vlad could be really high-strung.

Soon enough, the line approached the door, and a sea of crepe paper decorated with hammers and sickles became visible. "How festive!" Leon exclaimed, but Vlad only rolled his eyes in disdain.

"What, they couldn't afford real decorations? God, Leon, we're only the party leaders. What's next, a hired clown? Honestly."

Leon fought the urge to smash his vodka bottle over Vlad's shiny bald head. What was Vlad's problem anyway? He was usually the life of the party, and such a dancer!

Finally they made it inside. Leon placed his bottle and his borscht on the potluck table and the two men looked around the room for a familiar face.

All of a sudden, a voice boomed out: "LOOK AT THESE LOSERS!" Leon turned his head to see Joseph bellowing across to the room to them. Vlad's sulky expression transformed into a toothy grin as he called back a greeting and made his way over to Joe. The two clapped each others' shoulders in a half-hug, then Joe grabbed Leon's hand and fiercely shook it up and down. "What the hell is up, my friends?" Joe boomed. "Why the hell don't you guys have a drink?" At that, he turned on his heel, and elbowed his way through the crowd of revolutionaries towards the bar to get his friends some drinks. Vlad and Leon followed quickly, trying to keep up with his determined pace.

Joe tossed them each a bottle of something. Despite Nikita Khrushchev's insistences to "CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!" Leon sipped at it slowly and tried not to act too put out at Joe and Vlad's close friendship. Leon knew that the two had been good friends for a long time, and it wasn't that he was jealous, it was just.... He didn't know. Life had gotten so complicated these days. He was sick of being known as Vlad's sidekick all the time and really longed for their friendship in the older days, when Vlad wasn't as egocentric or hurtful.

Leon excused himself politely and went around the room to mingle with the other guests. What an odd party it was, almost as if no one could agree on anything. Why, there was Ho Chi Minh alone in a corner, typing something...

...while Breshnev simply glowered against a wall. Leon could tell he was just waiting for someone to come up to ask him about his medals.

"Things could be worse, I suppose," Leon thought with a sigh. "I've got my health, and I've got great hair." It was the one thing he had that Vlad didn't, which annoyed Vlad to no end, though he would never admit it. Vlad had started going bald in his early twenties and so overcompensated by growing outrageously bushy facial hair. He wasn't fooling anyone, Leon smirked.

"Yes," Leon rolled his eyes as he spied Mikhail hovering by the buffet, "things could always be worse."

He quickly changed directions to avoid contact with Gorby, and made his way outside into the bright sunlight. Several comrades had started playing games to fulfill their physical fitness requirement for the day. Leon had always found that idea rather stupid, but Vlad insisted on having a muscular population. He said it "inspired his mind," or something like that. When Vlad started in on a rant, Leon would often completely tune out and instead think of fluffy zoo animals or a day at the beach. Would Vlad ever take him to a beach, like he had promised so long ago? Leon was beginning to doubt it.

He shook his head, trying to clear these dark thoughts from his mind once again, and tried concentrating on the game of baseball that Che and some of the others had started. Life was so easy for those South Americans - it seemed like every day was full of sunshine and non-starchy food for lunch. Leon loved musicals, and he imagined that, like Eva Perón, the Argentines were constantly bursting into song when the mood struck. No one ever sang in Russia.

Yes, life certainly did seem easy for Che and his buddies: all the young people looked up to him, and why not? He was hip and inspiring, and always had the finest cigars, given to him by his best friend Fidel. Che and Fidel seemed to get along so well, almost like Leon and Vlad used to. Maybe he and Vlad should go on holiday to a warm climate like Argentina or Cuba - maybe the cold Russian weather was the cause of many of their difficulties. Yes, a holiday would surely help to fix things, once and for all. They just needed some time away, and maybe some piña coladas.

Leon looked around to see where Vlad had gone and saw that he and Joe were both looking at him from the patio with mischievous looks on their faces, like they had just been talking about him or something. Leon became flustered and he could feel his cheeks starting to turn pink. Just how much more of this was he supposed to take?!? He had given Vlad the best years of his life, let Vlad take credit for all of his genius ideas, and this was how he was to be repaid? All of a sudden, tears began to sting his eyes, and a lump began to swell in his throat. He turned on his heel and stormed off, back into the house, almost trampling over Chairman Mao in the process, who had just arrived and was coming outside to cheer on the baseball players.

"Hey, watch where you're going, Trotsky!" Mao shrieked. "Great," thought Leon, "the last person I need to have on my bad side." He muttered an apology over his shoulder as he fled.

He pushed his way through a sea of Bolsheviks, determined not to let anyone see the hurt written across his face. If Vlad preferred Joe so much, why couldn't he just be up front about it? "Maybe I'm just overreacting." He stopped. "That must be it. God, I can be such a Scorpio sometimes. Come on, Leon, get a hold of yourself, I'm sure there's a rational explanation for everything." He took three deep breaths to steady his nerves, and made his way back outside.

Vlad and Joe were no longer on the patio. Leon whirled around. Where could they be? There. There he was. Vlad was a few feet away, playing chess with Bogdanov. Joe was nowhere to be found. Leon blinked in confusion. What exactly had he just imagined? All of a sudden, he heard an angry cry.


"Dammit!" Vlad yelled. Bogdanov had clearly bested him, and in no time at all, as Leon had only fled from Joe and Vlad several minutes earlier. Vlad turned his head, searching the room for Leon to comfort him. Their eyes met, and Leon recognized the rage that only he had the power to quell. He went to Vlad, and clapped him on the shoulder, reassuring him that the next game would be his. Vlad huffed and puffed, but his demons were calmed. "Good game, Alexander," he said reluctantly but steadily as he held out his hand to his opponent, "but I think we're done here." And with that, Vlad and Leon left the party, friends till the end.

Anti Family Circus

I have long been disturbed by the supposedly delightful and gentle humor of the cartoon known as "Family Circus", appearing each day in the comics section of your local paper. Though the cartoon strives to appear completely nonoffensive by creating a portrait of an ideal and carefree young family, there is much going on below the surface. Anything beyond a superficial glance of the cartoon reveals familial disputes and burgeoning questions of sexuality that manifest themselves and shed light on the true situation at home. Clearly, all is not as it seems in the land of Bil, Thel, Billy, Dolly, Jeffy, PJ, Barfy, Sam, and Kittycat.

Let us take an in-depth look at the thinly-veiled family discord.


Here we see Dolly and Jeffy showing Thel that their affection for one another is merely a ruse: an attempt perhaps to gain Mommy's approval in a wicked game of sibling rivalry. Also alarmingly, Dolly appears to be smothering Jeffy in her bear hug. By Thel's blank expression, we can infer that she is not concerned by this. Maybe she would prefer it if her male middle child were only a dim and distant memory? Or maybe she is too doped up on antidepressants to even care? We may never know.


Oh, the trials and tribulations of a being a middle child: Jeffy has never been taught to read. Perhaps in a remnant of traditional educational systems, only the oldest son/heir Billy has ever been schooled. Or could it be that none of the children are educated? Why is Bil so fearful that his children will learn how to read? Is there a dirty little secret he is hiding, some dreadful skeleton in his closet? Instead of risking that his secrets ever be uncovered, he sentences them to a life of neglect and idiocy.


In this panel, one of our burning questions is answered: just what exactly is Daddy hiding? The answer, of course, is internet pornography.


Well, we can breathe a small sigh of relief. We know now that at least Billy is being educated, but upon closer examination, just what is he being taught? "Know", "Knot", "Knee", "Knob". Clearly a male figure in the family or in the educational system is soliciting Billy for oral sex. If we read between the lines, we can decipher the hidden meaning: "Know about knots [an evident argument for a bondage fetish], get on your knees and do what you will with my knob." An alarming and disturbing discovery. Just what sort of family circus is this anyway?


The homoeroticism does not stop here. Billy has obviously been affected by his sexual burdens and retreats into a life of fantasy. However, he does not dream of a normal family to take him away, one in which there are loving and devoted parents who will take him to the beach or to waterparks; hardly so, in fact. Here we see Billy, in his puffed-up rage, lost in a rêverie about the loincloth-swaddled Tarzan. In his fantasy, Tarzan is gazing intimately and intensely with burning eyes, suggesting that Billy is yearning for a romantic figure to rescue him instead of a familial one, the proverbial white knight of days-of-yore fairy tales. The question is, will Tarzan ever come for Billy?


Truth be told, I don't exactly understand what is going on in this cartoon. However, what does catch my eye is the tantalizing way Zippy the Pinhead is seducing Jeffy.


Apparently Billy is not the only child in the family with homosexual tendencies. We can infer by the fact that Thel is 'turning Jeffy's dreams off' that she does not approve of her little boy's dreams. I have a feeling Thel irrationally blames herself for Billy and so is trying to coach Jeffy to bat for what is, in her mind, "the proper team". Eventually, after Bil Sr.'s syphilitic death following an unfortunate internet encounter, she will come to accept both her boys' lifestyles and will crochet them rainbow-colored flags to proudly display on their verandahs come Pride Week.


Until that day though, Jeffy will descend into a life of illicit substance abuse, taking his youngest brother PJ with him (who sadly, would not make it out alive since, like Jeffy, PJ never learned to read and therefore could not figure out which prescription pills were not supposed to be mixed). During a particularly bad financial scrape, Jeffy sells Dolly on the black market to raise money for his next fix, thereby finally achieving revenge on his sister for treating him so poorly as a child. Dolly will be sold to the Sultan of Brunei and spend the rest of her skinny years as a sex slave. Years later, she will be found as a washed-up prostitute in a Bangkok bordello with a particular talent for ping pong balls.

Barfy, Sam, and Kittycat fled the backyard long ago. Being that they were not licensed, they were taken to the pound and eventually adopted by a nice first-generation immigrant family. They happily lived out the remainder of their years in the sun-filled countryside, at last escaping the family circus...I mean curse.

St. Funion

	Well hello there, my dear children, I'm St. Funion, the patron saint of this blog, here to bring sunshine and sweet odor to your day! I was born in a humble onion patch during a Midwestern famine, the only one of my kind to survive the cruel winds and scorching sun of the harsh Iowan summer. Some called it luck, others called it a miracle.
At a tender age - I was barely more than a shoot! - I was plucked from the withered vine that was my home to serve as a meager addition to the Kowalski family's stew.
When Sharon, the dowager Kowalski, sliced into me, she immediately noticed my strange likeness to Jack Skellington, king of Halloweentown, of "The Nightmare Before Christmas", which her grandchildren had made her watch only days before. She dropped her knife in astonishment and called young Maggie and Joel into the room to see the miraclous discovery she had made. The children immediately wrapped me in cellophane and tenderly placed me into their vintage 1973 Frigidaire to preserve me as long as they could.
From that moment on, I became something of a spectacle in that small metropolis. People came from as far away as Butte, Montana to see the wonder. I had never felt more alive, and in my joy, passed on my gift of lust for life to all who saw me. Those with laryngitis could speak above a whisper after seeing me, those with rosacea were notably less rosy.
Sharon soon became overcome with hubris, and boasted that her onion was the cure-all for what-ails-ye. She began touring the country, determined that her act get so big that she make it to Tallahassee, Florida. As a little girl, she had read a leaflet about the Sunshine State, and it had been her dream ever since to make it big there. Convinced my restorative powers could rival those of the Florida sun, she packed up the Ford Aerostar and off we went.
Unfortunately, in her hubris, she had forgotton to pack the spare tire that was crucial to her minivan's safety. Somewhere on the lonely road between Gary, Indiana and Memphis, Sharon ran over a bottle of Mr. Pibb. The tire immediately went flat, forcing Sharon to swerve wildly. In the hustle and bustle, I was cast out of the slightly-ajar passenger-side window and flew into the open sunroof of lengli's Passat as she escaped rural Greencastle society for a birthday weekend in downtown Chicago. Another miracle? You be the judge.
Since then, she and I have worked side by side, for the good of the human race. I am happy to present myself to you, the readers, for the first time, and look forward to much interaction in the future. Peace and sweet perfumes be with you, St. Funion