Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Help me. I just can't get over myself.

My husband and I were watching Bill Maher. We're fans. We usually agree with him unless he's ranting about the evils of things like lamb chops or the polio vaccine. But when it comes to politics and world events, the guy is spot on, and he knows it. He positively radiates self-satisfaction. Which is why I made the comment that Bill Maher was quite possibly the smuggest man on the planet.


Hubby did not agree. In fact, he took it as a personal challenge to come up with somebody, er, smugger. He only had to wait long enough for Bill's next guest to come on stage.



Salman Rushdie. Fatwa target and erudite author of convoluted novels for academics. I tried to read The Moor's Last Sigh, but I got tired of looking up obscure historical references just so I could follow the plot. If I have to consult Wikipedia more than once per chapter, there better be a test at the end. (In all fairness, Rushdie's cat-that-ate-the-canary demeanor could be a relic from the days when he was married to Padma Lakshmi, a most gloat-worthy companion).



As someone who, to paraphrase Mick Jagger, can't get no self-satisfaction, I decided to take the smug challenge and see if I could come up with some folks who could beat, or at least meet, the level of smuggery set by Messrs. Maher and Rushdie.

The dictionary defines smug as follows:
Smug. [smuhg] - adjective. Contentedly confident of one's ability, superiority or correctness; complacent. Somehow, that made me think of political pundits. Being unabashedly partisan, I had to work from right to left.



I know, it's too easy, but surely Rush Limbaugh is the fattest, most fatuous fathead in the smug-opolis of professional punditry.



Now here's a righteous mug just begging for an "S" in front of it. Bill Kristol, one of the original architects of the Iraq war.



Smug with a bow on it. Sorry for the old picture, but George Will appears to have given up his trademark bowtie. Even without the eunuchoid neckwear, he still maintains a high level of proper preppy smug-itude.




It would take a lot more than a flag pin to burst Sarah Palin's smug bubble. She's earned it by proving that ignorance truly can be bliss. The kind of bliss that comes with millions of dollars, closets crammed with glad rags and adoring throngs of admirers. She has subverted the old American belief that if you work hard you can succeed. The new paradigm is read nothing, learn nothing, know nothing and keep telling us how much you love America. The woman actually makes George W Bush look smart.




Bla Bla O'Reilly. There's no denying Bill's smug factor.

I know what you're thinking: Where's Glenn Beck? Well, as of this writing, he's on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The unfair and unbalanced one did not make this list because he is insane and I don't think it's right to make fun of the mentally challenged. But, like Fox News, I like to maintain the illusion that I am fair and balanced, so, I must point out the undeniable smug-osity of...



Keith Olbermann. Unlike his right wing counterparts, the man does deal in facts. And he can write a good rant, though he apparently finds it impossible to edit himself. Keith's heart is in the right place, and his frequent indignation is genuine but Lordy Lordy, does that man like to hear himself talk. He's also not half as funny as he thinks he is - "The worst person in the WOOOOOOORLD," just might be the lamest bit on the, uh, planet.



Rachel Maddow, Queen of snark. I like that she's on, and I like that she's out, but her commentary tends toward the obvious. Like Keith Olbermann, she's way too enamored with her own humour. And her mother should have warned her that smirking is like crossing your eyes: if you do it often enough, your face freezes that way.

So much for politics, on to religion. Mother Theresa notwithstanding, faith and humility aren't necessarily a package deal.



Does it take a mega-ego to lead a mega-church? Just ask the purpose-driven Reverend Rick Warren. Whether God is pleased with him, only God knows, but Rev. Rick sure looks pleased with himself.


The hair. The arched eyebrow. The smirk. The Reverend Al Sharpton. The smug bug is colorblind. Just like ... Steven J. Colbert.



Really smug, or faux smug? I'm not sure even he knows anymore. And it's OK, because his fearless roast of George Bush at the 2006 White House Correspondent's dinner proved that he has the biggest cojones in comedy.


Yes, Alec Baldwin is smug, and he plays smug on TV. Plus, he can be really pompous about his politics. But damn, the man was hot back in the day. At least he doesn't wax his chest like some metrosexual little bitch.



Oprah Winfrey. So successful, so smart, so self-satisfied that rather than name her magazine after herself, she simply called it "O". Because when you're Oprah, you get to brand things like vowels. And in case anyone might think the O stood for Olive or Ophelia, Ms. Winfrey makes sure her face beams at us from the cover of every issue.



Donald Trump's ruddy skin tone may clash with the pink background, but his smugness remains undimmed. The famous hair construction that would look idiotic on your dad is an emblem of his smuguousness. Don's not balding and that's not a combover. Why? Because he says so and his reality trumps yours. Besides, after everyone's stopped chuckling at your lame hair joke, he'll still be filthy rich, and you'll still be struggling.


Get over yourself, Scarlett Johannson. You are not the first large breasted blonde to hit Hollywood, and you won't be the last. No matter how hard she acts, Scarlett always seems to be watching herself approvingly. And we always feel like we're watching her watching herself.



Why do I get the feeling Alice Waters grew her own Halloween costume? Why am I so sure that, when the party is over, she will make that necklace into a slow-cooked, Tuscan-style vegetable soup? Why would I bet money that tucked away in that berry crown, she's harboring a quail, to be impaled and roasted on a spit once its egg-laying days are over? Why is Alice so ditz-ily, deliciously smug?

Chevy Chase, a former Saturday Night Live comedian whose very mention dates me, said it best. He used to open his comedic news segments with the catch phrase, "I'm Chevy Chase and you're not." And that, my friends, is the essence of smug. If you don't believe me, just substitute a name – Sean Penn, Barbara Walters, Ann Colter, John Mayer, Nancy Grace – and see if it fits.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Think Ink


Meet your new creative team. I dare you to tell these guys they'll have to work without a brief.


I just participated in a linked in discussion about tattoos in the workplace. Everyone was weighing in about the significance of body art as a marker of creativity, which I frankly think is a load of crap. Can you be tattooed and incredibly creative? Absolutely. But I've also worked with my share of illustrated slackers. Creativity is not, and never will be, skin deep. So I amused myself by posting the following:


I used to be a hack. My headlines were corny, my copy was constipated and I hadn't had an original thought in years. Then, I realized what the problem was. No tattoos. Heck, I don't even have pierced ears. So I went down to my neighborhood tattoo parlor, stripped down to my skivvies and handed the guy my credit card. I started with a tramp stamp on my lower back. Being a minimalist at heart, I dispensed with the curlicues and simply had him etch the words "tramp" and "stamp" in Helvetica bold, right above my back dimples. Next, I wanted to do something celebrating my French and Jewish heritage, so we etched a mezuzah and an eiffel tower on my left bicep. Since I am also part Armenian, I honored that by having the artist do a stuffed grape leaf on my other bicep. (Sadly, it looks more like a dog dropping, as dolma, while delicious, don't translate well to epidermis.) Then, it occurred to me that in the winter, I might have to wear long sleeves to keep warm, thus concealing, or worse, stifling my creativity, so I made sure I inked my hands - we wrote CHOCOLATE in script on the left hand and NUTELLA on the right, in bubble graffiti to up my street cred. Finally, I opted for an argyle pattern on my calves that allows me to dispense with socks. The resulting ink-rease in my creativity has been nothing short of phenomenal.



I don't have to prove. That I am creative. I don't have to prove. That I am creative. - David Byrne

Friday, August 6, 2010

No words.

I'm sorry, I can't talk now. It's August. I have been working like a dog for the past three months, including weekends. I have been writing non stop about things like hip replacements, multiple sclerosis and gynecological surgery. I'm about to devote my entire weekend to a website for a PR firm. Am I grateful for the income? Very. Am I having interesting, potentially blog-worthy experiences? Nope. That would require leaving the house.

Now, my daughter is here visiting for a month before she starts law school. Or doesn't start law school. She is getting cold feet because she's having such a great time as a freelance writer and would rather become a journalist. I alternate between the you-will-never-make-a-living-in-that-dying-industry speech and the follow-your-heart-and-do-what-you-love speech. Truth is, I know she will have regrets no matter what she chooses. She is a glass half-empty kind of gal. That is not my daughter in the photo, by the way. I was looking for gag visuals to illustrate the concept of "no words." I picked that girl because she wasn't trussed and leather clad. Don't do a visual google on "gag" or you just might.

Anyway, since I have had no life recently, I have nothing to say. I need a break, and I need to spend some time with my kids and my husband. So I am officially going on hiatus for the rest of the Summer. See ya' in September.