Nnekay.com

Hey thought I’d share this little awesome bit of information… because it relates to the previous post!

 When television producer William Dozier sought to renew the Batman program for a third season, he asked Schwartz for a new female character to be introduced in the comic book medium, which could be adapted into the television series in order to attract a female audience.^[1] The new version of Batgirl was written as an adult, having earned a doctorate in library science and maintaining a career as head of Gotham City Public Library.^[7]

There you have it- Batgirl was a Librarian!

So an already interesting presidential race has just gotten even more interesting.

The GOP running mate has been picked and get this… she’s a 44 year old woman.

Obviously, this is a very strategic pick… and by ‘obvious’ I mean hitting us over the head with a hammer repeatedly.

McCain can’t seem to shake his fuddy-duddy old guy image… so what does he do? He gets some young chicky governor from a boondocks state to be his running mate. ARGH!!! the American public should be insulted by this pick!! He is so blatantly riding the Obama/Clinton rivalry by picking his very own RepubClinton to jazz up his campaign. It also seems like he’s trying to gets those ClintonLoonies who said they would switch parties if Obama got the nomination.

Well, she’s basically the anti-Clinton… John McCain has managed to pick the best Villain to the Elections Superhero story.

Lady Villains are always hot- Sarah Palin was once a Beauty Queen and even competed in the Miss Alaska Competition in the 1980s

Lady Villains are always scorned and vengeful- Sarah Palin tried to fire her Public Safety Commissioner, because he refused to fire her brother-in-law who is in a custody battle with her sister.

Lady Villains always carry weapons- Sarah Palin is a lifetime member of the NRA

Lady Villains are always irrationally destructive- Sarah Palin supports drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

Lady Villains always sleep with other villains - Sarah Palin’s husband is an oil production operator on Alaska’s North Slope.

Not to mention she’s Anti-Abortion.

Palin scares the crap out of me… which I suppose is the main objective of the villain in the story.

For a brief wrinkle in time, I thought that I could cut it as an actress, I even thought that I could possibly swing some print work, too. During this wrinkle- I managed forget that I was 5′7” (too short for any type of modeling), had acne, and only took one acting class- yet, I knew it was my destiny to share Appletinis with the semi-famous, and get paid stupid amounts of money to pretend for a living. I wanted more than anything to see my face plastered across a billboard, laughing about something inane like how much I loved Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes.

I had indulged in my acting desires in little smatters here and there through out my formative years, but didn’t reach my delusional heights until I entered my junior year of college,when a sorta kinda friend of mine reeeally wanted me to act in his freaky student production odyssey. I declined, I declined, and I declined… until he used one of the best tactics ever: He told me quite nonchalantly, “I’m not even sure I want to cast you… just audition.” This extracted my deep bullheaded nature… and was determined to get cast.

I got one of the leads. Not only was I playing a man, I had to climb a huge wooden structure, speak gibberish, and flip back a forth between acting drunk and sober- did I mention that the play was 3 hours long? Majority of which I was on stage doing something weird like scratching my imaginary balls.

The role was demanding, but I think I pulled it off. As it turned out, the play was the first production on the west coast, so the national authority/scholar of the Polish playwright of my freaky college play decided to come check it out. He also happened to be a professor at Yale (lift your pinkies please) and wrote an essay on our production in the Yale Review(lift both your pinkies please). Surprise, surprise dear old me was mentioned, and get this… in a positive light! In co-hoots with my mention in the (ahem, ahem) Yale Review, I earned a little recognition from many of the drama students who were forced to go to see the play for class.

Needless to say, all this attention made me think I was hot shit on a platter.

After my debut, I continued to act steadily throughout the remainder of my college career- gathering a collection of incredibly enlightened roles:

A Drunkard

A Spider

A Prostitute

The wife of man who sees gremlins

With these glimmering gems on a resume- I decided to half-ass pursue a sorta career in acting after I graduated from college. Headshot in hand, I submitted my goods to talent agencies across California, and one by one they all returned. I didn’t care, still high off my two year acting buzz I signed up for extra work with two casting companies. I got two jobs- funky black girl at the party and funky black girl riding the trolley. I say “funky” because while being styled at the first shoot- the very glittery clothing lady screamed upon my entrance, “You’re Funk-ay!” It was these two shoots which ultimately decided my fate as an actress/professional extra… it wasn’t gonna happen, because:

Actors are really annoying.

And

Production staff are really grumpy because they have to deal with actors.

Yes, yes… I should have know actors were really annoying having spent a large amount of time cavorting with them while in school- but an actor-student vs. an actor-actor are two entirely different beast. Actor-Students can be bitchy and back stabby, but they aren’t getting paid for being tree number 2 in a student written/student directed project. When you add money and national exposure into the project- tree number 2 turns into a role that needs to be carefully explained and given a backstory as to fully give credit to the existence of our arbor brethren.

This is what I gathered from my limited experience as an extra- we were basically elaborate props, but somehow, I always managed to find myself engaged in some form of shop conversation about who my agent was (no one), what projects I was currently involved in (um… library school…), and if I was union. This shit wasn’t friendly either… each question was a stab, followed by their answer, which always one upped mine. The more time I spent with these people, over ten hours each shoot, the more I wanted to pulls my eyeballs out of my ass. The worst part was, I had to pretend I actually liked these people while the camera was rolling- making the situation that more schizophrenic.

Me: So have you been acting for long?

Dude: yea, you know I’ve been working with Blah-Blah-Blah Agency for like 3 years, and they’re thinking about putting me into some modeling, and I’m really excited about my future prospects… you?

Me: yea I sta-

Dude: That’s cool, ever since I was little I wanted do this, but right now I’m just trying to see where it takes me…

Me: right on… I wa-

Dude: hey who represents you?

Me: No one…

Dude: oh.

ACTION

Dude: weeeee! Fuuuun!

Me: Yaaaaaay! This is GREAT!!!!!!!

CUT

Dude: um…

Me: yeeeaaa…

By the end of the shoot- I would find myself at the food table gorging on all the ridiculous crap, or standing as far away from everyone as I could… I had more fun standing in the corner eating Fritos, than talking to the vapid camera hogs on the other side of the room.

I have to admit- not everyone was a jerk, but unfortunately when I viewed each of the spots I was paid to participate in, the Jerk-O McJerk-Jerks who forced their way in front of the camera and conducted self involved conversations were prominently featured, while I think I might have seen the side of my blurry shoulder at one point during the 30 second commercial. I’m not cut throat, and if the barrel scrapping, bottom of the food chain Extra has to be hardcore… maybe the acting world isn’t my way of achieving international super stardom.

I’ve spent a large portion of my life staring at figurines- no, not because I collect them, God no- but because I some how managed to stumble into the Card and Gift Industry. It’s a dangerous terrain- filled with paper cuts and rambly old ladies. Before I was of age to work, I would drag my unfortunate friends into these fragrant oasis to pursue such intelligent endeavors of deciding which stuffed animal was adorable and sniffing lavender lotion.

So yes, I was heading in the direction towards chatchki hell, but because I was sensible enough to get a job dusting, organizing, polishing, and wrapping these objects I was finally able to realize how much of a waste of space this shit truly is.

There are various types of figurines that completely mystify me, one of which are sassy animal figurines…

 Why do the majority of these animal ladies have saggy boobs?! If you’re gonna put boobs on an animal that normally doesn’t have boobs, why make them pancake boobs?!

 It’s bad enough when we give them flat boobs, why do we have to make them do things that would be creepy even if humans did them?!

  Yet, what’s the point of having a realistic figurine? I mean… just get a pet frog, it looks and does the same thing.

Which brings me to Mystical Figurines….

 If I have to explain why this is horrible…

I literally could go on and on, talking about the weird and wondrous world of figurines… I’m surprised there isn’t a website dedicated to the never ending freak show of figurines. My question is: WHY DO PEOPLE LIKE FIGURINES? Do they fill the gap for religious effigies in our secular American culture? I hope not… but the way, that people display, spotlight, and pay such careful attention to these pieces of ceramic one might think that we exist in a culture that worships the mighty god of Creepy Babies

ugh.

I wrote some fiction… it’s weird and here’s the first part:

Jane sat at the desk in her brown cubicle and fiddled with her stapler. She rested her head in her right hand and steadily tapped, tapped, tapped at the top of the black boring stapler. The black boring stapler bounced with each tap, until it grew quite tired of all this tapping and decided to stop bouncing. Jane hit the boring black stapler one last time and was shocked when the office supply didn’t respond with the satisfying bounce. “I guess it’s stuck,” Jane sighed and picked up the stapler and shook it. The stapler didn’t like this either, and wriggled from Jane’s hand to the floor, “Why am I so clumsy today,” Jane droned. As Jane’s large hand loomed closer to the stapler to retrieve it, the stapler pondered a way to escape this horribly dull monster. The stapler didn’t have legs like the chair, and it didn’t speak English like the computer did,

            “Lucky bastards,” the stapler muttered in its own office supply language which sounded remotely like soft clicks. Paper clips and rubber bands always somehow found ways to escape, but they were tiny. The stapler was by no means large, but could it ever fit into a pocket. Jane never had pockets, she wore drab dresses that hung from her slim figure like wet rags drying on a porch. Tom in the cubicle next door had deep pockets, so deep that he had already helped his stapler escape to the outside. He also helped some friendly pens, the hole punch, and two reams of paper. All of Jane’s supplies stayed captive in the brown cubicle. To make sure they never left, she lined her desk with naked henchmen with multicolored hair that stuck straight up. The stapler hated these silent little men and their mocking smiles.

The stapler shuttered from the warmth of Jane’s hand as she picked it up and placed it in the exact same spot it always went, between the computer monitor and the cup whose mouth was filled with pens. The cup longed for the old days of coffee and tea and the pens hated being crammed so close together, except for the old gold pen, who secretly longed for a cup orgy like this.

Tom stood up and peered over Jane’s cubicle wall, “Hey sexy,” which was a joke because Jane was anything but sexy.

“What do you want, Tom,” Jane whispered, she secretly wished that one day he would steal her away in one of his deep, deep pockets.

The whole concept of a ‘generation’ is weird.

From childhood we are told that everybody is unique and special in their own little way… like snowflakes. Yet, why does it seem the older I get the more the public tries to categorize and lump everybody together. Generations are a prime example of this phenomenon- I may be wrong, but I get the impression that the term ‘generation’ first popped into the mainstream with the boom of babies after World War II ended. Creating the first watched and talked about ‘generation’- creatively named BabyBoomers. Nothing really good was said about BabyBoomers- mostly that they were self involved- which was poo-pooed upon by the previous generation. In fact, I think the whole concept of ‘generation’ is a way for the previous generations to talk shit about the newbies, but in an seemingly intelligent way.

BabyBoomers talked mad shit about lazy Generation X.

Generation X is currently talking shit about showy Generation Y.

Generation Y doesn’t quite know what to do, because it’s hard to talk shit about little kids…. but man, do those kids suck.

Nobody talked shit about the generation before the BabyBoomers, because those old bastards came up with the whole concept… making it okay for them to title themselves the ‘Greatest Generation’, which is a load of crap. We less-great generations have fought in wars too… and none of our vets have come home to celebration.

Yet, we take pride in our specific generations, no matter how many scathing things are said about us in the media. It’s like a badge of honor or a giant team to be apart of. Sometimes I think of generations are like class years for the giant high school of adulthood.  Each generation is like a class, the older you get the more you get to talk shit and it’s alright… old people are like upper classmen, because they know the ropes and will be graduating soon, so either respect or ignore what they have to say.

Greatest Generation = Seniors. They could give a crap about everybody else, they used too… especially when the BabyBoomers were up and coming, but now they are more focuses on leaving with a bang and enjoying their fleeting moments in High School.

BabyBoomers = Juniors. Now that the seniors have let up a little bit, they can relax and focus more on themselves. They still have time in High School, and the new generations are annoying, but are now seeing the perks to being a mentor rather than a bully.

Generation X= Sophomores. Since they are currently not the main focus of brutal commentary, they feel that it is their duty to pass on the crown. The newer generation is reaping the benefit of their work, and now they are pissed- so outlash will occur. Unfortunately, they will neglect to see that this is the very reason BabyBoomers bullied them so harshly.

Generation Y= Freshmen. New to this whole adult high school thing, excited, but slowly getting jaded due to the scrutiny of the previous generations.

What can I say, I am a little biased… I’m Generation Y, and all this new media attention is getting rather stale. The public can’t even settle on a name for us: Boomlets- sounds sounds like a piglet, and I don’t want to be the piglet generation (even though piglets are cute). Generation Y (whhhhhhhhyyy), sounds like the whiny little sibling of Generation X, which in some cases is true- but not for me! Millennials- makes me want to get a silver spandy suit and zoom around in a jet pack. Unfortunately the only semi-futuristic thing I can enjoy is the geeky ass Segway…

My generation is the Kick Ass Generation- but that’s very freshman of me to be so enthusiastic and naive. I used to feel that every generation has a voice, except for mine, but on further inspection I feel that the previous generation is the one who is the true voice of the current generation. They are the ones who are so involved in documenting and lamenting about the future of their country- which the next generation will inevitably inherit. Humans are programmed to be incredibly concerned about leaving a lasting legacy- why else do you think people love babies so much? And they don’t want this legacy to get fucked up. So they worry and this worry turns into criticism. Ever wonder why your mom or dad wont stop nagging you about something trivial? They’re just worried because they want you to be okay.

So my word to all the previous generations: It’s okay, we’ll happily take over when the time is right. Just now we’re being stupid, because we’re young. Just like how the seniors were racist and thought cigarettes were healthy, juniors took Quaaludes and had orgies, sophomores went to raves and took a lot of E, now it’s our turn to expose ourselves on the Internet and do whatever the drug Du jour of the moment is.

The majority of you eventually got your act together… so can we.

Women are creatures of thought, this is usually proven by the ridiculous head games that we torment out friends and lovers with, but even early on (before being mean is seen as a fun past time) little girls play silly games which involve serious thinking skills. While boys are rolling around in dead animals and feces, girls are memorizing rhymes, playing hand clap games, and testing their dexterity with a jump rope. Even when little girls “play” it involves more of a verbal dictation of what is going on rather than actually miming the said events:

“An-then, we move to an island where there is a tiger family, an-then the mommy tiger will say that she wants us to take the baby tiger on a trip to the zoo, but at the zoo we’ll leave out parents, an-then have to survive on our own, an-then the baby tiger will protect us, and to be nice, we’ll bake him a cake, an-then we’ll eat the cake, and go for a walk to the park, where we’ll see the mommy tiger who will tell us that the daddy tiger has a big butt hahahahahahahahahahahahhaha”

Little girls soon become big girls and paper is introduced to game play. The two most popular in my neighborhood were MASH and the Cootie Catcher. Both having to do with the future and mostly focusing on who you’re gonna marry. With MASH you got to pick at least some of your future desires, but the Cootie Catcher was reserved for those solitary types who would create this origami-like contraption then subject their masochistic friends to the horrors of the future it held (GROSS, I hecka don’t want to french kiss Jacob McSo-n-So!). MASH simply boiled down to various sections outlining key events in your life- you pick three, your friend picks one per category and carefully ticks of answers in a way that’s really complicated to explain, but easy to do. This continues until only one of each category is left leaving you a magical look into your proposed future- providing various hours of lovely teenage daydreams.  I recently tried to play MASH while stuck on an airplane with a friend, I didn’t realize how heavily dependant this game was on crushes. The section for future husband sat empty as I poured through my rolodex of bad dating experiences of the prior year. I promptly concluded that MASH wasn’t fun anymore.

The job section of MASH was always a non-section, just suspense before you found out who you would marry, but thinking about the answers my friends and I provided, it’s somewhat telling of the current lifestyles many of us lead. One friend would always put artsy or fashion-type jobs in this section- she’s since spent time working in an art gallery. While another would always include doctor or lawyer- she currently is getting her PhD. I can remember requesting “international superstar” as one of my options on many occasions. My friends would ask what type of superstar I would be… singing, acting, rollerblading, etc. To which I would reply, “I dunno, just put it down.” Looking back, I must have been the group’s idiot friend, because stating that your job title is an “international superstar” is pretty much comparable to rolling up to the McDonald’s drive-thru and asking for a “supersize meal”

“sir, what type of meal would you like?”

“I dunno, just supersize it.”

Just for shits and giggles I should create a business card:

                                                                            NNEKAY

                                                             INTERNATIONAL  SUPERSTAR

I guess out of my friends, my little previous self would be the most disappointed, from International Superstar to (drumroll, please) LIBRARIAN- Tah Dah!!!! Well, it’s not like I (as a little kid) gave the older me much direction… I guess I could try my hand a being an International Superstar Librarian…

no.

When I was younger I used to melt into a puddle of joy when the Olympics would roll around, mostly because the rest of the world was excited. I’m sure if someone decided to host an international Doo Doo Bubble parade and the world rejoiced- My little baby self would be have wanted to be up front and center.

Now that I’m older, the Olympics feel more like a chore. I certainly don’t want to be the jack ass who when asked in twenty years, “oh did you watch the amazing 2008 Olympics?” replies with, “No, I was watching Tila Tequila make out with a monkey.” So yes, even though I don’t really want to, I occasionally switch to NBC to watch these global freaks compete for… a medal.

Lately, I’ve noticed that the Olympics provide almost an identical experience to taking showers when I was under 10.

Please explain, Nnekay.

Well, I would dread taking showers… and would happily remain dirty, itchy, and stinky until my poor parents would have to drag my Pigpen ass into the bathroom… thank god they did, because I was definitely on the track to becoming “the dirty kid”. Anyway, with out fail as soon as I physically got into the shower, I would enjoy the experience. After the shower, I would bound around my room enjoying the fresh and squeaky feeling of… well, being clean. This repeated everyday… until finally in middle school… B.O, hair, and monthly menstrual shit made the time between showers more unbearable.

This is how I feel about watching the Olympics… I am constantly dragging my feet when it comes to actually changing the channel to watch the games. I have to use my inner Mom sometimes, just to see what sport is competing, “Come on, Nnekay… you’ll like it, trust me. Just give Handball a chance.”

So last night, as I was in full Night Owl alertness, I finally decided to sit through the 100 meter dash. This particular race has always peeked my interest, because when I was semi-sorta-kinda-half-assed athletic, I decided to participate in the one sport that didn’t require learning anything new: running. Once I established running was a load crap, I found the shortest race to compete in: 100 meter dash. This was a perfect fit, because “endurance” is a devil word for me. Track was an obvious choice, being tall, skinny, and black- my only other option was basketball… and well, let’s just say that my mom likes to marvel on the fact that I sash-shayed across the court.

Sitting in the dark, I quietly stuffed my face with make shift nachos- imaging myself in a spandy outfit jumping around and stretching like the 9 athletes on screen. From my ridiculously short stint with the acting world I knew that it was possible to mistake me as athletic. Once considered for a Nike ad, I found myself at the call back auditions with 15 other runners. All of which were clad in shiny track suits, air filled sneakers, and aerodynamic ponytails. My halo of curls, face full of make up, and rainbow tank top… didn’t quite fit in. Yet, I still looked vaguely as skinny as these other bitches, and continued to feel quite confident- that is until they asked me how many miles I ran per day, then asked me to sprint as they filmed me. Smiling- I lied through my teeth stating I ran every other day and averaged about 3 miles each run. “Great, Great.” the casting directors chimed and pointed towards the track. As I made the death march towards my dead giveaway, I chanted- don’t sash-shay, don’t sash-shay, don’t sash-shay. The minute I took off, I could feel the unused muscle-fat of my thigh reverb through my posterior.

They never called me back.

Instead of looking at this experience as one of embarrassment and defeat, I began to view it as a badge of honor. All that mattered was that I was able to convince the casting directors of the first audition that I was a runner. I looked like an athlete as long as I refrained from running… or walking vigorously. Unfortunately, this new found confidence discouraged exercise, and now- a year later- I’m laughably lazy and even more jiggly. This will probably progress until I’m a snowman of a woman, but I’ll still wave my stick arms around holding on to the memory of how I convinced some Hollywood interns of my track and field skills.

So, full of nachos and delusions, I watched the 100 meter dash as if I was sitting on the bench waiting for my event to occur. As the painfully slow set up of the race lulled on I studied each woman, and decided that I liked the Jamaican team better. For one, I liked how they accessorize, with cute matching headbands, and ridiculously intricate hairdos. The American broads looked angry, and I decided they would have probably called me an Oreo or beat me up in Middle school. Plus, no one will ever replace, Jackie Joyner or FloJo in my book. With this, I switched my legions from my country to my heritage. Within a blink the race was over… my ladies taking all three titles- gold going to the twenty one year old with braces.

I couldn’t have been happier. Seriously when was the last time you heard about Jamaica during the Olympics? And no, not that Goddamn bobsledding bullshit.

Full off the 40 minutes of build up, and ten seconds of excitement I ambled over to the TV and shut it off, happy that I actually tuned in to the games and was able to watch something I could relate too.

I have lost all faith in the trend setters of the world. Yes, they have gotten lazy. It seems of late, hipsters have been dipping in the weird and ugly clothing pile of yore to create funky and “ironic” fashion choices to tickle the masses. Well I’m not biting, dammit!  

I found myself enjoying a wonderful plate of sushi with good company when the topic of discussion somehow rode into the frontier of trends. Apparently, Ghostface Killah from Wu-Tang Klan loves Wallabee shoes. Not only does he wear them, he loves to rap about them and calls himself the “Wallabee King.” This would be one thing if the shoe was awesome- but unfortunately these clod hoppers look like the result of a one night stand between those thickly padded nurse shoes and boat loafers. They are ugly… the worst kind of ugly too… Old People Ugly- the type of ugly which seems to scream that you just don’t care any more and would prefer to just wear a sensible track suit and motor around the mall in your Jazzy Power Chair.

Who started this damn trend…. turning shit-shit into cool shit?! Seriously when did it begin? With that godforsaken trucker hat? That was stupid, but at least I believe the trend gods have moved on- Banishing them along with Uggs to the Isle of What Was I Thinking. To say these items are hip are to equate yourself with a tourist from eastern Europe… you’re THAT far behind in fashion.

Now, I’m not saying that I’m a style maven or what have you… no far from it, but at least I have the common sense to stick with a t-shirt and jeans.

Here are a list of some of the culprits who are trying to make this decade the goofiest looking since the 1970s:

1. Kanye West- Urkle Glasses are not cool looking.. in fact neither are you, Kanye… yea I said it, your just a grown up dork. I know because I’m one, and I act like my shit don’t stink either- but deep down be both know we were artsy nerds in High School.

2. Thrift Store Shopper- so I’m putting this one in here because some of these so called “treasure hunters” go too far. Yes, that retro leather jacket was a good find, but just because that muu- muu was fifty cents doesn’t mean it will look good with a white vinyl belt.

3. Art School Kids- Stop trying to seek attention… just stop it!

I can’t think of anything else right now… but you fools know who you are!!!

Something even worse than a tacky trend, is a tacky trend that is trying so hard to catch on, but just can’t seem to get the lasting power. With that I present the Fanny Pack. Hipsters have been trying for years to get this shit to catch back on. BUT guess what suckas? No one wants any part of that shit. HA! At the very least I can be assured that some tacky items will forever remain tacky. Thank the lord.

Is it just me or does it seem like Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers is just making up lyrics as he goes?