Can't Touch This

Remember when "can't touch this" simply indicated an average looking guy moving laterally in ridiculous glittery gold genie pants? Yeah, times were so simple back then.

I'm starting to learn how people operate in their relationships. Ownership, possession, restriction. The more you're willing to reset your boundaries, the more you love someone. The more someone likes you, the more they will reset their boundaries. These seem to be the theorems that hold our romantic universes together. And they're my bastardized paraphrasings of what we talked about at dinner.

I operate on weird laws. Like everyone else I know got gravity, but I got weirdo moon shoes and a helmet. I operate distinctly on a "no possession but also no forgiveness" rule. I trust and at least I don't lose sleep til something happens. I can't imagine trawling through someone else's belongings or scrutinizing just how they talked to their girl friend or asking for a roster of their female coworkers just to forbid them one by one from socializing. Then again, I can't imagine dating! ;) My ultimate declaration (as I stuffed one more piece of Hot Hot Spider Roll in my mouth.) was that we live in a culture of possession. And I think that's extending to our personal lives and it's weird. Some say that I'm just an idealist (a euphemism in polite circles for "wrong"). That it's normal to want to be possessive of the person you're dating. I don't get like that. This could be the guys I date just not inspiring that response. But maybe I missed a step -- like I missed that day of girlie conduct class or something. As Jon has pointed out, I tend to give the guys I date more than enough rope. And we know what happens when you do that...

At another point of our conversation, someone (hi James!) was offering an analogy. In this car analogy, I was... a station wagon.

So depressing.

Diary of a Domestic Godess

My friend just finished her 2 year job and is taking a few days off, staying with me. This morning I decided to treat us to a cooked breakfast -- pancakes, eggs, cafe au laits. etc. Anyways, she then made this remark:

"You make Persian moms proud. You cook too much food, you won't let anyone touch the dishes, and you do it all in a cute little black dress."

That said, the hangover was completely my own touch ;)

But then it got me thinking... I'm cooking *alot* more these days. I knit. I read Martha Stewart and Bon Appetit magazines with interest. I may have clipped recipes, but I'm not admitting anything. I just revamped my patio garden.

I think I'm nesting or something.

Unless that requires being pregnant. In which case I've just tapped into my domestic godess superpowers, and will now unleash them upon the world.

I'm Bad, I'm Bad, You Know It: A Meditation on the State of All Things Michael Jackson

Today I saw a breach in our justice system that I just can't get over.

I know that at approximately 2:15 Pacific time this afternoon, bloggers must have been going nuts. The Jackson child molestation verdict was in: NOT GUILTY. Slam goes the gavel. Well, not really, but we've all watched enough of The Practice to know how it goes. And the nation parted in two -- the believers (who might be seen outside the courtroom with white arm bands) and the disbelievers, who rolled their eyes and changed the channel.

And then there was me. Mouth agape. Criminal behavior had gone unpunished. He wasn't even CHARGED for his biggest offense? And what is that, you might ask?

I want to talk about his last album.

You see, part of me believes that maybe Michael started up this whole stink himself. I mean, no one could *voluntarily* want to spend time with the snide Martin Bashir, could they? Even weirdo Michael? I mean, he could hang out with Liz Taylor or his monkey or just chill and be one with himself in the oxygen tent. No one deserves Martin Bashir, and Michael knows this. Secondly, while he acts like a child, Michael is 46 years old. He knows better- or the people around him do -than to tell a schmoozy journalist that he climbs in bed with children. There is NO WAY that happened accidentally.

So I put my law degree to work. I sat down and I thought long and hard about it. And when the commercial break was over, I know what had happened.

The molestation trial was a stinkbomb. It had to be big. It had to be bad. It had to be newsworthy. Because it had to outstink the Invincible album.

Now I know you're sitting there wondering what I'm talking about. That's exactly the point. The man who put out zillions of Jackson 5 singles, not to mention Thriller, then Bad, then Dangerous made a boo-boo. It came in the form of the Invincible album, the most redeeming quality of said album being a Print Shop-meets-Andy Warhol cover -- collect all five colors. Did you really expect me to be distracted by that, Michael? Mikey had released "Blood on the Dancefloor", a remix album you blinked and missed -- but it was remixes so it doesn't "count" against him.

The "gem" on Invincible, aka. the semi-decent track, was "Rock My World". The fun of that one came more from the beat and the Chris Tucker appearance making fun of Michael ("shamon! SHAMON!") than anything else. In the video, Michael clearly plays second fiddle to Tucker, who I love, but let's be real - his career high point was Rush Hour. Tucker's partner in crime was Jackie Chan, now it's Michael. Not good, MJ, not good. Jackson videos used to feature Naomi Campbell and Michael Jordan. His songs used to co-star Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder. Now his own sister couldn't even touch the mic.

Rumor has it that MJ asked producer Rodney Jerkins to write him a ton of songs, then only picked a few for the album. Rumor also has it that the leftovers went to Justin Timberlake's debut album. And we all know how that fairy tale went, don't we? I believe I was quoted as saying that "Justin Timberlake has out-Michael Jacksoned Michael Jackson", a statement I stand by.

I've been listening to the album over and over, and I'm distressed. INVINCIBLE sounds like a Jackson impersonator's demo on a Casio keyboard. A decent impersonator, but one who's learned all the tricks - the Michael "ah" and the Michael falsetto, with none of the personal style that had us all glued to our tvs for every award show over the span of 10 years. If it wasn't Michael, I would have arm-wrestled the Tower Records cashier for my money back.

(Side note: I know a girl whose mom's friend sewed MJ's glove. Take a minute with that fun fact.)

"Rock My World", the only salvageable track, was soon remixed with the Justin Timberlake song "Rock Your Body", never to be heard au naturel again. The first three tracks are blameless, but there isn't much to distinguish them from one another. I like them because I wanted so badly to like them. "Butterflies" was covered by someone (Floetry?) and turned out better. 2000 Watts was covered by Tyrese. Not sure how much better he could make it, but hell, he looks good, so who cares? We're left with Michael trying to convince us that he's "Invincible" "Unbreakable" a "Heartbreaker" and "Threatened". He "needs his privacy -- yeah yeah". I liked that one better when it was called "Scream". He even makes a last-ditch effort to offer his perennial children's anthem ("The Lost Children"), which is a rehash of "Heal the World", complete with children's chorus. Who knew when the news said he has a studio at home that they just meant he mics his bed? :)

I'm the last person to hope Michael calls it quits. I've got nothing but love for what he used to be. And I think he should take his time to make the right steps in the right direction. Basically, I just hope he'll stop rushing into things -- including but not limited to the recording studio. Being a Michael Jackson fan is a pain in the arse these days. I don't want to have to defend the allegedly detachable nose. I don't want to have to defend the sleepovers. And I sure as hell shouldn't be defending a Grammy winner's musical abilities. Sheesh, Mike, where can I get *my* cut of your defense fund?!

So there, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is the real crime. Unpunished, but not forgotten.

Smooth criminal? I don't think so.

With this blog, I thee wed.

I just got done writing the most pathetic email of, well, let's go with -- the week. I emailed to beg them to please let me know if I'd already gotten a particular friend her wedding gift (the wedding was a month and half ago). In retrospect, I realize that my email was long-winded. I imagine there is a really nice guy sitting in India and reading's emails and wondering what the hell I'm on about.

I'm attending weddings at a rate that would make Elizabeth Taylor's head spin. Add in the subsets of engagement parties, showers, and bachelorette parties, and you'll see where the little free time work leaves me goes. But when I had to write this pleading email begging to help me keep track and basically GET A GRIP, I realized something had to change.

I need to marry myself.

Yes, marry myself! It's what Kevin Nadal did. You may have seen him -- on The View, or the Today Show, or maybe sitting across from me in Koreatown in NYC last week, indulging in Korean barbeque and friendly banter. Prompted by a plotline in Sex in the City (which I don't watch, and always causes me to recheck my typing, because I don't know if it's Sex in the City or Sex AND the City - a fact which I did not, of course, tell Kevin), he made a decision. He was always going to other people's celebratory events and Kevin decided it was time to do his own celebrating. So -- he married himself. The fact that he is a performance artist and psychologist only makes this more delightful.

Fast forward: registry, tuxedo, tons of attention, tons of presents.

What I'd like to focus on is the "tons of presents" part. Kevin felt that, after all the gift-giving he had done, he deserved the same. He did it all - bridesmaids, vows, partying like it's 1999. He registered for tons of prezzies, even (as reported by, although I'm sure he'd tell me if I asked, because we're like be-fri's now) a sno-cone machine.

But this isn't about Kevin. This is about me.

I think the time has come for me to do the same. Celebrate myself? Whatev. I think there are enough people in the world celebrating themselves and being celebrated (People magazine makes a living based on this simple fact). Dressing up? Let's see: The last time I wore a strapless long creme gown, I pulled the top layer over my head, formed what appeared to be a chador from it, and insisted that my friend draw me a moustache and unibrown so I could march around my house and explore what I would have looked like if my parents had never emigrated. I think I lost "dress up" privileges somewhere there. Vera Wang won't come near me.

But gifts? I need those! You see, regifting is really a lost art form...