Que Sera Sara

FREE FANCY CONDOMS!

FREE FANCY CUPCAKES!

Oh man alive, what a big day! We’re gonna have photographers and videographers (well, one) all over this thing tonight, to record that magic that is what is certainly the final Family Hour with Auntie Sara of the summer and MIGHT BE (but hopefully isn’t!) the last Family Hour with Auntie Sara EVER! (Dudes, I’m totally bringing it back as a monthly or as a weekly in the fall, but I’m hoping my EXTREME SENSE OF URGENCY will frighten/seduce you into showing up tonight!)

Here’s what Hy Bender of HyReviews.com has to say about us:

“In this unique weekly comedy show, everyone tells jokes and/or stories related to their family. It’s hosted by comic/actress Sara Benincasa, whose many credits include correspondent for MTV’s Choose or Lose Campaign and host of Tub Talk with Sara B. on Nerve.com.

Tonight is the season finale of this show. If you haven’t experienced it yet, this evening is a great time to do so. The superb guests are:

Kambri Crews (luminous performer, stellar publicist and producer, and one of the most sharp, charming, and heartfelt comedic storytellers working in NYC; for Kambri’s correspondence with her deaf dad, who’s in a Texas prison for trying to stab his wife to death, please visit Web site LoveDaddy.org)

Peter Grosz (staff writer for The Colbert Report; star of over 100 Sonic fast-food commercials; member of Chicago’s Second City acclaimed improv troupe 4 Square, and half of the current UCBT improv show 2 Square)

John Morrison (host of NYC monthly comedy showcase Morrison’s Motel and co-producer of weekly open-mic show Ochi’s Motel)

David Cope (comedic storyteller, and member of Sweet Haven sketch troupe that runs a hot new Tuesday night comedy show at Rififi)

Leslie Goshko (exceptionally sharp comedic actress/writer, and 2008 Manhattan Monologue Slam Champion)

Ross Hyzer (host of NYC live extravaganza County Fair Comedy Show)

Diana Saez (DC Comedy Festival; XM Radio; created/produced Washington DC’s first all-female comedy showcase)

Greg Barris (MTV2’s All That Rocks, Carolines),

and Pat O’Shea and Charlie Kasov (Drunken Focus Group).”

7:30 pm at Ochi’s Lounge at Comix
353 West 14th Street (just east of 9th Avenue)
no cover, 1 drink or food item minimum (e.g., draft beer for $4-$5)

Recently, I said the wrong thing.

It happens.

I apologized to the folks who I may have (inadvertantly) offended, and they at least seemed to understand where I was coming from and to accept my apology as sincere

What’s more interesting than what I said is how the reaction to having said it made me feel. I wasn’t addressed with disrespect or nastiness; on the contrary, I got a levelheaded talking-to that highlighted an area in which I have something to learn. A “talking-to” may sound like something that a parent gives a child. It’s also often how a teacher addresses a student. And sometimes folks turn out to be teachers when we’re nowhere near a classroom and are years past doodling in the back row. Sometimes grown-ups get talking-tos, too.

But my guilt at the idea of doing something wrong, of being “the bad one,” flared up, as it always does. And while it was perhaps warranted in this case, in other cases, it isn’t. Oftentimes, instead of standing up for myself in the face of unjust criticism, I’ve folded into myself and nodded mutely in order to “make nice.”

This isn’t because I am a lady, although we are generally raised to make pretty eyes at folks when we should be raising our fists in the air, protest-style. I know plenty of girlfriends who won’t take some of the shit I have, in the past, meekly taken. It’s because, oftentimes, my motivation has been to keep things pleasant rather than deal with what’s real. Sometimes it’s safer to pretend you’re in the wrong than to declare yourself an independent voice.

Now again, that wasn’t what happened in this most recent case. I said something dumb, and I apologized because an apology was warranted.

But it’s not always that cut and dry. And having seen Moe and Tracie from Jezebel pummeled on the blogs over the past few weeks, and reading in particular Tracie’s responses on her blog, and the alternately horribly mean and sickeningly worshipful comments on both Jezebel and Tracie’s blog, I’ve been wondering about words, and guilt, and responsibility, and the easy path of finger-pointing and blame.

No moral here. Just thinking out loud, or something like it, very late on a Wednesday night.

It’s time to get some rest.

In synergistic Viacom-funded bloggery news, Dennis DiClaudio of Comedy Central’s “Indecision 2008″ blog met me recently at Trailer Park Lounge and we spoke of many things. Learn of our Pabsty dalliance here (to be honest, I dorkily just drank water with lemon. But I did eat veggie chili with Fritos on top!)

My dear friends Diana and Sam lived in D.C. for four years, and they are highly entertaining, fascinating human beings, as is my new pal Hillary. And my friend Baratunde. These are genius people, here: wildly talented, driven, one of a kind types. I want to make clear that my assessment of that city has nothing to do with them, just as some friends will explain to me that they don’t mean to hurt my feelings when they tell me New Jersey is a shithole.

With that disclaimer, hear me out when I say…

D.C. fucking sucks.

How goddamned boring can one town be? D.C. has an answer for you, and it involves monuments, monochromatic block-like eyesore Soviet-style architecture as far as the eye can see, and anorexic white bitches in identical Ann Taylor Loft dresses with pearls and Nine West heels marching in lockstep down a featureless, ramrod-straight highway to the nearest single lawyer they can get to knock them up.

And I was there with a cool organization that does good work, and I got to hang out in fancy hotels. And the people at the organization are by and large rad. But every time I hit the street and saw the wonkity wonkity wonks and wonkettes (and I love the website Wonkette, so I don’t mean to disparage the name), I wanted to curl up into the tiniest of balls and magically wish myself back to my beloved New York.

It’s like a giant outdoor strip mall of bureaucracy and boredom. Nothing glamorous happens there. It is not like the movie “Dave,” the movie “The American President,” or the TV show “The West Wing.” Allison Janney is not bringing us the talking points of the day. No. You know who is? DANA FUCKING PERINO, that’s who. And all these little Stepford Goes to Washington bitches are tottering around, and so are these fucking automaton douchebag men, the frat brothers who decided to be “different” and not jump right into an MBA program.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

You know what it’s like? It’s exactly like Midtown Manhattan, except the focus is on politics rather than general business. And the buildings are shorter and not caked in soot.

So proud of this man I want to fucking spank him in the face.

My manpartner Francesco Marciuliano, writer of syndicated comic strip “Sally Forth” and Emmy-winning kids’ show “Seemore’s Playhouse,” is filling in for the awesome Dan Piraro for a week’s worth of the comic strip “Bizarro.” It’s gonna be the motherfucking balls.

Here’s what Dan told Daily Cartoonist about this magical turn of events:

This is the first time I’ve had a guest cartoonist and I’m really excited about it. I’ve long admired Ces’s cartoons online and am excited to see what my readers think of them. He is a prolific writer of all sorts of humor – essays, stand-up comedy, cartoons, blogs – and I’m of the opinion that he’s long overdue for some of this kind of exposure.

Here, here! WHEEEEEEEEEE!

Proud in D.C.,
Sara

Learn more about it here.

My mom got to stand on the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium today. She was a stand-in for one of the Hall of Famers who will appear at the All-Star Game this weekend. She’s volunteering for the weekend, and one of her gigs is helping at tech rehearsal.

She had a great time.

So that covers the Mom Dreams. As for the Champagne Wishes, I’d like a bottle of Veuve Cliquot right about now.

I’m trying to eat healthier, and I don’t drink much alcohol, and alcohol seems like empty calories, but anyway, the point remains that I would enjoy a bottle of Veuve Cliquot right about now.

The end.

Hello! I’ve been mighty busy prepping a political blog that is taking up much of my time these days, and it’s fascinating work (I also get to read Feministe, Feministing, Jezebel, Angry Black Bitch, et. al–for work!) And with the new blog I’m prepping for the full time job, plus the blog and video action I make for the MTVeez, I haven’t been bloggering on this here WordPress action as much as I’d like. Although of course I am glad and grateful for the work. Having in the past experienced unemployment for an uncomfortably long amount of time, and having been UNDER-employed at other times, I value having a job, even though some days I just want to bury my head under the covers. I think that’s a normal human instinct, or something.

But! Today Jake H. from Urlesque gave me a reason to smile AND to write a WordPressy blog post. For today, Jake saw fit to smile upon my benighted soul with a very special award. Jake H. decided that I, along with comics Michelle Collins and Sara Schaefer of the Best Week Ever Blog, plus Slut Machine of Jezebel, plus a bunch of other chicks, should be seen in a bikini!

I am grateful to have made it through all the studying and all the cram sessions and all the extra tutoring that went into my becoming one of the 20 Bloggers Jake from Urlesque Would Like to See in a Bikini. I also studied very hard and took my SATS THREE TIMES in order to be considered the Blogger With Whom Jake from Urlesque Would Most Like to Take a Bath. And being that, as I once chronicled on my Nerve blog (somewhere in the far reaches of the archives), I have Belly Ish, this prestigious accolade certainly came at a most joyous time. (Also see “Fattie Fattie 2 x 4″ down below.)

Now, I still won’t ever wear a bikini that goes below the navel (I vastly prefer the ones that somewhat tuck in my tummy pooch, a la this Esther Williams action. (And God bless and keep ye, Esther Williams, for totally rocking in those swimming movies and for being a rad old lady who makes swimsuits that make me feel okay, even slightly nearly confident, in public. Well, maybe not confident. But almost!) However, on some days it is very nice to be objectified, especially by a nice guy like Jake from Urlesque, and especially in the company of such smart, funny, creative bitches, so I say thank you, and good day!

You know what is maybe not the best way to follow up a hearty lunch (albeit a semi-organic, all-vegetarian, quite good-for-you lunch)?

Buying a scale.

Three years ago on this very weekend, I was visiting mi amiga favorita in Wisconsin and happened to weigh myself on her grandma’s bathroom scale, at which point I had a fit and almost threw myself into a giant fondue pot, for only such a fat-filled, artery-choking death seemed appropriate at that point in time.

I imagine I dieted down to a specific point, although my willpower and self-hatred have never outweighed my fondness for food and my generally happy and confident attitude, so I’ve never been able to starve myself as thin as I think I want to. Because at a certain point in the dieting process, I forget to hate myself, and thus forget to deny my body food or the simple pleasures of wearing short shorts with fun summer wedges.

As it turns out, I now weigh the exact same amount that I weighed three years ago, which is not to say that the weight has remained constant…it’s gone below that number and back again on more than one occasion.

And what was once my “holy fucking shit” point of no return is now a far more palatable reality. “Okay, I weigh this much. I don’t like that I weigh this much. I would like to not weigh this much. Not weighing this much is an achievable goal, and I don’t need to starve myself or run a fucking marathon to do it.”

It’s a relief to know that taking long walks, snacking on fresh fruit instead of hot pretzels, avoiding dairy, and drinking a shitload of water can pretty much make sure you balance out somewhere reasonable.

I won’t reach my imaginary “ideal weight,” but I’m comfortable being somewhere in the “meh” middle. And honestly, I just don’t have the energy to embark on a carefully planned and perfectly executed diet-cardio-strength plan. Exercise bores me unless I can see interesting shit while I’m doing it, and have enough time to savor the sights. This means walking.

I’ll run if someone is chasing me with the intent of robbing, beating, kidnapping or raping me. Otherwise, I don’t do “running,” much as Barack claims he doesn’t do “cowering” (just read an interview with him in “Rolling Stone.”)

And now, because there’s no need to hear one more word on this subject, I switch gears and encourage anyone who is having a fat moment to look at these beautiful clothes made for ladies of a variety of sizes:

Stop Staring Clothing Clothes in Small-3X
Stop Staring does reproduction vintage shit that rocks my face off.

Target Is Your Friend Clothes in X-Small - XLarge
It’s Target. You will find something.

So far, about 1/3 of the way through, it’s good.

It’s definitely not at all bad.

It’s really hard not to compare writing of this kind to Sedaris, who is just so fucking amazing and a creature unto himself…I think it’s ultimately not at all fair to compare this to Sedaris. This is a first-time author in her late twenties with vastly less experience than Sedaris.

I mean, ultimately I’m reading the memoirs of another privileged twentysomething white girl who grew up in the NYC metro area. And by “another” I don’t mean Crosley is one in a parade of such writers; I mean that she and I have similar backgrounds, at least as far as our race and gender and education and economic/social class are concerned. So there isn’t the surprised delight I feel when I find I relate to someone writing about a life led in circumstances wholly or partly different from my own.

One of her stories does have quite a touching end, and I think it’s the best of what the first 1/3 of the book has to offer. The story has to do with a mentally ill man who lives in her apartment building and insists upon taking his door off its hinges each and every time he enters his home. I think the quiet, lonely, haunting conclusion is quite powerful, as is the image of the humiliated man with downcast eyes, enduring the police’s questioning after a mix-up over an unrelated 311 noise call.

In that moment, I quite admired her work, and it’s more than enough to keep me reading.

Ultimately, I think many (not all–Frank Bruni, Rolling Stone’s Kurt Loder, Richard Belzer, Ruth Reichl and Janet Maslin come to mind as notable exceptions, and there are many others) professional critics are people who wanted to do (write, cook, direct, dance, paint, sculpt, design, perform stand-up, act) but couldn’t muster the talent or the fortitude or the luck to make it as a creator. Instead, they rely on their ability to heap praise or blame in prettily crafted sentences. The folks who wrote the film “Ratatouille” put this much better than I could, and at present I haven’t the energy to dig up that speech.

And I think that it’s just as important to note that critics who talk shit about a piece of art are about as reliable as critics who lavish praise on it. In general, your reviews are about who you know, who scratched your back first, whose back you would not be averse to scratching, who you want to win brownie points with, who you want to impress, where you went to college, whose client’s administrative assistant your wife slept with after a big PR wine-and-dine-fest at Cipriani, and a bunch of other bullshit that has nothing to do with actual inherent “merit” of the work, because said merit is ultimate unknowable, unquantifiable, and unqualifiable.

Will I keep reading criticism? Yes. Will I keep expressing my opinions about art, onstage and in my humble little not-for-profit-or-any-kind-of-income-at-all WordPress blog? Yes. Does that mean a whole hell of a lot of anything at all to anyone other than me? No.

In the end, I’m jealous of Sloane Crosley for getting a book published at such a young age and for having such shiny, shiny hair. But I’m also happy that she got said book published, because by all accounts she’s a lovely and kind woman, and, FAR MORE IMPORTANTLY, I do see a real talent in her work. And I know how proud I and my family would be if I published a book, and I bet she and her folks feel the same.

So good for you, Sloane C.! I’m going to read the rest of your book.