bad harem day

i think i need to switch machines.

the elliptical i currently mount is parked in front of a plasma screen, that despite my best intentions, sucks me in and zones me out, like huxley's soma of a brave new world, the telegenic variety. today's movable feast was a chat show with some exhaustively market-researched title like, "the chat!", "the talk!", "the crap!". this transparent "the view" rip-off was just trying too hard for it's own good; straining for progressive hipness so eagerly, i could see it's hernia a mile away.

the multicultural panel was there in all it's blooming, peacocked glory. the white lesbian! plaid clad! the hard-nosed asian reporter! suit-jacketed! the sassy black actress! fashion sequenced! and as they proceeded to discuss with furious self-importance, with unfurrowed, botoxed brows, restylane-d, implanted cheeks and juvederm-ed, pursed lips, whether demi moore's 911 call should be released to the public or not; (for the privacy of those whom have made it their life's work to become famous?), the nausea slowly began to rise in my throat, feeling less like lactic acid build up and more like toxic shock at the decline of the journalistic empire.

[who watches this stuff?]

then this panel, assembled, i assume, under the guise of true north, strong and free, healthy discussion between women of all colors, creeds and cultures, much like a tampon commercial expounds the sheer rapture of playing tennis (read: under false pretenses); proceeds to gleefully gossip about a "d-list" celebrity, who'd been bullhorning from the hollywood sign about her recent, sexual escapades with gerard butler; who apparently had zero recollection of said, loudly declared, shenanigans.

[hopscotch over: the barely disguised, cannibalistic cattiness.

gag me with: a hairball...

cut to: the sassy, divisive, black actress.]

"oh, snap. in the words of my people, oh, snap..."

what people?

women? inane talking heads? starving actresses with crazy, distracting fuchsia eyeshadow?

cue: rolling of my eyes.

newsflash, aisha tyler. ALL WORDS BELONG TO ALL PEOPLE.

this is why we still have racism (in this country).

fine. [jutting arm on protruding hip] who am i to make such a posing, political pronouncement? but am i the only one who is just so tired of this dated vernacular, the exclusive ebonics that should be recycled for gone, out with my vodka stash?

this was my clique in high school. 1985.

[and this was me, when i thought i was victoria principal for a minute.]

on the outside, the dork factor may be at defcon 5, but on the inside, i now realize we invented the reservoir dogs strut.

because while this tv show's panel is sweating bullets trying not to look redundant, up in the big smoke in '85, we were shooting holes in pigeonholing.

[that's canadian for ghettoizing...]

i'm not saying we don't have racism in toronto. of course we do.

but maple syrup runs through my veins...

and i'm so grateful i grew up with my chinese-korean-scottish-french-canadian-jamaican-latvian-danish posse.

we never minced words.

just hairstyles.