Murder, Inc.

The business of murder is one of the biggest operations in the entire world, hiding not so discreetly behind the facades of so-called "legitimate"companies. Doubt me? Take a look at some of the rapper Jay-Z's lyrics that infamously brag about funneling his street drug money into, say, white music companies that exist safely overseas in Norway. Recently, a salacious story broke here that the film "Wolf of Wall Street" was actually financed by a criminal's capital (http://www.wsj.com/articles/malaysias-1mdb-the-secret-money-behind-the-wolf-of-wall-street-1459531987), which surprises business-savvy New Yorkers, like, not at all. Where do you think movies get millions of dollars to create big splashy films? The American Red Cross? Uh, hell, no. Not enough of a return on one's investment for curing cancer.

And so, when American actor Sean Penn found himself unwittingly caught in the middle of an international drug bust for the notorious drug cartel leader "El Chapo" (https://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2016/01/13/the-drug-cartel-that-protected-sean-penn-also-terrorizes-mexican-journalists/), we were also rather nonplussed about the connection. I mean, actors are people famous for doing eyelash thickening ads for pharmaceutical companies in between precious t.v. and film gigs, like the movie "Lost in Translation" deftly explores (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lost_in_Translation_%28film%29). Overseas, we're all just so much American capital to foreign investors, ya dig?

On this Friday, I want us all to think about changing the conversation and the way we think about business forever. My father always used to tell me about "the banality of evil" that was run by so many average white guys in rumpled business suits commuting to-and-from their Midtown offices every single day of the week. We like to pretend that the business behind killing is something glamorous and fun like the movies would have us believe, but when was the last time a murderous criminal fronting the money for such skewed films told you the truth? They may have their conduits to the public's imagination, but so do we. I have all of you.

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2010/feb/18/worlds-top-firms-environmental-damage 

http://www.fastcodesign.com/1662817/infographic-of-the-day-the-worlds-most-environmentally-damaging-industries 

Spoils of War

http://voc.tv/1jOnjUT

I watch and read a lot of content that isn't specifically designed for me, nor catered to my particular demographic, because it's part of my job to stay au courant of pop culture trends. Like my former job description as an Art Director in Adult Trade book cover design ("You can't judge a book by its' cover" for the umpteenth time. Haha...yes, you can, and you certainly should. That's why we invest so much into it upfront as our most important marketing material: to create enough visual interest on a bookshelf for you to pick it up and want to explore further, because we actually really fucking care about the books we make. But I digress, shit-heel...), people think my job is one thing over the actual reality of it: to be an expert who accurately judges and assesses any type of creative content, in whatever form it takes, in any language or country, on any device, for any audience. 

It's actually a lot harder than it sounds or looks, because you're big hit bestseller may, in reality, be a totally trite and highly repetitive piece of derivative shit for me; one that's almost exclusively driven by slavishly current marketing trends, which is a really bad sign in creative businesses, because if you can't come up with original ideas consistently, you're done. It means some asshole middle manager who is a big nobody has sapped your talent and then gets the pathetic joy of discarding you like you're a used car battery, which is the worst thing that can happen to any artist. You are no longer relevant culturally because you've lost your platform.

With that in mind, I always try to let my friends at the library know what I'm checking out as part of my job, and what I really like, because part of their job as librarians (who are some of the most important people in our audience to market to) is knowing my preferences and suggesting materials to me as recommendations, then talk to me intelligently about it (but really, you, not me, because I already know). We publish almost exclusively to libraries at times, in special Library Editions; maybe large print books for the blind or vision-impaired, or perhaps books designed to handle the rougher climate of a public library's bookshelf by using tougher binding materials manufactured just for them. They know me and my audience here, because I've published books just for them at certain times, or oversaw it as a supervisor at some point in time in my long career.

That's why I read the "Twihard" series to my great displeasure: because my weirdo aunt who is emotionally stuck at 14, due to the severity of her mental disabilities and impairments, desperately wants me to believe that I am just like her, through this obviously fake Christmas "gift" (because hoarders use objects to express their feelings for people....ugh): I'm permanently stuck on stupid with some "hot" vamps involved, just like her. Uh, great. It's a series, right? And so I read the entire series as part of my professional follow-though routine, and because it also became a wildly popular movie series of some of the worst tripe I've even seen marketed to teens, which really pisses me off. And the books really suck, too. Bad writing.

So, when I check out some white men war movies, it's always attached with the caveat that this content may or may not be marketed for me, which is fine, because I'm a grown up, and we might also have the added bonus of making fun of some really bad art at the check-out counter, because librarians are people, too! I digest way too much content that is throwaway junk, but that's no different than any other day for me: it's for you, kid, and not for me. Mommy has very few needs. And so it happened that I saw a string of war movies recently, representing different types of people (loosely drawn from the facts), in the form of wacky expensive movie fiction, which is problematic for a realist like me. If it's tied to actual human beings who exist(ed), then great; my job just got easier by cutting out the rich white man to go directly to the source. Moms also don't need puppet shows that are stand-ins for real people, kids!

"Unbroken" was about some small town guinea who was picked on for being Italian (yeah, me, too), which got him angry enough for his brother to use as an energy in the white man Olympics, in front of Nazi's who yearned to be the purest whitest people ever....uh oh, Dago Boy is in real trouble. And then he is: all of his fancy Olympian skills become fodder for some mentally ill jerk-off who wants to channel his homoerotic energy into breaking an American Olympian cleaning up shit in a Japanese prison camp. Tough guinea wins (we usually do), but he never gets the apology he wants by the mad rich Jap who heads for the hills in embarrassment after the war. Boohoo, bro. No guts, no glory. We women know boys find war games really fucking fun. Would you want to grind sawdust into the scant remains of the flour that you have on ration, while your children starve slowly in front of you? No?! And that was one of the easier WWII scenarios women had, back in the day. You don't want to know about the rest: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unbroken_%28film%29.

"Lone Survivor" is better: this tough muthafuckin' white boy (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcus_Luttrell) pulls through champion-style, too, but with a broken back and a new foreign friend. I like that he manages to rise above the spoils of a typical war by bonding with the villagers who hid him from the enemy, because they realize that the nasty war tribes around them are totally fucking nuts, regardless of nationality, and they would just as easily kill them as that broke-back white boy, because they're right. People are driven mad by war, because video games with real targets (like pregnant women and their nursing children) are really fucking hard to kill, even if you know that they are human smart bombs sent to rip you to shreds. Do you want want to be the person flicking the switch to that electric chair, you monster? (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monster%27s_Ball)

I know I'm a great warrior who would totally fucking kill you in a knock-down, drag-out battle to the death for survival, but it's a rare thing to have a fair fight, when the righteous wins over evil. What do you do when the sands shift under your feet? Or, how can I be a good guy when I just blew the head off of a defenseless woman? That's the kind of thing that stays with you, man, and sometimes it kills you back at home, where another type of war rages: the one that plays inside your shell-shocked and highly concussed skull, which is what this white boy played in this fucking war movie about how war may turn even your new war friend into a foe, in a heartbeat: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Sniper.

Not so glamorous anymore, is it? These actors don't go home to nurse you through the after-effects of your war-induced illness, bro. I do that for you, people in social services do that for you, but this fucking celebrity gets to breeze through a photo op at the local VA, drop a check, and he is gone, gone, gone, girl. Then, the really bad movie starts to play in your head, once again...where will Hollywood be? Nowhere in sight. That's the true spoils of any given war; money you don't get and will never see, while you heart-breakingly watch (by yourself) your son or daughter struggle through yet another series of tremors that the Veteran's supposed benefits package just ran out on, and G-d forbid that they get their hands on that kitchen knife before you do. Who will be there in that room with you? 

Here's a wild guess: it won't be a Bradley Cooper type of actor. The man who helps you pick up the pieces later on will be your real friends, family, neighbors, and community activists. That's who you owe, and that's who I work for everyday, because that's who I am: your friendly fucking neighborhood war hero. But, like, so not with the actual PTSD that's so dramatic on camera, dude. That's, like, totally not cool, you know? Pay me, yo! I'll throw you a real party, man, with no weird gold statues that don't mean jack-shit, either. I promise ;)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Iraq_War_films

Turkey Neck

Love the light on this "selfie"....OMG, I have a turkey neck!!

A few weeks ago I was watching my typical Sunday morning program, when I suddenly found myself adrift in that desert of afternoon programming that is daytime network t.v. Oh. That sucks. No "Kung Fu" theater, no monster movies, not even a funny workout program that I can mock, or maybe roll out my mat and follow along with. Like, nothing but ads. 

Oh, well. It was kinda funny. Rght after this fundamentalist preacher sales guy (supposedly, like, wayyyy holy and stuff), was a paid advertisement for neck cream. Yep, you read that right: in New York, in 2015, some weirdo guy pretending to read the bible goes first onstage, and then it's "Fix your neck with expensive snake oil, you silly old hag" time. Huh. Kinda jarring, you know? Or, was it?

It seemed strangely analogous to my explorations as a female artist who uses themes about the self through a series of ongoing self-portraits. Oh! Uh oh. I think I have it. I think I caught "aging", maybe in some public place like the library, because I'm 45! Maybe I need a surgical face mask to protect me out in public, like an Asian fearing SARS would, or I need to coat myself in way more hand sanitizer. I don't know. Maybe t.v. will help me!

But, no. That cream just for your fucking saggy neck costs an arm and a leg. I mean, that's totally why you work so hard all week, right? To buy some fucking neck cream that'll make an on-air doctor rich! Oh, wait....no, that won't work. I'll be broke and still 45, and he'll be totally rich, with or without the snake oil neck cream that enacts a miracle cure for all life on this planet earth that we live on.

It was eerily similar to the slick carnival barker of a "Suthin" preacher who came before him in the Sunday programming line up. So, put that in your pipe and smoke it, dear reader, but first, send me a check for $45 made out to....at the following address....

It's cool. If "AMTM" has taught me anything, it's that you have to use your muscles when you pose. Done! Buh-bye turkey neck!

I practiced stretching my "Gobbler" from both angles, just in case a photographer catches me out in public unaware! Wait, that seems crazy...who cares?! I can't live my life like some out-of-it celebrity. No one will come up to me on the street from just the side, or underneath my neck. I think I'll go back to my regularly scheduled programming. Whew! The crisis is now officially over.

Come on and excel, human! Get with it!! I don't want to be alone anymore, because no man is an island.

Exercise and Athleticism: The Real Deal

Over the summer.

I've been thinking about age, weight, and the body for a long, long time; much longer than I actually want to or care to. It began with my mother's poor self image, which is related to her "odd" body shape: a large head with a sort of squat, short-limbed body and a protuding belly that she always blamed on her kids, even though the spinsters in her family carry their excessive weight in the exact same ways. 

Sports bra and shorts, summer of '14. Not skinny, chick.

Then there was the neurotic former "star" Rockette ballet instructor and her weirdo adopted kid who used our kiddie classes to alternately berate us with their barbed and thinly-veiled derisive comments to push more lessons on us by dangling out dreams of a Lincoln Center dance career in the city, starting with dropping pasta as a food at age 9 or 10, followed by more pointed comments about "blubber" that "flopped about" during classes (of which I had none), and the roundness of my so-called gymnasts' booty, because I actually have an ass. It was all very pseudo-lesbionic, and so not interesting to me, so I Ieft that whole dysfunctional world far behind me as a pre-teen.

In order to punch hard, you need to have the arms for it.

But it still haunted me and my friends in each and every place out in the world, in one stupid way or another: competitive jealousies that seethed over into hatred, petty pissant aggressions, and other strange mindsets that I avoid like the plague, no matter what social group it infects. Want to act like ten year old "frenemy" rivals who get angry, drunk, and kissy? Look elsewhere, sister, or better yet, go audition for that new reality show, because you and your bipolar ways are exactly the type of star those cats are looking for. Me? I'm interested in keeping my health reasonably well and doing things with my body that include eating and moving about. I also sleep well, too. 

That means I also have pronounced arm muscles when I flex.

So, here it is, in full unretouched color: the actual body of a 45 year old woman with 12 (I think?) belt rankings in various martial art disciplines, who also does yoga, walks each and every day uphill, eats really good food, and takes probiotics. That's it.  No supplements, no drugs, no botox, and no removable body parts. It's just me and my old iPhone, with no Photoshop or fancy software apps, nor special lenses, filters, gadgets, or any other devices. Me, alone, in my apartment, trying to take pictures that capture me as I look when you see me out and about in real life.

Back and shoulder width to deliver through on a punch.

It's jarring, but there it is. The truth. I know a lot of folks in the media game who get their heads twisted by it, like an ex-friend in production design who gets paid to airbrush women's photos for ads and magazines, then seemed shocked when the men she met from the Internet called her out for tweaking her photo online. Huh. You mean, that's unethical?! I sat there mute at some bar drinking a beer while she bitched about being turned down for her "weight" by some guy who probably sucks, too. Bizarre: a bunch of headcases playing mental games on each other. Why?

I also have visible thigh muscles for strength, too.

Of course the answer is that people with mental problems also have problems with just about each and every facet of their lives, with a very long list that includes (but is not limited to): dating humans, human's and their weight, body image, and just about any other fucking thing you can imagine, plus a few you and I can't anticipate, what with a good night's sleep, decent food, and fresh air and all.

I should look like I have no real features because airbrushing is cool!

True, I'm hip to it all: photography, lighting, composition, framing, cropping, color, posing, editing, and choosing flattering images with good proportions through my art and design education combined with years and years of demanding publishing experience, so, yeah, I can understand checking out of reality with a phony, dangerously unhealthy fantasy...or, wait, can I?! Of course not! That's fucking insane, human, and you fucked up.

I've done years of crunches without caving my stomach inward!

I also know that fair skin is harder to light and photograph because it shows more flaws, like our dearth of supposedly gross "cellulite", and that's why t.v. is dominated by the "Oompa Loompa" orange set! Just spray on a weirdo skin tone to mask all those flaws, and slap on a grossly over-inflated pair of plastic boobs to balance out those feminine hips, bust, thighs, and butt. Diet it away and replace it with plastic parts!  I mean, what do fans know about what people really look like outside of Hollywood pictures? It's all make-believe! Right? Amiright?!

No worries, though. This underwear will make me super human!

Once again, human, you are wrong. I'm a proud New Yorker, and when I walk my muthfuckin' streets, my people see me. They see me in the daytime, they see me at night, they see me in good light, and they see me in fluorescent. They see me with makeup or without, they see me with blemishes, and also with sunny freckles. They see me age well, not like a plastic object, but as a real beautiful woman who wears sunblock every day because doctors advise us to do so, and I am humble (and healthy) enough to do so.

There will be no scrawny people in my life, and that includes me.

I've been really thin and I've been somewhat thicker, but for the most part I am (and will probably always be) a size 6, just like my shoe size. I refuse to give a fuck what some random headcase thinks, and that includes you; not because I dislike you particularly, but because your fucked up mindset is part of the problem, and I am part of the solution. That is the battle between good and evil, and I will ultimately win the fight because I always have, and I always will.

These are called "abs". You get them through consistent exercise.

That doesn't mean I'm going to go out of my way to make bad photos, or unflattering ones, or compress my "fat" in a deliberate way to prove that I have some on me, because I am a natural woman and I do have fat, just like my gender always has. We have it for very good reasons, mostly related to healthy childbirth and managing pain well.

More muscle, this time at night and in pink booty shorts!

Nor does it mean that I'll pay a photographer to make me look good, because that's not what this lesson is about. This is about realness, and you may call me a lot of names, but inauthentic will never be one of them. I actually like modeling, and thought about it (like every NYC kid does) as a teenager to make me some money for college, over duller jobs like working retail in some boring strip mall store.

I also have muscle on the inside of my legs, too!

But just because I work media and I understand fashion does not mean I approve of the strictly enforced anorexia and bulimia that currently rules the runways, because I do not. When I see it, I see the same thing you do: a hardcore, deeply ingrained, and institutionalized mental illness that hasn't abated in many, many years. Not one (NOT ONE) of the heterosexual men I have dated over the years like me thinner over fully fleshed out. NOT ONE SINGLE MAN, and I have dated a bevy of very handsome and desirable ones. 

Me letting it all hang out. These are my real breasts!

Tightening my abdominal muscles.

Which lends me to believe that the hip-less boob-less monstrosities we see every day in movies and t.v. are not designed for men and the women who love them, which, once again, does not interest me. I do not sleep with gay men or women, nor do I have anything against anyone who does. But, what do I care what they think? Would you?!

You have to then ask yourself, "Why?" Why do you love an ideal that has more to do with heavily gay fashion, design, and media than it does with you as a woman and your health? Why is that your priority? Your man knows what he likes in you (and they love it, girls, THEY LOVE IT)! What are trying to prove? What exactly are you trying to do? What the hell is your goal, human?

Think about it. Think about what I've written, and then get back to me about weight, bodies, health, eating food, getting sleep, and regular fitness built into your days. Until then, I'll see you out and about while I live my life, because that's ultimately what my winning strategy is about: winning and succeeding at life. See you when you come out the other side of this issue. Good health this weekend, lovers!
 

The Red Room

 

A fable in three photos.