LMNOP

In my mind I have this running list of shops I will not enter unless they are absolutely swarmed with customers. All of the stores on this list (which includes such popular mall favorites as Bath & Body Works, Victoria's Secret, the shoe department at Nordstrom, and any perfume counter anywhere on Earth) have one thing in common: their salespeople have been trained in the art of what I like the call The Sales Pitch of Earnest Desperation.  This is when, upon entering the store, you are immediately accosted by an overly effusive sales associate offering to Help You With Anything You Need, Seriously, Just Ask, My Name's Jennifer and I'll Be, Well, Hovering Right Beside You Until You Decide Things Are Too Awkward and Then Sneak Out of the Store.

Everybody has their own way of dealing with these people; some ignore them, others tell them to f*ck off, and still others will politely keep repeating, "No, thanks, I'm fine," for the duration of their visit.  However, I do not know of a single person who will turn to the lady in Bath & Body Works and say, "You know what?  You can help me!  I am new to this planet and its concepts of grooming, bathing, and perfuming.  Furthermore, the layout of this store confuses me. Why does this bottle of lotion have a picture of a pear on it, while this one features an image of a rose?"

So if nobody out there is looking for this suffocating level of "service," why does it continue to exist?  This is what I have been pondering for the past two days after a particularly disastrous encounter with an overzealous Lush employee.  I would describe her pathetic sales pitch in detail, but a.) to relive that encounter would be to risk a brain hemorrhage, and b.) I am already getting the evil eye from the person behind me in line to use this hotel's computer; instead I will just ask, "WHY?  Why won't they leave us alone?"  Leave your theories in the comments.

So a couple of weeks ago--to the notice of pretty much nobody--Gwyneth Paltrow launched this bizarre shell of a lifestyle website called Goop.com.  Right now it consists entirely of a Flash intro and six icons demonstrating the sections that will (presumably) contain the site's content someday, although right now if you click any of them you get some stupid letter outlining the promise of things to come.  No explanation of why the site is named Goop is offered, although my guess is that it stands for Gwyneth's initials, GP, with two empty round holes in between to symbolize her dead, vacant stare.  (Clever design, actually.)

The first paragraph of this letter reads like a cross between a new age self-help manual and a Dick and Jane book--

--and goes on in that manner in an attempt to get us excited--via the most sanctimonious, Gwyneth-y kind of excitement possible--about Goop.  Excited enough to come back and check it our again when there is actually content, or whatever.

So anyway, back to those six sections I mentioned.  Here they are:

Make. Go. Get. Do. Be. See.  OK, Ms. Paltrow.  I get the vibe you're going for here--simple, minimalist, clean--but still pretentious and douchey.  To that end, may I offer a few suggestions for future expansion?  Once your site becomes the runaway success I'm sure it is destined to be, I say you build on those six sections and add a few more more.  My recommendations follow.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here--really, Gwyneth, I'll be happy with whatever you can throw me.  Teach me how to improve my life!  I await Goop's buildout with the bated-est of breath.

First, I watched the Philadelphia Flyers beat the Caps in overtime to take Game 7 of the series and end the hockey season in Washington.

Then, I changed the channel to see the Pennsylvania election results roll in and breathe new life into Hillary's campaign, thus extending the already inexorable Primary season by another few weeks.

To recap, Washington in May will be made up of 0% exciting playoff hockey, 100% bitter, endless political assiness.

THANK YOU, CITIZENS OF PENNSYLVANIA.  YOUR TWO-PRONGED ATTACK ON MY LIFE WAS A RAGING SUCCESS.

Next car I see with one of these on it gets keyed.

"Women's foolishness is usually harmless. But it can be so . . . embarrassing."

The above quote comes from this opinion column in yesterday's post, and it is ironic because the column in question basically threatens to set women back 300 years.  In it, the author--a woman--makes the argument that women are the inferior, less-intelligent sex, and that instead of arguing this point we should accept it and embrace the few things we actually have going for us, like "tenderness toward children and men and the weak and the ability to make a house a home."

The author, Charlotte Allen, makes several arguments to back up her assertion, all of them batty and misguided.

Depressing as it is, several of the supposed misogynist myths about female inferiority have been proven true. Women really are worse drivers than men, for example. A study published in 1998 by the Johns Hopkins schools of medicine and public health revealed that women clocked 5.7 auto accidents per million miles driven, in contrast to men's 5.1, even though men drive about 74 percent more miles a year than women. The only good news was that women tended to take fewer driving risks than men, so their crashes were only a third as likely to be fatal.

That's actually the crazy paradox about Allen's column: the strongest evidence by far of her "women suck" argument is her own existence.  I mean, this woman clearly actually is as dumb as she is making us gals out to be, and by demonstrating it she is actually giving herself a shred of credibility for her argument.

Ultimately though, it seems clear to me that Allen's idiocy is universal and transcendental; it crosses the boundaries of gender and nature and serves as a powerful reminder that anyone can be stupid, but it takes a special kind of person to want to brag about it in the pages of one of the nation's biggest newspapers.

Oh, and that reminds me--Washington Post, I am way mad at you for running this.  What were you thinking??  I am holding out hope that it will be revealed in next Sunday's Outlook that this was an early April Fool's prank.

Update: In the comments, Gorg-O links to the Post's claim that this piece was supposed to be humorous/satirical.  If that is indeed the case, then maybe Christopher Hitchens was right after all.

These are Crocs. 

They are colorful, rubbery, clog-like shoes, and their many outspoken fans and foes have caused them to replace Ugg boots as the reigning Polarizing Footwear Choice in the United States of America.  Anti-Croc people love to villify these shoes, and if you don't believe me then maybe you should you go to IHateCrocs.com and keep yourself up-to-date on the latest anti-Croc literature. 

Or join the I Hate Crocs Facebook Group . 

Or go to YouTube and watch a video of a Croc being set on fire. 

Or choose from an assortment  T-shirts, buttons, and other merchandise proclaiming your hatred for Crocs, like this T-shirt deeming Crocs the visual equivalent of secondhand smoke, or this one showing Crocs about to be destroyed with scissors.  (Nevermind the irony of wearing a T-shirt that is clearly and colorfully emblazoned with the object you deem so visually offensive, thus allowing its image to be even further propagated.)

Well, I would just like to say that these anti-Croc people are pissing me off.  YES, Crocs are ugly shoes.  YES, they become even more unattractive when paired with outfits that do not call for brightly colored rubber shoes (which is pretty much every outfit, except if you are a clown or pediatric nurse).  But guess what else?  YES, you are a bunch of douchebags, you anti-Croc losers.

When you are walking down the street and you see someone wearing a pair of shoes, there is an appropriate course of action you can follow:

1. Momentarily think, "Ew.  Those shoes are ugly.  I would never buy them."
2. Continue on with your life.

However, anti-Croc extremists seem to have replaced this normal reaction with a bizarre, radical meltdown that cannot be explained using traditional human logic.  These people react to Crocs as though they are seeing a live rabbit be skinned.  They wail and rant, and then they go home and make websites about how much they hate a particular type of shoe.  They assault our collective consciousness with a barrage of anti-Croc rhetoric.  And for what?  It won't make the Croc people stop wearing their shoes.  It won't make the company stop making them.  And it's not funny when you're the 6,000th person to have the novel idea to criticize rubber shoes.  So that only leaves us with one reason for criticizing Crocs: to be obnoxious.

The Croc debate needs more moderate voices.  Please, join me.  Together we can make a difference.

I'm conflicted.  I hate Tom Cruise, but I love the way his hiding baby Suri has turned the tabloid press into an even crazier bunch of lunatics foaming even more intensely at the mouth than usual.  They are just desperate to see that child, and as a result their coverage of its (lack of) existence is getting even more irrational than, well, Scientology.

First, there was the speculation about the birth certificate, which TMZ breathlessly presented as the definitive evidence that there might sort of still be some things about that baby that are not quite totally sketchy except when you take them into consideration with the 900 other sort of weird circumstances that have surrounded her birth, in which case don't you think we're on to something here?

Then there was the Suri Stroller Sighting, today, complete with pictures that would be scoffed at even by those who believe in the Loch Ness monster.  And at some point in the near-recent past, the US Weekly website unveiled an up-to-the-second countdown of the time elapsed since Suri's birth, seemingly as a not-so-subtle suggestion to Cruise and Holmes that the press will not be retreating from this story until the alien baby makes its debut in the papers.

I'd like to commend all involved parties for their excellent work in creating this ridiculous sensation, and voice my hope that this will all come to its natural conclusion: Cruise will stubbornly refuse to ever let the alleged baby out of the house, even when she is an adult, and US Weekly will retaliate every week until 2096 with stories accusing Cruise of making the whole thing up and, while they're at it, being kind of gay.

You don't give a damn about baby Suri.  Neither do I.  But you care about your own baby.  If you're in the market for baby gifts, then why not think of soft soled baby shoes?  Baby Suri is plenty comfortable, why shouldn't your baby be comfortable too?

The president was a cheerleader?

I think that the only real magic associated with magicians anymore is the fact that they are still relevant.  How has this profession not been phased out completely?  Let's review the facts:

1. There is no such thing as magic, and because it is no longer the dark ages, everyone knows that (except children and maladjusted Renaissance-enthusiast types who believe in "faeries."  And those are not the people that are running the world today.)
2. Of the three remotely realistic venues for magic shows in today's world, all three are dangerously inhospitable to the craft. Think about it:

• Anti-drug assemblies, typically thought of as a prime gig for magicians, are actually an extremely harsh place to perform--the entire audience has been forced to attend and is overwhelmingly predisposed to think whatever you have to say is lame because it is associated with a moral lesson.
• Children's birthday parties have become so elaborate in recent years that any magician performing at one would be immediately booed off the stage by disenchanted, unamused preschoolers who spent the previous Saturday afternoon at a Pimps 'n Hos party in Potomac that involved Hummer limos.
• Hyped up television specials have always been dubious because the magician has no real way of convincing the home viewers that he isn't just using special effects and tricky camera angles. 

Nevertheless, two magicians--or illusionists, as they are now called--made news headlines this week: David Blaine, for announcing an elaborate and lame stunt which will culminate in his attempting to hold his breath long enough to set a new world record; and David Copperfield, for pulling a lame stunt (that I'm surprised didn't end up in Mr. Copperfield's getting stabbed) to fool a pickpocketer.   

Now, I'm not saying we should boycott magicians, because a) that would be a cruel thing to do to an already lame and pathetic segment of the population, and b) boycotting magicians would not change my behavior anyway, because I do not currently patronize them.  I am, however, suggesting that perhaps it is time for the leading world power to try and focus in on just what it is in our society that allows us to still have a place for magicians.  And while we are at it, perhaps we could also investigate why they all seem to be named David.

Everyone knows that "body language experts" are full of crap.  Any so-called expert who is quoted an average of seven times per year by US Weekly and, oh, zero times per lifespan in an actual scholarly journal is a member of a dubious profession.  In general--and there are rare exceptions, such as the photo of Uma Thurman and Andre Balzas that appeared in the tabs like a week before they broke up--you can't really make a solid inference about a couple's personal relationship based on their body language in a photo.

Except Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.  When Tom is not in a manic upswing that allows him to forget that he is faking his affection for Katie, the photos of the two of them have sort of the same effect as awkward prom photos.  In high school, kids who go to school dances together as friends or as a first date or early on in a relationship are often really uncomfortable when all the parents with cameras try to egg them on to stand closer to one another.  This is comparable to how awkward things must be for Tom and Katie, except by creating this whole engaged scenario, they are actually the ones putting the pressure on themselves to look in love in photos.

To support my theory I have pulled some prom pictures off the Internet.  Take a look at these two kids, who are trying extremely hard to do the whole corsage thing without actually touching each other:

Then, compare it to these two kids.  Notice how, just like the prom guy, Tom is looking at the camera because it is less awkward than making eye contact with Katie; also, just like the prom girl, Katie is looking at her guy for guidance on how best to navigate these awkward waters. 

Another classic awkward pose is the one where someone is not comfortable with the prospect of hugging the person he is with, so his entire body stays turned completely forward.  In this picture below, this guy is a perfect example of this:

In this picture, Tom and Katie are both demonstrating the same  awkward positioning:

I may not have a degree in Behavioral Body Language Analysis for Weekly Gossip Periodical Dissemination, but I did minor in it, so you can trust that my analysis here is spot-on.  Just like you would with US Weekly, or In Touch on a good week.

Things that are reasonable in theory:

-It's inappropriate to mercilessly pick on a 12-year old. It's not nice, and it's not fair. 

-At that age, kids are still just doing what their parents tell them to do, so we can't really fault them for their behavior.

-If anything, eerily creepy, overly articulate 12-year olds who have had the unfortunate handicap of hanging out with Tom Cruise a lot during their formative years should be pitied, not ridiculed.

Unfortunately, that theory crumbles in the face of real-world evidence:

Aahhhhh!  She's so scary!  Enough with the poise, and the paleness, and the white satin, or whatever the hell that is.  Why does a dress like that even come in child size?  Good LORD.  Dakota Fanning, you are single-handedly turning me into a weird, mean, unreasonable child-hater.  And it's gotta stop.