Contemplating My Navel (Personal Blog)

My Name is Boop, and I am a Reality TV Junkie (June 3, 2009)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

It is time to admit my problem. I am an addict. Though only recently I wrote this post excoriating the likes of AI and DWTS, recovery my friends is not a linear process. Just as I threw off the shackles of reality behemoth American Idol, I have succumbed to the latest reality drug. That of course would be fourth place network NBC’s reboot of I’m A Celebrity: Get Me Out of Here.

For those of you weary of the spring rain and cool temperatures as I have been, it is easy to fall down the summer crap TV rabbit hole. In years past, I am only mildly ashamed to admit having indulged in old favorites like the CW’s Beauty and the Geek, or the double threat of Fox’s Temptation Island and Paradise Hotel. Apparently there’s something about summer which enhances my appetite for watching “normal” Americans make fools of themselves. This festival of fun is only enhanced when those humiliating themselves are the semi-famous.

So it is with I’m A Celebrity. Intially I was very skeptical of NBC plans to air the program four days a week. I thought to myself, “Is four hours of Speidi really necessary?” Turns out it is, because I am hooked! To use a well worn euphemism, this program is more enticing to the eye than a 10-car pile up on I-94. Though I must warn you of the program’s one downside: If at all possible, record the episodes to your DVR before enjoying. That way you can skip through the painful intro segments and banter of hosts Damien Fahey (formerly of MTV) and Myleene Klaas. They are about as natural as rubbing vinegar in your eye.

If you can forgive NBC for their poor choice of emcees, the rest of the program promises to be a feast for the eyes and ears. See Spencer and Heidi threaten to walk off no fewer than three times! One of these attempts involved an actual ploy to make a run for it, Spencer trying to bumrush a line of angry producers like a playground game of Red Rover. During another of these attempts, he got on the horn with Ben Silverman, Co-Chairman of NBC Universal and accused him of using his “superstar status” to upgrade the cast of C-list losers. This tirade was filled with expletives. I marveled at the chutzpah. I would say that Speidi will not be invited back to appear on anything for the network, especially now that they have finally left. But how could NBC resist? I have never watched The Hills, and thus never understood the appeal of the Pratts (or the “Bratts” as they are known by the rest of the cast), but I do now. Spencer is a mastermind of self-promotion. In a cast that includes heavyweights no less than Janice Dickinson and Lou Diamond Phillips, Speidi completely stole the show. I am truly sorry to see them go and worry for the next three weeks. Rumor has it that alternate players will be introduced tonight, but if one of them turns out to be Daniel Baldwin as I have heard, well that’s just no substitute.

The second biggest surprise of the season is the mad jungle skills of Sanjaya Malakar. You may recall him as the mohawk wearing Indian kid on the 6th season of Idol. He finished his run in 7th place, far more than his talent warranted, and I prayed American had seen the last of him. And yet, I have been floored by his pleasing attitude, survival skills and frankly, his bad ass nature. For evidence, witness Sanjaya’s triumph over the likes of a former NBA great John Salley in the Trauma Tank of Episode 1. Little Sanjaya also swallowed a croc’s tail in one bite. Enough said. When Sanjaya decides to finally come out of the closet, he will be the skinny Rambo of homos. It will be great for his love life.

I almost forgot to mention this, but dare I leave out that Patti Blagojevich, disgraced wife of former IL Gov. Rowdy Roddy, is included in the cast?! You can’t make this stuff up people! Ok, so she is boring, and to my great annoyance, she had the nerve to come off as sympathetic when telling her story to Heidi and Spencer in episode 1. Then those two good Christian servants led Patti in a prayer for the “truth” to be revealed during Blago’s pending trial. Gag me with drama!

I am starting to pant again with excitement as I write this. Don’t take my word for it. Tune in yourselves. Then come back and post your comments. Let’s discuss.

Fast As You Can (June 1, 2009)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

I am going to give you all a rainy Monday treat and not blabber on for days, as I am prone to do. Much as I love to write lengthy posts, today I do not have the time. I knew this week was coming and I had every good intention of performing some legwork over the weekend, but there was a 40th birthday party to attend and plenty of beer to drink at Maifest in Lincoln Square. Priorities, you see.

I have two articles to write for the California life coach this week. He has started a new divorce based website, and has entrusted me with producing the debut copy. On top of that, I am back in the saddle with StreetWise.Suzanne Hanney, the Editor-in-Chief contacted me late last Friday with final approval for a Father’s Day story I pitched her a couple months back. The subject will be professional Chicago women who, for one reason or another, do not have fathers in their lives; a bit of a downer I suppose, but a counterpoint for those who feel left out of the usual Father’s Day hugs and kisses.

Lastly, I start my new gig with the Edge Chicago, sort of a gay Metromix that contains information and reviews about bars, nightlife, restaurants, etc. in cities across the U.S. I have been hired as a theater critic, which means Boop has to get herself quickly up to speed on how to actually write a theater review. Gulp! I am seeing and reviewing three shows this week alone: one tonight at the Goodman Theater, one on Thursday at the Drury Lane, and another Saturday night at the Bailiwick. Whew! This is my life, what I signed up for, and I am ready. I am writing my tail off, and it feels damned good.

Jesika’s Last Gift (May 29, 2009)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

I am getting really good at finding disturbing pictures to put up on this thing, aren’t I? I know it’s been awhile since Jen and I engaged in a “My End or Yours?” debate, and frankly we all miss Jen’s individual posts. Jon and Kate have been up to nothing but trouble since this rant, and I for one would like an update. But Jen’s plate is full so all you get is me! Nah!

A few days after Jesika passed away, I had one of many emotional phone calls with Kevin, and we were talking about the Herculean task he had to endure of sorting through some of his and Jesika’s old things. In the process, he discovered the remainder of a gift certificate he had given Jesika late last year. It was redeemable at this rather posh spa in the West Loop, on Jackson Street. During our conversation, Kevin said he wanted me to have the certificate, and to make sure I used it.

Initially, I felt morbid, maybe even amoral taking it, as if I were somehow profiting from the death of someone I missed so much. But Kevin wisely told me not to be silly. He assured me it would be a shame to waste, and that he certainly wasn’t going to use it. Now I think Jen and I have told y’all before that we love spa treatments. So after the idea settled, I started to like it. Jesika’s final gift to me.

And it was her final gift in so many ways. One more chance to have a heavenly giggle at Boop for example. I signed up for an aromatherapy oil shoulder, neck and back massage – thirty minutes. Sounds lovely doesn’t it? Um, did someone switch my masseuse with an angry chiropractor? Because the harmless small Asian fellow who guided me to the soft, warm massage table bore no resemblance to the relentless torturer who attempted to crack my chakras right along with my ribs for the next 30 minutes. Now granted, I was very sore from my latest kettle bell circuit with trainer Rob the day before. I had also just come from my Friday Pilates class. I am pretty tightly wound to begin with, but all the more so in the last month. The tremendous uncertainty in my world apparently has my muscles locked up tighter than Fort Knox. And Daniel the masseuse had the wince-inducing key.

There were quite seriously a few moments when I considered asking him to cease the massage altogether. It hurt that badly. Trust me, if I were keeping any military secrets, Daniel the masochistic masseuse would have wrenched them sucessfully. I have had a few trips to the table before, and they felt nothing like this. But then a funny thing began to happen. When he would finish pulverizing and, literally, readjusting a particular muscle group, I felt better than I had in a long while – much better in fact. I started to ease into it, gritting my teeth (or grinding my braces) and willing the pain.

At the end, my sensai told me I was a “tough cookie,” and that it took him only 30 minutes to break my strained-to-snapping-point neck, shoulder and back muscles. He said folks in similiar conditions usually need 45 minutes or longer to let go. He asked me if anything particularly stressful was happening in my life. Well sir, you may be a ligament magician, but I already have a therapist. He served me a nice plate of fresh fruit and a glass of water, even chatted with me while I imbibed. Then I paid the bill and left.

Does this story, from beginning to end, strike anybody but me as odd? As I said, I have had massages before, but besides the initial squirms of pain, I can’t say there was anything offensive about it, per say. It was just…weird. And therein lies my old friend Jesika. She would have throughly enjoyed every bit of having contributed to such an odd, yet satisfying encounter. Thank you Jesika for sending me a painful, bizarre, but quite humorous life episode, and for giving me something else to write about today. I still wish you were here. I always will.

Meet the Parents (May 27, 2009)

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(Cue shark attack music from Jaws)….

They’re coming! And they bite. I am of course, referring to my in-laws, aka, Eddie’s parents. They will descend upon Chicago from Mumbai, India on Thursday, June 11th. Eddie’s father will be with us until the 27th, while his mother will remain for a full month, flying home on July 8th. While talks of this visit had been in the works for awhile, it was only last weekend that Eddie’s folks firmed up the dates and purchased tickets. Notice that I purposely left out any role my husband and I had in the decision making process.

As many of my regular readers know, this planned meeting leaves me in a state of agitated conflict. I love my in-laws. They invited me into their family, when by any Eastern standards, I was a dubious choice of partner for their son. I am 2.5 years older than him for starters, which I did not know until after we became engaged, is a serious trangression in Indian culture. I came to the marriage without a family name, money, nor was I, shall we say, unsoiled (read: Boop was no virgin). Now to us Westerners, these points against me might sound like standard fare, but I don’t have space enough on this blog to convey the crap Eddie’s parents had to endure socially by blessing our union. They threw us a swanky, lavish 4 day affair in Raipur, India, 30 years to the day after their own marriage, and have always treated me with a love and respect I never had from my own folks.

All that being said, it was made clear to me when I married Eddie that the bar was set high. He is the only competent son of a highly respected, wealthy and accomplished family. My husband descends from the Marastian “caste,” and although that classification system has long since been officially abolished in India, the social stigmas and privileges often carry over into present day. How do I know this? Because my mother-in-law has been all too happy to educate me about these facts ad nauseum. I am oft reminded that there have been 17 consecutive generations of happy and solid Sar**** marriages, and I had better not be the one to break tradition.

I have discussed the particular tug of war over if and when I will bear fruit on the pages of this blog in the past. This issue, above all others, has been the explosive divide. Although my in-laws and I get on very well, my reluctance to rent out my 30 year old womb to the next generation of Sar****’s has been met with decided disappointment. Nevermind that Eddie ain’t ready to be no Daddy either. I am the woman and it is my job, nee, my life’s work, to reproduce. Daughters are good, sons better still. The fact that I have entered my fourth decade without clamoring for a baby is a source of endless confusion to my new parents, though I am the first to admit they find me rather amusing and capable on the whole.

So for one month, I will be right in the line of fire. Eddie will still continue to travel four days a week for the entire length of their stay. That is non-negotiable. So for four weeks of my summer, I must balance my freelance writing and job hunting with a full-time position as chauffeur, tour guide, babysitter, chef and maid to my in-laws. This, in large degree, I am happily willing to do. Eddie’s parents have seen very little of the City and I look forward to the opprtunity to meld our two separate families into one. There will be gatherings with Jen and extended family.

But there will be times, oh so many moments, where I will be naked, without the shielding support of my husband, where my life as it is here will be dissected, held up for scrutiny. My housekeeping, cooking (or lack thereof), gym and social schedules, drinking and habits (or lack thereof) as a “traditional” wife will be evaluated and judged against the backdrop of my mother-in-law’s own perfection. She was an accomplished woman in her own right prior to marriage and child bearing: a Master’s degree holding nutritionist and college lecturer. She rarely tires of telling me that it was the easiest thing in the world to let it all go for the sake of her family life. Read between the lines and you can almost see the judgement against me as I stubbornly cling to my selfhood. She is my mother-in-law and this is her job.

I am almost, without fail, a believer in shades of gray. So while I tremble in fear of a month alone with my in-laws in the confined space of my apartment, I recognize this as an opportunity to educate them as well. Perhaps I am arrogrant or naive in my hopes that my own brand of Boop uniqueness will win them over to my side, change their minds that mine and Eddie’s marriage doesn’t fulfill its destiny until we are parents? I have reserved an extra session with my shrink each week for the duration of their visit. I joked with Dr. Trotter that my regular slot will be for discussion, and the second will be devoted to my breathing into a paper bag.

Reality (TV) Bites! (May 22, 2009)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

I like to make a good fuss, throw some bluster around now and again, just to let the world know I am watching, trying to keep it and its denizens honest. But I have been preoccupied lately with travels, grief and career movements, so some of the little things that irritate I have allowed to pass without the benefit of a good cleansing editorial. Well no more Ms. Nice Boop!

Many of you might wonder why I bother to allow myself to become enraged by the likes of my TV set in the first place. There are, after all, so many urgent and serious things going on, and perhaps Boop, your first mistake might be in letting anything like unscripted entertainment ruin your week? And while we’re at it, um, who cares? Well I do, and in order to fully account for my enthusiasm for reality television, allow me to plagiarize my own email, sent to my friends Tim and Diane yesterday, as we debated the merits of Patti Blagojevich’s contestantship on the upcoming NBC summer show, “I’m a Celebrity…Get me Outta Here!”

“I will lay my cards out on the table. I love a lot of reality TV. I am a voyeur and am fascinated by the depths of humanity many people will plumb in the name of money and fame, no matter how slight or inauspicious. This is why I relish the idea of Blago or Patti on a reality TV show. They are a cautionary tale about political figures who wallow in the mire of their own bombast. I am beyond excited because it appears they have learned nothing from their fall from grace and are willing to pimp themselves out for as long as possible. Call my eagerness for this show my study in culutral anthropology. But seriously, the other castmates are promising too: Janice Dicksinson, Heidi and Spencer, Sanjaya. The premise of the show is that they are dropped in the jungle and America gets to devise tortures for them as it plays out on national TV. I know what I said before about Americans being dumb, ignorant sheep, but this opportunity is Christmas in July people! It’s sick, admittedly. But people enjoy plenty of other sick things too, like watching people beat the shit out of each other, so I feel no shame.”

And there you have it. My story is that I enjoy the world of reality television for the human character examination it offers, and I am sticking to it. However, the purpose of this post is not to defend my trashy adoration for this type of entertianment. No sir. My rage is pointedly directed at two shows who produced their season finales this week, ABC’s Dancing with the Stars, and Fox’s ratings stalwart, American Idol.

Both of these programs contain an at-home audience voting element, as you are likely aware. The philsophy is that by letting the people choose, the winners of these talent competitions will be representative of the nation, the entire nation, not just the 12 year old girls who beg their parents to allow them to dial in multiple times with their spanking new Cricket phones.

Overall, I am a great believer and champion of the democratic process, a belief strengthened by America’s “getting it right” during last Fall’s presidential election. So this week, I gamely assumed my position on the couch and prepared to witness the foregone conclusion of Gilles’ walking away with the Mirrorball trophy on DWTS. Likewise, I sat with a box of kleenex next to me as I prepared to weep the tears of joy I knew would come once Adam was finally announced the winner of AI. But instead, my loyal season viewership was rewarded with…

Shawn and Kris? To quote Kyle’s Mom on South Park: “Wha, wha, what?”

Shawn, 17 and spunky, an Olympic medalist in gymnastics, was no doubt without talent. But compared to the tour de force of smoldering sexiness and raw skill that was Gilles? No, I say! Likewise, Kris Allen is 23, adorable and may have a future in music. But are we to believe he was more deserving than the Freddy Mercury channeling rock God that is Adam Lambert? As Whitney Houston once memorably uttered on another classic reality gem, Being Bobby Brown, “Hell to the naw!”

What happened America? We thirty, forty, fifty and other somethings watch TV too. Why do we let the young tweens make our decisions for us? Is there some sort of social shame attached to picking up the phone and spending $1.99 to protect what is right? There must be, because I didn’t vote either. Curses!

I have been disappointed with the outcome of Dancing with the Stars before, and may be so again, but I am willing to give it another chance next season, because 50% of the final decision comes from the scores of judges Bruno, Carrie and Len. I am aware that the audience for DWTS skews older, so I am willing to write off this hideous injustice as a fluke unless I am proven wrong in the Fall. But AI? we are done. I mean it this time.

It was bad enough in Season 5 when I had to wave goodbye to the far superior Chris Daughtry and Elliot Yamin in favor of Katherine McPhee and Taylor Hicks. Seriously? Does anyone know if those yahoos are even still breathing? To go back a couple seasons earlier, I was incensed with Ruben over Clay, the criminally early exit of Jennifer Hudson, and two seasons ago, the ageist dismissal of Melinda Doolittle. I had threatened to remove American Idol from my DVR schedule before, only to return sheepishly later. I will not do so this time. Do you hear me Eddie? No Adam Lambert as Idol, no Boop as viewer.