Arranged Marriage. Should We Try It On For Size?

Today's New York Times Modern Love piece is swaying me to think us Westerners may need to not be so phobic of "arranged marriage."

Try it on for size. If only in our heads. (Briefly.) Before fucking and then breaking it off with whomever we've been sharing bodily fluids with for the past month.

The narrator is an Indian man, educated, software developer, who jumps through his family's arranged marriage hoops because, as he says, he is a "good boy."

His wife was the neighbor's daughter. He describes her as "cute" (cute enough, we presume). When she was presented to him he "nodded in approval" in what sounds like the same horribly unromantic vain as us Westerners when "approving" whomever we're seated next at our neighborhood bar.

So they married. Have two son. Are still together. Are they happy?

SAMEERA is emotional, quick to love and anger, while I am rational, almost nothing ever rousing my temper. She believes in instinct and gut feelings while I put my trust in statistics and probability. Would we have gotten married if we had met in the conventional Western manner and dated each other? Or would we have given up on each other and moved on, searching for the perfect “one”? I don’t know. What I am sure about is that our marriage, arranged with other considerations in mind, took us from acquaintance to love and kept us together until we realized that our differences are the yin and yang that make our relationship whole. Now we consider ourselves absolutely perfect for each other."


While, yes, this seems completely archaic at first glance--- you want me to live, marry, and procreate with that---but perhaps they're on to something. Do more options (not too unlike making one's way through a Starbucks menu) make one yearn for a day when your option was just a styrofoam cup of coffee handed to you by the man working at the deli?


We revel in our "enlightened" views of sex, dating and marriage. Not only do we condone it's sloppiness, but we relish in the using and disposing of naked bodies, errant lips and discarded phone numbers. It is a source of pride.

It's just sex, right? And we're all replaceable, no? So complicate matters?

There comes a time when you one grows tired of running through bedmates like you do $2.99 Target underwear. Not that it isn't fun to see how it all looks on (and in). A polka dot print for Monday, stripes on Thursday, maybe try something sort of lacy and avant-garde for the weekend. It's all great fun.

But when it comes to marriage, it may horrify us to learn that a small coffee and cotton panties does the trick.

Inspiration Exchange!

Just wanted to share one of my new gigs---a news editor for Inspiration Exchange.

What this means? I scour the world wide web looking for "inspirational" news stories everyday. Where are these inspirational news stories? Your guess is as good as mine, gentle reader (literally, reader, I think there is only one).

You know, I've noticed moreso than ever how depressing it is to read the news. We've become so jaded as a society that a news item titled, "Swine Flu Good For Immunity" actually seems like a bright, fresh ray of unicorn sunlight.

So check it out if you want some Eureka! news.

The Awl Launches

I was thinking of a snarky headline about the inherent dullness of Alex Balk and Choire Sicha's newest baby, The Awl, but thought: "No. Let's not be "counterintuitive" for the sake of being "counterintuitive" let's just write a nice little thought piece."

So I put aside shining my own self-indulgent word daggers for another time and instead focused on the plain and simple. The Awl: be less stupid.

Hm. That is a loaded phrase, indeed, from the two former Gawker editors. But (now that they mention it) there's little (or NONE) of the clever word pun-y headlines, splashy, celebrity dart throwing, ("reality show linkbait" as The Awl mentions in it's "About" button) or even any of the sensationalized media or political gossip that made Gawker the traffic and advertising darling of the '00s.

Instead they talk about a Pixies box set that retails at $450. Hey. We like the Pixies. That's cool. And then how Chicago will name this Thursday as "Talk Like Shakespeare Day" to celebrate the 445th anniversary of The Bard.

Right on.

Our simple brains are going into bite size, picture-friendly withdrawal, but as Choire refers to Depeche Mode as the "Pink Floyd for homos" we wonder if this is what Gawker may look like look without pictures of Kate Moss's ass.

Recessionwire: The Most Depressing Site On Earth

We recently stumbled upon a site, Recessionwire.com, which is a virtual celebration of all things laid off. Sample feelgood stories: Screwed: A Daily Review Of The Employment Fallout Around The Country And World, Love In The Time Of Lay-Off and Recession Briefing.

Well, no, to be fair it isn't all rain clouds. A recent column by writer John Riha had the gall to say right now is an awesome time to look for a job (HA!). Why? Because top companies are all vying for talent and using social media tools to reach out to prospective employees.

It's the wild west, y'all, so you best pimp out that Youtube and Facebook page to score a shiny media gig. Which, to be honest, unless it's an opening at Drunk Girls Who Are Reluctant To Have A Camera Pointed At Them federation, than I'm loath to think this would help me.

The founders are peddling Recessionwire.com as a "pop-up" site. This means the site is gaining momentum now when everyone's media careers are in the toilet, but when these scorned worker bees get their low-paying volatile jobs back, we'll likely forget all about this mess and travel back down the Media Is Awesome Rabbit Hole.

Conde Nast's Dwindling Ad Pages

For all of you just tuning in, I was once a Conde Nasty.

While the idea of working in an office seems positively arcane now, back in 2007 and 2008, I'd wash myself, squeeze on the F train, and slink into the honorable 4 Times Square building five days a week.

I always felt like a knock-off Target version in the elevator. Artfully messy hair and criminally expensive shoes never looked so haute. I still remember the abhorrent amount of Styrofoam used in the cafeteria. Shout out to the stir fry guys.

Really, I just liked gazing at my e-mail address: melissa.noble@condenast.com. It sent arrogant chills through my limbs. Those red editing marks couldn't even touch me.

Anyway, Conde Nast is definitely feeling the economic crunch. Nearly every title, minus Gold World (of all publications) experienced a decrease in ad pages from 2008 to 2009. While this alone may not be groundbreaking, some publications -- Wired, Portfolio and W -- decreased as much as 50%.

This is further proof for anyone with delusions of Glossy Masthead Granduer that you'd be better off honing a more marketable skill.

I hear Apex Tech has reasonable rates. I'm thinking of a double major in plumbing and refrigeration with a minor in auto body repair major. Triple threat.

REDISCOVERING BECK

This post could've easily been written a decade ago, but as my mid-90s slackerdom experiences a rebirth of sorts (unemployed, sitting in my parent's basement, scribbling about musicians for Godsakes) I'm reminded of pop culture's folky, electro-pop weirdo Beck.




Beck was the inspiration behind all my ill-fitting thrift store pants and ill-fitting floppy haired boy crushes. (Yeah, thanks a fucking lot Beck Hanson!) He made being a goofy, skinny, whitey seem hip, urban, and street.

Yup. I wrote "street."

While I've embraced all Beck's creations with wide-eyed excitement, nothing compares to 1996's Devil's Haircut.
This just proves all you need for an awesome video is a 25-year-old whipper snapper, New York City, a vintage cowboy hat and a beatbox. Enjoy.

Beck - New Music - More Music Videos

DEAR DARREN STAR: PLEASE LET SEX AND THE CITY REST IN PEACE. THANK YOU.

So this week I was clicking through my usual entertainment blogs and came upon Kim Cattral's smiling cougar face.

YES!

I scanned down. "Kim Catrall says Sex and the City sequel a go."

NO!
Enough is enough. I'll pay homage to my favorite foursome drinking a few happy hour Cosmos in my knock-off Manolos. But I am not going to get conned into sitting through another 2 and half hours of that soggy, estrogen mess.
I was a huge fan of the series. I sopped up the twinkling, big city backdrop and splashy Patricia Field fashion.

I adored the never-ending brunches with the ladies who lunched (and worked, although we never saw much of that). I reveled in the adolescent bed-hopping and money blowing. Hell, Samantha Jones is one of the best T.V. characters of all time. Don't we all wish we had that much kutzpah?

It was practically pornography for women. Even on mute. Fabulous outfit, bustling Manhattan eatery, sky high heels, CUT. Hot man, square-table brunch, punchline. CUT. Fabulous outfit. Snapshot of an apple computer screen. CUT.
But what was fast-paced and charming for 26 minutes in your living room, never translated to the big screen.
The movie was a a drawn out snooze fest of product endorsements and shmoopy dialogue.
Sex and the City was brilliant in it's understated intelligence. The shiny surfaces and quips that didn't try too hard, and because of that, rarely dissapointed.
Unfortunately, the glossy half-hour snapshots just don't have the depth for a full 2 and half hours.
Take the tired Carrie/ Mr. Big romance. He stands her up at the alter. How cliche! They get back together and live happily ever after. How predictable!
Give me some meat! Throw me some curve balls!
I'm a huge proponent of quitting while ahead. Rather than ride the pony till it breaks, why not just let a treasured series out to pasture. Rest easy Darren Star, that pink tutu and the "Carrie Bradshaw knows good sex" bus have been seared into our memories for eternity.

And is that good enough for us?
Abso-fucking-lutely.