Kooza: Enjoy it with some popcorn and Depends

According to the Cirque du Soleil website, the Canadian circus empire’s latest extravaganza Kooza is the story of “a melancholy loner in search of his place in this world.” Unlike some of the other spectacular Cirque performances I’ve seen, the story seemed to be an afterthought in this Vegas-style, adrenaline-fueled display. Gone was the poetry of past productions. Missing too, were the haunting melodies and ethereal music that seemed to float beneath the performers providing a protective shield from the unforgiving stage below. The music in this show matched the non-stop, heart-stopping agrobatics in which performers finished each act with a brazen snarl at the audience. Do not even think about eating that popcorn. Now, I’m not saying this wasn’t entertaining. It was as hot as a night at the circus gets. A total WOW-fest. It’s just that it felt a bit more like "American Gladiators" than Cirque du Soleil. The show reached its edgy peak during the Wheel of Death segment, in which a 1600-pound metal apparatus resembling a massive double-sided toy Wheel-O, rotates at ridiculous speeds under the power of two guys who look like the Wes Craven version of Dr. Seuss’s Thing One and Thing Two. They leap, vault, and even jump rope, in, out of, and on top of this thing in a way that defies the laws of physics and sanity. I was not surprised to read a disclaimer on the website that notes “due to the nature of these acts, changes in performers occur frequently.” I do recommend it, but bring earplugs and maybe a change of undies.

Crazy Ugly, Or Crazy Awesome?

I’ve always believed the reclining chair to be among the uglier innovations the furniture world, second only to the bean bag chair perhaps. But a recent pedicure experience at the spa forced me to rethink my anti-Lazy-Boy stance. I was ushered in to a small, dimly lit room, soothed by the sound of water bubbling over smooth stones and the gentle tones of some ambient music (is that a Darbuka?). And there it was, the throne of leisure, an overstuffed, umber-toned, velour, reclining chair. I settled in. It was not what I expected. There were no cigarette burns in the arms. No smell of stale beer. No Dorritos crushed into the seams. It was comfortable. No, it was plush. Then the foot rest went up and I was horizontal, gazing at the Celotex, taking back every unkind word I’d ever directed at the innocent Lazy-Boy whose only wish was to serve a tired backside. An hour later, I lay there, my arms elevated on a fluffy bolster, my feet soaked and pumiced, my toenails sporting a fresh coat of Persimmon Sunrise, trying to figure out where I could put one of these in my house. Then it hits me. I’ve got just the spot. I’ve been meaning to get rid of that bean bag chair anyhow.

Lash Lust

Is it the packaging that I love best, the thick orange tube that looks like I could use it to wave a 747 safely onto the tarmac? Is it the barrel-fat brush inside that promises to give my lashes more volume than a Marshall stack? Is it how fabulous Drew Barrymore looks in the commercials? Or the fact they can offer me so much drama and verve for under ten bucks? I have to say all of the above. I have never rushed out so fast to buy a product. When I got to Long’s and wandered into the cosmetic section, I had no problem spotting that orange road flare. And there was a Drew staring down at me from a well-placed piece of merchandising along with that exquisitely over-sized, fluorescent tube just daring me to choose anything less electric. How could I possibly say no?

True Lies

Here's a little piece I wrote for Dove's "Real Beauty" campaign. Directed, produced and edited by the good people at Foundation Post in Chicago.

Clinically Inane

For years it was strong enough for a man, but now apparently the makers of Secret antiperspirant have decided a man-strength pit guard just won’t do for today’s multi-tasking, kick-boxing, three-latte a day woman trying to bust her way through a tempered glass ceiling. The folks at Proctor & Gamble have kicked it up a notch. It’s Secret Clinical Strength, now with 20% aluminum just in case you were afraid those pesky sun-drenched vacation memories might bring you down in your golden years.

Sony Puts The Ire In Smire

Sony has made every family vacation just a little more stressful with the introduction of a camera that refuses to shoot the damn picture until little Johnnie smiles. The Sony DSC-T70 and DSC-T200 Cyber-Shot cameras use smile recognition software to detect that most basic of human emotions. But can it tell if you’re faking it? And is there a special setting for shooting photos of Goth teens? How bout a device that forces your subject to smile? Some sort of electrode placed under the skin to deliver a mild sense of euphoria should the subject’s attention wander. Actually, didn’t I just read something about that in the latest issue of Vanity Fair? Jim Windolf’s article “Lazy-Ass Nation” (VF, Oct. 2007) includes a mention of just such a device created by Dr. Stuart Meloy of Winston-Salem, NC. Controlled via a wireless remote, the wonder jolt (hey, Dr. Meloy, there’s a great name for your new gizmo) apparently provides an effect similar to Cialis, but without the nasty side affects. Except possibly lung cancer from the inevitable rise in smoking.

Make Mime A Double

It’s fall, which means not only is it time to start bulking up for the long winter months, but it’s is also the end of the official season of the Mime. If you were not lucky enough to be in Périgueux, France during August for the International Contemporary Mime Festival, you may still be feeling the jones for some classic “trapped in a glass box” action. Though the deck chairs and iced lollies have been packed away, cold weather won’t be keeping the silent thesps from donning their tights when the 30th Annual London International Mime Festival kicks off January 12, 2008. Legendary master of the silent art Marcel Marceau, who died in September fearing for the future of the craft, would be relieved to know that there is a mime festival happening somewhere in the world just about every month of the year. Go mimers, go.

Peg Bracken Stirred Up The Sixties And Beyond

The news last week that noted cookbook author and humorist Peg Bracken had died at the age of 89 in Portland, Oregon might have escaped my notice, as I wasn’t even born when her best-selling The I Hate To Cook Book was released in 1960. But two facts in the NPR report caught my attention. First, that she hoped her book would afford women more time to smoke cigarettes and drink cocktails, not because I’m a big fan of either one. I don’t smoke, and only rarely drink anything harder than a glass of wine. But any woman in the Ward and June Cleaver era who would espouse such rebellion was somebody I wanted to know more about. Secondly, she began her career as an advertising copywriter, my line of work. These facts made me sorry that my introduction to such a funny and fearless woman was her obituary.

In the uptight context of the early sixties, her recipes like Skid Row Stroganoff, which instructed the cook to "add the flour, salt, paprika and mushrooms, stir, and let it cook five minutes while you light a cigarette and stare sullenly at the sink,” must have been shockingly liberating to some, and just plain shocking to others. But despite the initial reactions of the male publishers who turned it down because they feared women would be offended by the lack of sanctity for the sacred rites of the kitchen, the book quickly sold more than three million copies.

It may not seem surprising that Ms. Bracken was married four times. It was while she was married to her second husband that she wrote The I Hate To Cook Book. When she showed him the manuscript, he told her, “You’re wasting your time. Who’d want a book like that?” It wasn’t long before she was on to husband number three.

Before she found her voice as a spokesperson for an emerging anti-drudgery movement, she worked as an advertising copywriter at a Portland agency. It was there that she began to unleash her gin-dry wit. She co-wrote a syndicated cartoon called “Phoebe, Get Your Man” with co-worker Homer Groening. Yes, that Homer, the father of “Simpsons” creator Matt Groening.

The I Hate To Cook Book is currently out of print, but I’ve tracked down a copy on www.alibris.com. I plan to check out her other books, I Hate To Housekeep (1962), her guide to etiquette, I Try To Behave Myself (1964), and her memoir, A Window Over The Sink (1981).

Just for the record, I don’t hate to cook. In fact, I enjoy it most of the time. But I am not above opening a can on those off nights, and I’m grateful to this woman who helped usher in the era of convenience foods while showing America that humor and intelligence are as important to a happy home as a hearty meal.