hervé léger by max azria = ohmygod.

there is something inexplicably mystical about the hervé léger collection by max azria. it hugs the female form with a flawless grace and polished sexuality. i can't get enough of it.



it's chic and structured, but not showy. imagine a more grown-up lady gaga silhouette with an urban sensibility.


the collection mixes strength and femininity with the utmost precision.
it resists over-embellishment but remains distinct from
other max azria collections.

the resulting statement is simple and powerful, exuding confidence, sexuality, and poise.

t r u s t

if you've ever been the person
who wants so desperately to trust
and can't...

i know you.

i know you because that's who

i am : i am
perpetually trusting the wrong people and continually
suffering
the consequences.

and i don't really mean to - that's the thing.
i don't really mean to place my trust in the hands of people who,
like little kids with bubble wrap,
can't resist the urge to crush and pop and stomp on it.

and i don't really mean to be so affected by their insensitivity.
after all, we're just human, right?
but then, is it really that much to ask of someone - that they be worthy of trust?
not particularly.

honesty is a fairly simple concept:
easy to execute
with very few repercussions -
a small favor to ask.

because it's
so
fucking
difficult
to keep on giving and giving and giving those kids that damn bubble wrap again and again and again.

it isn't that i don't understand the urge to pop it - i do.
i understand that lying is sometimes easier,
that ignorance is, yes, sometimes bliss,
and that we think of ourselves first and foremost.

what i don't understand is why, despite all this, i keep on placing my trust in people who've proven time and time again that they don't deserve it... who've proven that they don't actually care, despite what they may say... who've acted on selfish, manipulative impulses with little regard for the repercussions.

seriously though,
what the hell is wrong with me?

sometimes i think that maybe i AM that puppet for them to manipulate. sometimes i think i make it all to easy for them to pull my strings.

it makes me wish i just didn't give a damn. caring hurts like a bitch. but i can't change this feeling. i've tried.

so keep urging me through this sickening maze. keep on trying to make me believe your lies, abide your careful masks of sincerity, and eat all the steaming bullshit you shove down my throat.

i'll keep trusting you because i love you.

but do me one favor:
if you're going to lie to me,
if you're going to break that trust,
if you just can't resist the urge,

at least have the decency to fucking admit to it once in awhile.

bombastic, a bully

i know i have the tendency to come on a little strong,
which makes unintentionally offending people really really easy.

that isn't my intention.

not at all. but i do stand by my convictions, even if they make some people uncomfortable or insecure or indignant, because i'm very passionate about what i believe. and, unlike some, i don't feel obligated to cater to people simply to satisfy a wider public opinion. in other words, i refuse to feed into the bureaucratic bullshit that so many people support mindlessly and out of ease, out of comfort.

because that's fucking dismal.

i mean, sure, maybe i'm being bombastic, a bully, when i say that i think "cats" as a piece of art, is obsolete, worthless, a commercial machine with little substance. it isn't hard for people to perceive my dislike of such fluff wrongly and twist it. i'm jealous, they say, or i'm resentful of their success. while i may be utterly flabbergasted by their success, i'm not at all jealous, by any means. and if "cats" is the archetype for theatrical success, i absolutely don't want that success. but i do think that theatre-goers and theatre-makers alike sell themselves short by constantly buying into such lame dickery.

because what does it do, "cats?" does it inspire change? does it prompt intellectual discussion? does it impassion people? no. it washes over the audience like a sugared-up hannah montana movie. they feel enjoyment, sure, but they could watch 'golden girls' and feel the same thing. the andrew lloyd webber musical, then, is archaic and needless. certainly, its ability to generate plentiful fundage is obvious. but that's because it's consistent and safe and audiences don't have to think or even feel when watching it. they can be mindless androids for two hours and leave the theatre perfectly satisfied.

((like i said, fucking dismal.))

it's a big joke, really. all this commercial fodder is just a bad joke. high school musical, legally blonde the musical, xanadu, cats: just a laugh had by thick-suited executives in boardrooms across the country, because they know exactly what they're doing. the american public has lost its sense of creative empowerment, and those suits are making bank on it.

come on, if everyone actually realized how phony the disney/broadway/ass-nugget franchise was, how retrograde to the growth of art it was, those suits would be out of a job. artists would have to actually make the art! and how many t-shirts can be sold off of that??

...but i shouldn't bitch so much...

after all, there are some revolutionaries out there. ellie covan, for instance, is probably one of the more inspirational people i've met in the last few months. a smart, eloquent - indeed, an intimidating - woman, ellie displays extreme conviction in her stance on art's survival in a commercial world. "never sell out," she says, meaning "never let the money stuff get in the way of your own artistic integrity." this woman has maintained such a conviction for over twenty years, refusing to forfeit her ideals for the sake of big money. she is to be admired and followed, because it's the ellie's of today that are going to ensure the longevity of experimental art, of important art, tomorrow. i, for one, am determined to uphold my views on the integrity of art and theatre, regardless of monetary pressure. if i never make a cent doing theatre, but really DO it, i'll be happy. sure, in a perfect world, i could have complete artistic freedom and be able to support myself and my family financially without compromising my ideals. but that isn't bloodly likely, not in our climate. it's like my dad says, if you really love it, you'll do it for free. so, i suppose i'm hopeful. hopeful for the future of theatre, hopeful for my future in it.

reassuringly, richard foreman says, "something better is coming. my theatre is one attempt among many to listen carefully, in order to hear the approaching footsteps."

i'm going to try to remember that.

before it becomes !!resentment!!

listen -

i love you
and you're my friend
so this is important.

i have always, without question, with unfaltering devotion and sincerity
supported you
in all of your endeavors, creative and otherwise
because i respect you as an artist and - more importantly - as a friend.

never have i told you "can't" or "shouldn't" or "don't"
never have i challenged your artistic integrity
never have i patronized your ideas
never have i tried to hold you back or tether you down

so i'm struggling with the fact that you find yourself
incapable of or unwilling to
do the same for me.

is it so ??difficult??
..to recognize that my ideas are just as valid as yours? to make way for someone else's creativity in addition to your own? to support me, your close friend and artistic peer, in my endeavors? to keep your judgmental comments to yourself? to allow me to make my own decisions, cultivate my own visions, without your help? to refrain from patronizing me? to trust me?

because, contrary to what you may think, i'm not stupid. i'm actually very smart. so you telling me that i "can't" do something only makes me more determined to do it. i hope you know that.

you've announced your opinion to me with the intention of "protecting" me from failure. but it isn't about what you perceive as failure, or success. for me, failure is allowing the opinions of skeptics dictate my actions. failure is succumbing to fear. failure is not following through with something i'm passionate about because of what others may think of me.

so if i do this, to my fullest creative potential, in all artistic honesty, and everyone hates it and calls it complete shit, that isn't a failure - to me. because at least i've done it. and shouldn't art strive for that, rather than appeasing the masses (or perhaps a few people)? shouldn't art be about process, not necessarily product? but, i digress.

all i'm asking is that you show me the same respect and support that i've shown you for as long as i've known you. i'm not an underling of yours, i'm not a child - i'm your peer, and i deserve to be treated thusly. i will not tolerate being patronized. and i shouldn't have to justify my artistic decisions to earn your trust. after all, i've trusted you from the beginning, and -- -- --

i shouldn't even be having to address all of this, really.

...but i hope you've listened...

chris brown. rihanna. shit.

so let's get this straight:

chris brown's adolescent punk ass beats on his girlfriend rihanna - beats the SHIT out of her - and then she takes him back.

what.the.fuck.

?

i hate to say it but i think the trauma she suffered to her head has affected her decision-making abilities dramatically.

look, i can comprehend that most abused women take their abusers back after the bruises and dignity have healed.  i can't accept it, but i can comprehend it.  of course they're in a warped state of mind, and of course the prospect of leaving the abuser can seem more threatening than the risk of death at his hands, but it seems uncanny to me that a nation of people pleading for rihanna to leave chris brown won't sway her decision.

she has a responsibility to herself.

and, importantly, a responsibility to the little girls who look up to her.

what happens when some other young, naive girl is faced with such a dilemma and has no example to follow but that of rihanna's because that's all she knows?  what happens when an opportunity for that little girl to become empowered turns into her being overpowered by shame, fear, and isolation caused by her abuser again and again?  all the "sorry's" in the world can't erase the physical, psychological, and emotional damage she'll suffer, no matter how young and "misguided" her abuser.

as far as i'm concerned, there is NO EXCUSE for domestic abuse, emotional or physical.

and chris brown, though a product of unfortunate circumstances, is absolutely not exempt from the punishment he deserves as an abuser.  radio stations have boycotted his music, he's "backed out" of the nickelodeon teen choice awards and his place in the music industry has been dramatically compromised.  frankly, his record label would be smart to drop him.  but they probably won't - he's a money-maker.  and that's fucking sick and sad, but it's the horrible truth.

and to ice the proverbial cake, they've just recorded a duet together.  how precious.

barf.  seriously.  i mean, way to send mixed fucking messages to your public, guys.  i know chris is trying his darnest to cover his girl-beating ass, and rihanna probably feels guilty for all the trouble her poor baby is in, but what the hell?  it's disgusting and infuriating and it almost makes me want to smack the poor girl upside the head to try to knock some sense back into her, because i'm sort of wondering if she's just lost her mind at this point.

he's a CRIMINAL, rihanna.  the "umbrella/cinderella remix" days are long, long gone.  and you need to get yo' ass out of his life before his balls drop, his voice changes, and he really decides to beat on you.  because next time, you won't make it out alive.

and we all know jay-z is hankerin' to blow that punk ass bitch out of the water.

just give him a reason.

who killed jenny schecter?

a question that's been on the minds of L-word fans for months

because (let's be real)

we ALL wanted to do it.

now i'm not saying she was always despicable - she wasn't.  we all remember the early days of jenny, the quirky-edgy-rad-fashionable-tragically beautiful days.  we were small-town midwesterners in a brave new lez world with her, we were tortured souls drinking from her idea well, we were her chain-smokin'/self-mutilatin'/sandra bernhard-lovin' alter ego.  FOR THREE/FOUR (depending on your personal tolerance level) FECKING SEASONS.  

and then she snapped.

once production officially started on "lez/le/les girls" there was no longer any hope for a jenny character turnaround.  at this point, BITCH!jenny was an unstoppable force in self-righteous motion.  so, like any other L-word fan with an asshole-tolerance level on the low scale, i resigned myself to hating the be-otch.  

and i do -

but still -

WHAT the FUCK, ilene?  are you fo realz, girl?  because your big, mystery dinner theatre, whodunit bullshit tagline was "who killed jenny?" and your punk ass STILL.HASN'T.TOLD.US.

first of all, the plot line was an idiotic one, let's be honest.  i get it: showtime needed one more season of lesbian squabblery/sexy drama and you needed to deliver because you pinky swore them cross-your-heart you would.  but instead of what we deserved and expected - more of the same trashiness we looked forward to every sunday - you took a big fat shit on our lesbian parade.  for what sadistic purposes, i'm not sure.  all i know is you're an asshole.

listen, i would have been so perfectly content with one more season of less-than-enthralling plots, high-frequency sex scenes, strangely non-committal work and parenting habits, fashion, and the planet.  that would have been just stellar.  instead, ilene, you decided to throw a wild card at us.  it smelled like poo from the beginning, through the middle, and to the end.  oh wait, i forgot, you don't follow basic storytelling structure.  so i guess it was just shit all along.  

and after all that, after i conceded my frustration with the bullshit that was the jenny death subplot, even after i realized that the shitty writing of season one would be no comparison to the clusterfuck of crap that was this season, even after i STILL didn't get see jennifer beals' nipples, i reluctantly resigned myself to "you know what, at least i'll get to see who killed jenny, 'cus that bitch had.it.comin."  and your lazy ass failed to deliver.  it's obvious you didn't even decide to begin with.  someone should get to take credit for that, ilene, and just because you wrote the pilot six years ago doesn't mean it should be you.  

i mean, shit, i would've accepted "colonel mustard in the conservatory with the lead pipe" if it meant a solid answer to your fucking joke of a question.  listen, television isn't rhetorical, ilene. if you didn't already know that, maybe you should go take a class with sandra bernhard (i mean, charlotte birch...) and she can tell you all about the inner workings of a story with plot.  meanwhile, i'm going to beat myself in the head with my dvds of season one and try to dull the painful memory of the shit pile that was season six.  

so go fuck yourself, ilene.

oh, and just for the record,

i think the pomeranian sounder killed jenny.  that would make about as much logical sense as all of the other ass-shavings you ladled into this season.  jesus.

manifest-oh

Good morning, America, the beautiful. It’s a sunny day in neighborhood.
Now, Would you like:
Gypsy or Cap’n Crunch?
Which kind of sugar do you want:
The kind that rots your teeth, or
The kind that rots your brain?
Come on, kiddo,
Do you want
Patti LuPone
or
The Cap’n
?
Because they both cost the same, honey. They’re both worth the same.
-------


PATTI couldn’t take it anymore. She felt she’d been exploited, damnit.

Stop stop stop stop taking pictures right now You heard the announcement Who do you think you are (Applause) Get out How dare you Who do you think you are Get them out I won’t continue if they’re taking pictures Get them out Three times three times you took a picture You heard the announcement at the beginning You heard the announcement at intermission Who do you think you are Thank you alright, you know what we’re gonna do? (Applause) I have to say this I have to say this We have forgotten our public manners And we have forgotten that we are in a community and this is the theatre And all of you every single one of you except for that person has respect And I and the rest of this company o-preciate it thank you (Applause)

But what she failed to realize was that she was feeding the monster.

-----------

It’s been said before, but..
I’m saying anyway because it isn’t reading loud and clear enough –

Theatre in America is in danger of becoming a caricature of itself, much like Liza Minelli. And if we don’t do something to rejuvenate its vagina, it’s going to rot to its core.

And we need that snatch to be in tip-top shape.
GASP! Am I suggesting that theatre is a woman?
An exploited, chained-to-the-bed woman,
Doesn’t matter.

But she’s dying because she has a horrible series of venereal diseases and we’re doing nothing to eliminate the infection. It’s spreading with unforgiving ferocity and disgusting recklessness. It needs the money.

The details of her condition are as follows:
• Suffers from Heavy fluff. Sickening, pink-and-purple, glitzed-out, fluff on roller skates. Starring Whoopi Goldberg.
• Brains have taken the consistency of grape Jell-O. Grape because it’s the kind that tastes like bad medicine. Because “good morning Baltimore” won’t stop echoing in her brain.
• She has been sleeping with Walt Disney again. He won’t let her abort any of his demented babies. He’s given her genital warts shaped like Zac Effron’s flat-ironed hair-do.
• Her diva wants another Tony award and has been in a snit because of the thing. Standing ovations aren’t enough, have never been enough.
• ASU’s Lyric Opera Theatre exploits her by telling her she’s pretty and then shitting on a picture of her face four times a year.
• She cries herself to sleep at night because of the burning, itching, puss-ridden mess “down there” that says, “Don’t cry for me, Argentina” just to taunt her.
• No one will pay for her medical care. Especially not Bill Maher. Especially not the N.E.A.

-----------------

nobody wants to think anymore because it’s easier to feel and find instant gratification in that moment of wild applause when idina menzel hits her high note I get it.
..but it’s fucked up..
and I’m reminded of when the real rock era ended and n’sync came along and shit on everything the beatles and the stones had put in place and then jacked themselves off to bubble gum and barbie-doll-sized versions of themselves.
because once upon a time, theatre had the ability to change and transform the way people, communities, worlds thought and acted. it had the ability to engage and thrill without having to involve mindless dance routines or contrived music. real theatre has had to go underground to hide from the commerial-broadway-gestapo.

“Apparently, musical theatre is like a prehistoric beast capable of destroying whatever genre it touches (imagine a 200-foot Ethel Merman stomping on Tokyo)… Which reminds me of one of the worst insults I've ever heard hurled at an actor. The target was Broadway star Ann Reinking, who was performing some sort of razzle-dazzle production number on an awards show, and the comment was: "You can see every lesson she's ever had in her life." That's exactly how I feel when I watch musicals: While there may be real passion and humanity up there, it's buried beneath musical theatre's slick, soulless, impeccably groomed, perfectly articulated package” (Fairhurst).

what isn’t making money is wasting it and sell,sell,sell
and can’t we all just enjoy legally blonde?

No
We can’t
We won't

I refuse to be satisfied with the disgusting commercial machine that theatre in
this nation has become. And I refuse to operate its mechanisms or oil its cogs.
Art
was never supposed to be a business, but that’s what it’s become. Because
somewhere long ago, an accountant raped a violinist and the world ended.

And suddenly our voices were not heard.
And suddenly $110 was how much it cost to sell art into slavery.

-------------------------------

Theatre today is a Twinkie-flavored life jacket. It surely won’t sink and it smells good and everyone everyone loves it and it won’t go bad in your cupboard and it tastes like a dollar well spent and it’s cute like a puppy. But what theatre needs to be is the little spark at the top of the match that sets that Twinkie ablaze as everyone watches in horror and fascination and then ponders their own mortality. “[The playing space] is an exercise room, a factory, an examination room, a laboratory.” (Foreman 54).
It should make people want to gouge out their eyeballs
and hyperventilate with joy and shiver in all their private places.

CENSORSHIP CANNOT EXIST!
Because true art is an extension of the soul. And to censor someone’s soul is to commit a heinous crime against that person. Art that doesn’t extend from the soul of the creator, that doesn’t stir and stimulate and wreak havoc on the psyche, won’t feel the pain of censorship and is never at risk for it. But that art isn’t honest. It isn’t the truth that sits in the brightly lit, purple ball of guts inside each of us. “…the texts of my plays became increasingly fragmented in order to echo the truth of psychic life…” (Foreman 62)

---------------------

Here’s the deal:
1. Abolish all theatre fluff. This includes Disney musicals, most all musicals, anything that exists solely to suck people dry. Only theatre that pushes the envelope of conscious convention is allowed to remain in existence. No, Xanadu does not count.
2. Reduce the price of theatre tickets to “donate what you will.” Because everyone deserves and needs to see theatre. And the bourgeoisie is not allowed a monopoly on the arts simply because “it’s trendy.”
3. Turn vacant spaces into studios for communities and ensembles of artists to develop work
4. Find the bridge between theatre, dance, music, media, and other art forms. There should be an artistic coalition. The mediums should combine.
5. Art should be an honest extension and expression of the soul, uncensored and raw for the world to see. Like Richard says, “I thought of writing as evidence of my mental and spiritual state. Above all I tried to be honest about myself by keeping my style uncorrected by my well-schooled intelligence” (Foreman 10).
6. True art is allowed to be, and encouraged to be, ugly
7. True art has the ability to infuriate, enrapture, birth, infect, and intrigue.
8. The audience should be moved in a way unrelated to what they would expect based on the example of Broadway: “Make the audience feel the differences present in the room and those outside of it… Give them the taste of sitting and laughing alone. The feel of a body that laughs in public and then, embarrassed, has to doubt its action. Give them gifts. Pleasures. Laughs. Dances. Bring them ‘together’ again… The watcher’s desire is so often for nakedness, defenselessness. An exposure that does not have a name. Transparency. Something beyond” (Heathfield 215-216).
9. True art is dangerous. It cannot be safe. It cannot be comfortable.
10. We will be bold and unapologetic, whatever the cost
11. We will not fear the negative response of others. Our art is not designed to please or impress them. It merely seeks to ignite and provoke.

“Performance offers once of those planes of ‘unique reality’ where memory and dreams, past and present, the everyday and the once-in-a-lifetime are reconciled and woven together upon a single loom of time…” (Drain 282.)

If the guidelines of this manifesto are ignored, then we are destined, as theatre artists, to become extinct, to die out in the moldy apple that lives on Broadway and 42nd street, dancing until our legs bleed because they’ve put duct tape on our mouths and drugged us into a “Hairspray” coma so we can’t bleed from our hearts anymore even though that sounds cliché.

And we will continue to sell our souls to the commercial Mephistopheles, and no one and nothing will be able to save us from the snide meows of all the Jellicle cats that haunt our vacant, pathetic thoughts.