Zinn
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Jack Chiefton
- Old Skool Pax
- Posts: 286
- Joined: Mon Nov 13, 2000 9:01 am
- Location: Madison, WI
Zinn
Tonight I saw Howard Zinn speak at the historic Orpheum Theatre in Madison. At 80 years of age, standing about six foot five and having a wry but hilarious sense of humor, Mr. Zinn broke down our current situation of the war impending citing Knox and the Shays revolution of 1778. It's crazy how history ties into modern political problems. It's the second time i've seen him speak. The man who marched with Martin Luther King, the man who made history in the sixties teaching at spellman college and refusing to give in to the bigotry that bestowed his students, and the man who authored Politics in America and the People's History of the United States gives yet another heart warming speech. If there were more people out there like him, we'd see more smiles upon strange faces in the streets of uncertainty.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Zinn
good one jack
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<sarah>
Zinn
Jack, this weekend thanks to people like the directors of Mary Kay, I saw more smiles on strange faces than I'd like to count. Here's my Saturday night:
I found the rock bottom of cultural experiences. I went to a Mary Kay Bash. This is not to be confused with a Mary Kay Party, which implies facials. Nope, this was the elite of Mary Kay coming together to honor their capitalist sisters for fattening one lady’s pocket, in the name of Jesus Christ.
I walk across the parking lot asking my friend J, “Are all these people here for the Mary Kay thing?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know; Kelly didn’t tell me much, just that it’s catered and there’s a dj, she bought a new black dress for it.”
I see the people going in. And it’s dark, but I’m noticing what looks like evening gowns. I’m not wearing evening attire, more like I just got off of work attire. I think I’m underdressed.
“What exactly is this thing going to be like?” We’re getting closer to the entrance and I notice that there are cars in front, matching red Grand Ams, and then one pink Cadillac, all with balloons tied to them.
“I told you I don’t know.”
We get inside, and I notice that the girl who is in line in front of me is wearing a turquoise dress and her shoes are black. There are little strings popping out along the seam. I hear a loud high pitched voice, “Oh, look at you. Isn’t that darlin’ you got the shirt.”
I turn around to see a man wearing a polo with a Mary Kay logo. His arm barely fits around what I assume to be his wife. It’s October; she’s wearing white shoes. Kelly finds us and talks through her teeth. I wonder if these Mary Kay people taught her how to smile and talk at the same time. She hugs me, which I find disconcerting because I don’t know her, or rather I had one class with her in college. During the class I would look at the back of her strawberry blonde head speculating about the brilliant art she was creating and wondering if I’d ever get to see any of it. Now I’m looking at this pudgy late twenties chick with dark brown hair and an Anne Taylor suite. She says, “I am so glad to see you again.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t remember the last time I saw her. It was not momentous. We never spoke to one another. Why would I remember the occasion? I feel weird saying, “Yes, me too.” But what else can I do? I’m not rude even if I can’t smile and talk through my teeth at the same time.
We’re seated at a table in the back of a ballroom. There is a dj under the balcony that is farthest away from us. There is no room for dancing. After looking to my left and finding the buffet table, I see that we will not be served food.
J introduces me to the elderly couple at the table with us and their elderly friend. The elderly friend wants to hug me because I am pretty and smell good too. I hug him; it’s my civic duty. We sit down and I stare at J. I am not happy with him; my look should indicate this. He stares back ambivalently.
A woman in a long black dress who looks like either a housewife or a school teacher on a night out gets up on the stage. She has the highest pitched voice I’ve ever heard. The noise is a close second to Jim Carey’s most annoying sound in the world. She starts her speech by introducing Carol Roberts, who looks quite fantastic, according to Pam, for a grandmother. I look at Carol Roberts thinking that she does look fantastic especially in this room, and there is no way in hell she’s a grandmother unless she started cranking out kids at eleven. Either Pam is making a Mary Kay joke or she’s a liar. I look at Pam. She is not a liar; she may in fact be a Sunday school teacher.
Pam then goes on to tell us how to sell Mary Kay: “Put this on, take this off, now doesn’t that feel great. How many would you like?” She says this so many times during her speech that no matter how much I would like to forget it, I know I will not. I even will remember the sing-songy rhythm of her voice as she says it. Maybe it is a new hymn for the children at church.
After we spend a good half hour with Pam we are introduced to her sister Amy, who is also a sales director. She looks like she must have been a slut in high school. I like her instantly. She even has a husky Kathleen Turner voice. She’s the antithesis of Pam. They are Mary and Martha. I would not like for Pam to put anything on or take anything off of me; Amy I might just for kicks. Unfortunately Amy doesn’t have the need to dominate the mic that Pam has, and she begins assisting Pam in passing out cellophane wrapped bags of hand lotion and pumice stones. Pam has called the entire group of Mary Kay associates to the stage and has asked Amy to pass out the red carnations. They will all win a red Grand Am through Mary Kay, and America will become a red carnation. Get it? A red car nation! I would like to groan and mutter. I look at J who has turned his head.
Pam now explains, “I used to be a guidance counselor. But did the school system ever offer to buy me a car? No, they wouldn’t even buy me a tank of gas. And do you think I was happy there? No, I tried, but I couldn’t help those children. Now I make their mothers smile. And doesn’t that make them happier in the long run?”
“Yes, Pam,” I would like to say. “If we’d just all get off our asses and start exfoliating the breeders of the uneducable, the world would be a better place.” I am staring a hole through the side of J’s head, but he is biting his fist and ignoring me.
The new directors are next called to the stage, and the dj’s function now becomes apparent as he spins out “Wind Beneath My Wings” and they walk slowly up to Pam. Carol Roberts, the goddess, has also risen to stand with them, and suddenly, everyone around me is rising to give the third standing ovation in the last hour. There will be two more hours and at least ten more ovations; if I’ve calculated correctly that would be the definition of trivializing. The next time that I hear the work of this master dj it is in the form of “Who Let the Dogs Out,” which accompanies the oath of the husbands and or significant others to always be dedicated to Christ and making as much money off of their wives and or significant others as possible.
We meet Mr. Roberts after the playing of “Who Let the Dogs Out” and he explains, reiterating what Pam and Carol have said, that a woman might be able to sell Mary Kay with a husband, and maybe without one, but definitely not against one. He also says that he is recovering from cancer and thanks to Jesus, who apparently loves the Roberts’ family more than all those who have members who die from cancer, Carol has been able to miss 31 days of work consecutively and still made $80,000 this year. He also says that Mary Kay is a place of positive people and that’s in part what cured him. He has no room for negative people. I feel like a sinner sweating on the pew. I am becoming guilty and know that he knows inside I’m laughing. I could smile and nod, I could smile through my teeth. I stare at him. I think people in my family loved Jesus and died of cancer. That is life.
The highlight of the evening is the raffle, which always is the highlight of any evening. We meet Judy, whose name I changed, because she was not mentioned as much as Pam, Carol, and Amy. Judy is over forty, maybe over fifty, I can’t tell; I’m not wearing my contacts. She is wearing a skin tight, short, red, sequined dress that has the same exact neckline that my prom dress from ten years ago had. I look at her and think this is what Mrs. Trump would look like if she sold Mary Kay. She begins to call out numbers, but cannot read them. She extends her arm as far as she can and squints, but no luck. She teeters across the floor to her table, retrieves her bifocals and smiles through her teeth as she reads the numbers. I look around the room and women and men are smiling at Judy. They have been remarkably well behaved. They have been still for three hours without food, drink, or dancing and now they are giddy over plastic wrapped bags of goodies. I didn’t buy a ticket. I get up, turn to smile at J, and stick my tongue out through my teeth.
I found the rock bottom of cultural experiences. I went to a Mary Kay Bash. This is not to be confused with a Mary Kay Party, which implies facials. Nope, this was the elite of Mary Kay coming together to honor their capitalist sisters for fattening one lady’s pocket, in the name of Jesus Christ.
I walk across the parking lot asking my friend J, “Are all these people here for the Mary Kay thing?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know; Kelly didn’t tell me much, just that it’s catered and there’s a dj, she bought a new black dress for it.”
I see the people going in. And it’s dark, but I’m noticing what looks like evening gowns. I’m not wearing evening attire, more like I just got off of work attire. I think I’m underdressed.
“What exactly is this thing going to be like?” We’re getting closer to the entrance and I notice that there are cars in front, matching red Grand Ams, and then one pink Cadillac, all with balloons tied to them.
“I told you I don’t know.”
We get inside, and I notice that the girl who is in line in front of me is wearing a turquoise dress and her shoes are black. There are little strings popping out along the seam. I hear a loud high pitched voice, “Oh, look at you. Isn’t that darlin’ you got the shirt.”
I turn around to see a man wearing a polo with a Mary Kay logo. His arm barely fits around what I assume to be his wife. It’s October; she’s wearing white shoes. Kelly finds us and talks through her teeth. I wonder if these Mary Kay people taught her how to smile and talk at the same time. She hugs me, which I find disconcerting because I don’t know her, or rather I had one class with her in college. During the class I would look at the back of her strawberry blonde head speculating about the brilliant art she was creating and wondering if I’d ever get to see any of it. Now I’m looking at this pudgy late twenties chick with dark brown hair and an Anne Taylor suite. She says, “I am so glad to see you again.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t remember the last time I saw her. It was not momentous. We never spoke to one another. Why would I remember the occasion? I feel weird saying, “Yes, me too.” But what else can I do? I’m not rude even if I can’t smile and talk through my teeth at the same time.
We’re seated at a table in the back of a ballroom. There is a dj under the balcony that is farthest away from us. There is no room for dancing. After looking to my left and finding the buffet table, I see that we will not be served food.
J introduces me to the elderly couple at the table with us and their elderly friend. The elderly friend wants to hug me because I am pretty and smell good too. I hug him; it’s my civic duty. We sit down and I stare at J. I am not happy with him; my look should indicate this. He stares back ambivalently.
A woman in a long black dress who looks like either a housewife or a school teacher on a night out gets up on the stage. She has the highest pitched voice I’ve ever heard. The noise is a close second to Jim Carey’s most annoying sound in the world. She starts her speech by introducing Carol Roberts, who looks quite fantastic, according to Pam, for a grandmother. I look at Carol Roberts thinking that she does look fantastic especially in this room, and there is no way in hell she’s a grandmother unless she started cranking out kids at eleven. Either Pam is making a Mary Kay joke or she’s a liar. I look at Pam. She is not a liar; she may in fact be a Sunday school teacher.
Pam then goes on to tell us how to sell Mary Kay: “Put this on, take this off, now doesn’t that feel great. How many would you like?” She says this so many times during her speech that no matter how much I would like to forget it, I know I will not. I even will remember the sing-songy rhythm of her voice as she says it. Maybe it is a new hymn for the children at church.
After we spend a good half hour with Pam we are introduced to her sister Amy, who is also a sales director. She looks like she must have been a slut in high school. I like her instantly. She even has a husky Kathleen Turner voice. She’s the antithesis of Pam. They are Mary and Martha. I would not like for Pam to put anything on or take anything off of me; Amy I might just for kicks. Unfortunately Amy doesn’t have the need to dominate the mic that Pam has, and she begins assisting Pam in passing out cellophane wrapped bags of hand lotion and pumice stones. Pam has called the entire group of Mary Kay associates to the stage and has asked Amy to pass out the red carnations. They will all win a red Grand Am through Mary Kay, and America will become a red carnation. Get it? A red car nation! I would like to groan and mutter. I look at J who has turned his head.
Pam now explains, “I used to be a guidance counselor. But did the school system ever offer to buy me a car? No, they wouldn’t even buy me a tank of gas. And do you think I was happy there? No, I tried, but I couldn’t help those children. Now I make their mothers smile. And doesn’t that make them happier in the long run?”
“Yes, Pam,” I would like to say. “If we’d just all get off our asses and start exfoliating the breeders of the uneducable, the world would be a better place.” I am staring a hole through the side of J’s head, but he is biting his fist and ignoring me.
The new directors are next called to the stage, and the dj’s function now becomes apparent as he spins out “Wind Beneath My Wings” and they walk slowly up to Pam. Carol Roberts, the goddess, has also risen to stand with them, and suddenly, everyone around me is rising to give the third standing ovation in the last hour. There will be two more hours and at least ten more ovations; if I’ve calculated correctly that would be the definition of trivializing. The next time that I hear the work of this master dj it is in the form of “Who Let the Dogs Out,” which accompanies the oath of the husbands and or significant others to always be dedicated to Christ and making as much money off of their wives and or significant others as possible.
We meet Mr. Roberts after the playing of “Who Let the Dogs Out” and he explains, reiterating what Pam and Carol have said, that a woman might be able to sell Mary Kay with a husband, and maybe without one, but definitely not against one. He also says that he is recovering from cancer and thanks to Jesus, who apparently loves the Roberts’ family more than all those who have members who die from cancer, Carol has been able to miss 31 days of work consecutively and still made $80,000 this year. He also says that Mary Kay is a place of positive people and that’s in part what cured him. He has no room for negative people. I feel like a sinner sweating on the pew. I am becoming guilty and know that he knows inside I’m laughing. I could smile and nod, I could smile through my teeth. I stare at him. I think people in my family loved Jesus and died of cancer. That is life.
The highlight of the evening is the raffle, which always is the highlight of any evening. We meet Judy, whose name I changed, because she was not mentioned as much as Pam, Carol, and Amy. Judy is over forty, maybe over fifty, I can’t tell; I’m not wearing my contacts. She is wearing a skin tight, short, red, sequined dress that has the same exact neckline that my prom dress from ten years ago had. I look at her and think this is what Mrs. Trump would look like if she sold Mary Kay. She begins to call out numbers, but cannot read them. She extends her arm as far as she can and squints, but no luck. She teeters across the floor to her table, retrieves her bifocals and smiles through her teeth as she reads the numbers. I look around the room and women and men are smiling at Judy. They have been remarkably well behaved. They have been still for three hours without food, drink, or dancing and now they are giddy over plastic wrapped bags of goodies. I didn’t buy a ticket. I get up, turn to smile at J, and stick my tongue out through my teeth.
Zinn
If anyone doesn't know who Howard Zinn is... I wrote a short piecee praising him in the Top Reads section...
http://www.paxacidus.com/views/Top_Reads/howard_zinn.html
http://www.paxacidus.com/views/Top_Reads/howard_zinn.html
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Zinn
Sarah I liked your story. Made me stick my tongue out too.