The Grif: Feminist or Teetering Toward Stepfordish Irrelevance?

Is it me or does the Grif look lately as if she is morphing into Tori Spelling? Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I mean, it's fabulous that science and innovation have gotten us to a point at which women in their 50s can look like this:

Really?

And I guess it helps to look one's absolute best when one's career is built upon not much beyond talking a whole lotta shit about people. Not that some of those other people don't ask for it. And not that most of it isn't funny as hell. But, jeebus, this is just getting ridiculous. 

Because although the Grif's PR folks are great at getting images out there of her looking ultra-fab like she does right chere to the left, the reality is that she does in fact look suspiciously like Tori Spelling trying to rock a Farrah-ala-Charlie's Angels weave. And that's after a shit-ton of hair and make-up. 

For realsies. 

All the PR prowess in the world can't prevent us from knowing that in reality, the Grif actually looks like this when she rolls out of the rack in the a.m.:

I dunno. Does one have to be hot (or pretend to be) in order to be taken seriously as a comic? 

Based on conversations I've had with my male friends, the answer is yes. And it goes deeper. I think Sarah Silverman seems to get a lot of passes for bullshit Lisa Lampanelli never would. 

"Well, she IS kinda hot ... " one of my penis-powered colleagues allows while slurping coffee and rolling his eyes as two of our female colleagues debate the grossness and utter unfunniness of Silverman's fucked up abortion jokes. 

My point is -- I'm pretty sure I have a point in here somewhere --  that once again the message is that you can pretty much do what you want and get away with it at the very least (and sometimes get paid a shit ton of money) as long as you look good enough to fuck. As long as there's a sizable cohort nodding in agreement that "yeah., but I'd hit that," you're pretty much golden. So maybe that's why the Grif is all about looking like a plasticine Stepford wife and Lampanelli went in for the weight loss surgery. Now Lampanelli looks like an innocuous soccer mom, another boring vanilla cookie. And I miss the batshit crazed Better-Crocker off-her-meds-swirly dresses too. What, they do't make those in size 4? 

The time, where does she go?

Facebook sure has kicked the shit out of blogging. I sort of miss my half-assed little blogger-buddy community of misfits and secret-harborers with whom I communed late into the night. Then we seemed to lose interest at about the same time. I think it's because everyone wandered off to Pin shit and "friend" people they hated in high school and still hate to this day but now we stay up late into the night creeping on their pages, poring over vacation pictures of the hated homeroom queen's family of gaping smiling assholes standing in front of Dollywood. And we seethe anew. And this feels good.

Now that several years have gone by since I started this little project, I realize just how little anyone cares. Including me. Which is not a bad thing. For the longest time I was very hung up on protecting my privacy and having a creative outlet free from lurkers and judgement. Then I stupidly and for the wrong reasons shared a link to my blog with a psychotically insecure nut-job of a co-worker who went on to pretty much stalk said blog night and day. It was annoying and nauseating (some numbskulls have no idea that we can actually see who visits our blogs. again and again and again and again -- [get a fucking life]!!) and I therefore abandoned it.

For a while. But no one gives a shit about that either. I know I don't. The point is that Facebook kind of blows. I really need to divorce myself from it. I think if I kept track of how many times I logged on to F simply out of boredom or because I wanted (unconsciously) to avoid doing some other, actually productive thing over here, or because I can't help myself, I  know I would be appalled. Even now as I write this I am fighting the urge to open the tab to my F page. If I stop how will I ever catch up? Fuck! What's wrong with me???

Several of my friends have given up F for Lent. I know this because they logged on to F to announce (mournfully, which suggests that they truly believe some of their "friends" will become suicidal at the mere idea of missing daily (or 10 daily depending on the person) musings and ramblings and chirpy little quips and observations and cat pictures and shares and I don't even know what that suggests about my "friends." But whatever. All I know is that F is a nasty undertow of voyeurism that sucks one in and drains all the creativity and initiative and will to live. Even though I know all these people with whom I am "friends" are as fucked up and dysphoric as I am and all that bragging and look at me! look at me! bullshit is just that, still, I find it difficult to look away. And that's all I have to say about that. Nice to see you. Thanks for not stopping by.