I enjoy America’s Next Top Model greatly, and I like Tyra Banks’ drama mama attitude. It makes for good TV. But does she really deserve a 3,000 word+ piece in the NYT magazine? I saw the story on Friday and skimmed the multimedia section (including a graphic of Tyra’s six most common smiles), but I still don’t get it. The article has some interesting tidbits here and there, but it’s mostly paeans of praise from friends, family and colleagues.
(I should add that I’m glad she moved back to NY both with ANTM and her talk show; not that her shows have much credibility, but the NY location will definitely give ANTM some of its groove that it lost in LA).
–
The best thing about the Sex and the City movie was the movie theater I watched it in. The Avalon is one of the oldest movie theaters in DC, and it’s absolutely beautiful. It was nearly torn down a few years ago, and the community resurrected it. It’s a beautiful, large, old-style theater with an intricate mural on its ceiling, a teeny-tiny ladies’ room done in Pepto-Bismol pink and it really is a community theater. Nearly everyone who came to the movie seemed to be from the community and it was lovely to see. It made up for the utter mediocrity of the movie, which had one of THE worst endings I’ve seen in a romantic comedy. I thought Made of Honor had a crappy ending, but SATC went one step worse.
So where was I? Ah yes. Hot dogs, horror, staying put.
Waiting was the worst part. We had to wait for the slight possibility that more women might show up. An event that should have started at 7:30 began at 8.
I didn’t know what to expect, and I don’t’ know if this is typical speed-dating format, but I’ll share anyway.
All the women sit at individual tables, which have numbers on them. Everyone gets a card with a list of all the members of the opposite sex. A man sits at your table for seven minutes. You talk. Seven minutes are up, and then he moves on to the next, and then another guy comes by. You rate that man on your card, basically stating “yes” or “no.”
For a few minutes, we just sat at the tables while the guys waited in the front to be told where to go.
My friend, A, thought this was degrading for us. I guess she felt a bit like that line in The King and I where the king says that women are like flowers, stationary in one place and men are like bees floating from flower to flower.
My perception was the exact reverse. I got to sit there and stare at the row of men standing up front, waiting to approach a table. It was a bit like being a rancher picking a new cow at an auction (or is it a bull?)
Finally, we began. It was a relief to start after the awkward waiting. Most of the guys were nice enough—polite, friendly and willing to make conversation. I found myself repeating the same answers over and over again—yes I came here to study but now I work here. I work in PR.
I nodded and smiled and inserted the appropriate “Oh really?” and “oh?” to spur conversation. Bob Edwards would have been so proud.
But there was a horror story, people. A genuine one.
He looked ordinary enough. Slightly chubby. Sun glasses on his head even though we were indoors, in a dimly lit bar. A sort of Joe Pesci-wiseguy-ish expression on his face.
Him: Take off your glasses.
Me: Uhh no.
Him: Do you kiss on the first date?
Me: Wha?
Him: What about the second date?
Me: Uhhh it depends?
Five minutes later he talked about his desire to be a public official a.k.a a politician.
Me: Oh that’s nice. What sorts of political ideas do you have?
Him: Oh a bit of both parties. But I have to say I love John McCain’s foreign policy.
Me: Really?
Him: Yes, he doesn’t believe in surrendering.
Me: Define surrender.
Him: leaving. Also—we’re the greatest country in the world and the greatest empire in the world and everyone has to listen to us.
Me: If the US controls everything then how come countries like India are allying with countries like Iran on energy issues? What about this pipeline between India and Iran—doesn’t it make the US’s opinion on that topic irrelevant.
Him: Oh I think we should just bomb India for this.
Me: (Thinking of the geopolitical consequences of such an absurd thought process AND spluttering)..
Event Hostess: OK, your seven minutes are up!
Him: You should mark me as a yes on your card because I KNOW you want to continue this conversation.
Me: And you would be wrong.
GAG!!
P sat at my table next. (He’s a friend and colleague, for those of you getting here late to the game). He made up a cockamamie story about being Canadian and I claimed to be Bhutanese and we had a laugh about that. We spent the bulk of our seven minutes realizing that we have nothing in common aside from work talk, so in the end we just twiddled our thumbs and decided that our post-work interaction should remain minimal. Nonetheless, we marked each other as “yes” on our cards, because it’s a matter of pride, I suppose.
By 9:30, the event was done. And I was exhausted, talking to all these men. I never realized how much effort it takes to feign interest for over an hour. At some point you just do the nod, smile and space out.
I could have eaten the free wings, but I left instead. I had to change lines, get home, take a shower and watch a bit of Charlie Rose to restore my equilibrium. (God, that sounds so farty).
Would I do I again? I don’t know. It didn’t strike me as a particularly great format to talk to people, although it might be different if I tried this same event in DC. Who knows. At the same time, it may well work for some people and who am I to judge?
I first heard about speed-dating on the Oprah show eight years ago. At the time I thought it was a bit ridiculous– get to know someone in seven minutes or move on? Really? Trust Americans to make even courtship an efficient, pleasant assembly line. (Note to my US readers: don’t you hate it when furriners made mass generalizations like that about your culture? Although to be fair, you do ask me about the caste system and arranged marriages, so I guess I have some right to make absurd generalizations).
But I digress.
Then, about a year ago, when I graduated college, I realized that I had no life whatsoever (acknowledging this is the first step). I signed up for listservs and mailing lists for events in DC; aka the list for people who don’t have a life. I was hoping to acquire one.
I frequently saw the speed-dating announcements in these e-mails but dismissed them because why should I pay 15 bucks to meet a bunch of guys.
But this past week, a friend told me about a free speed dating event in a northern Virginia bar. As she was going along with a group of other friends, I reluctantly agreed. After all– it was free. And people I knew were going. And there might be free food and drinks involved.
Two things about this whole thing made me very nervous. First, I do not enjoy being the token source of color in a room, and in the one other NoVa bar I’d been to (an Irish one), I had served as just that.Even though I went to a university where 90 percent of my peers were white, I always get unomfortable when I’m the token source of color in a room. Especially if the caucasians in the room are all of one type, i.e. all hicks or all preppy popped-collarish or whatever. Then it’s a special inside set.
The second thing that unnerved me is this: I live in fear of being that girl with the “nice personality.” Which as we all know is code for plain Jane. So I did whatever I could think of that would make me feel attractive: I wore a dress. I attempted to brush that unruly mop known as my hair. I wore my favorite pair of dangly earrings.
Now that I think about this, it was a ridiculous outfit choice for a bar. Dear Mishri: please don’t wear a dress to a bar. It’s a bit like Jackie O going to a NASCAR event– the cultural incongruity can make the universe explode.
Anyway, at 6 p.m., I met one of my friends, A. We took the train in to Virginia, ate a light dinner, found out that her two other friends were bailing on us (!) and then headed in to the bar. The group, which should have been five people, had now shrunk down to three– me, A and P, the token guy and source of constant amusement for A and me.
Before we went in, we decided we needed a code word that meant exit/ escape. I suggested “hot dogs.”
Entering the bar was easy enough. Finding the actual speed dating room took a little longer, and I won’t deny I felt a little jittery as we walked in. Then I froze. There were TEN men in the room and four women. I was one of the four women. The men were mostly young-ish, nearly all were white. A couple of men were older. I felt my stomach lurching. I didn’t know what to expect, but this didn’t look good. I spun around and said to A and P: “Guys– you know what I love? I love hot dogs. Because hot dogs are SO great. Hot dogs are soooo delicious. Mmmm hot dogs.”
They laughed. And stayed put. Leaving now would be unfair to the hosts, seeing as how most of the women scheduled to attend, had bailed. I admired the sentiment, but I kept yammering on about those damn hot dogs because Oh my god, hot dogs are so delicious.
We waited well over 20 minutes for the event to begin, in part because the hostess was scrambling (and failing) to get more women. So the ratio stood: four women and ten men.
What happened next? I’ll write about it tomorrow. Right now, I’m tired.
People who know me, know I lurve Charlie Rose. Don’t get me wrong– I know he’s a flawed interviewer, what with his tendency to answer his own questions (e.g.– a question to a banker might be “So the markets are not great. They’re in trouble. Things aren’t working out. And in that situation, what do we do? Do we increase government spending? Do we cut interest rates? Or do we just say “hands off).
BUT he does have interesting and in-depth interviews with compelling people whom we don’t see enough of in the rest of US newsmedia, especially interviews with higher education officials, artists, writers and the like.
All of this is a lead up to say–this video is HILARIOUS. (Courtesy of Chris Hayes Editor of TheNation).