I care not for people in costume.
(That’s not altogether true, as we all know that a number 1) they serve their purpose on annual October 31sts when no one is a better Dorothy than I, and c number 3) the practice is acceptable in certain boudoir situations. That said.)
I can’t stand when law-abiding, self-respecting adults put themselves in situations in which they have to don costuming, and at its worst, period costuming. Individuals with expensive liberal arts degrees, who could probably pull down more cash selling salt water taffy on the Seaside boardwalk, actually and for whatever reason choose to put themselves in these hideous and humiliating situations. Your local renaissance fair. Civil War re-enactments. The Tower of London. Like men who wear madras, they are in more places than should be legal, making many a moment more uncomfortable for me than watching newbie improv.
A friend recently spent a week with her family in Williamsburg, VA, land of the beginnings of our land, home of churning your own butter for absolutely no reason and, well, lots of dirt and manure. To me, a vacation of this sort is a fate akin to being locked for a week in an abandoned psych ward with a clan of cyborgs or Marilu Henner. In such situations, I begin to perspire when the costumed approach, worried that I’ll be forced to speak in the King’s English or sucked into a sober Maypole dance.
Public programming stuffed this down my throat this week in what promised to be a beautiful account of the life of Typhoid Mary, my watching of which you should interpret both as my attempt to assume the role of a woman once successful on her SATs and the end of all decent regular season programming as we know it. It started out all well and good, with real-life ivy leaguers talking in irritating tones of tenements and scourges, but before I knew it, there they were. Pale women with rosy cheeks in unassuming frocks. Ah, hell. Here we go. Time for a flashback. Seriously, was I expected to be transported to the 19th century by a man with an epoxied pony hair moustache*? Modern television re-enactments are offensive enough, but actors in old-timey garments set against stagnant backdrops spewing such forth such quotes as “her stools were a living culture of typhoid bacilli”? Please. Did I not just see that “town doctor” on an episode of One Tree Hill? Yeah. I thought so.
All that said, this woman will not die before she gets to Medieval Times in all its ridiculous splendor. You’ll have to pry that turkey leg from my cold, dead hands.
*What's worse? I bet even that guy has a date for next weekend. (Ye know it's true.)
(That’s not altogether true, as we all know that a number 1) they serve their purpose on annual October 31sts when no one is a better Dorothy than I, and c number 3) the practice is acceptable in certain boudoir situations. That said.)
I can’t stand when law-abiding, self-respecting adults put themselves in situations in which they have to don costuming, and at its worst, period costuming. Individuals with expensive liberal arts degrees, who could probably pull down more cash selling salt water taffy on the Seaside boardwalk, actually and for whatever reason choose to put themselves in these hideous and humiliating situations. Your local renaissance fair. Civil War re-enactments. The Tower of London. Like men who wear madras, they are in more places than should be legal, making many a moment more uncomfortable for me than watching newbie improv.
A friend recently spent a week with her family in Williamsburg, VA, land of the beginnings of our land, home of churning your own butter for absolutely no reason and, well, lots of dirt and manure. To me, a vacation of this sort is a fate akin to being locked for a week in an abandoned psych ward with a clan of cyborgs or Marilu Henner. In such situations, I begin to perspire when the costumed approach, worried that I’ll be forced to speak in the King’s English or sucked into a sober Maypole dance.
Public programming stuffed this down my throat this week in what promised to be a beautiful account of the life of Typhoid Mary, my watching of which you should interpret both as my attempt to assume the role of a woman once successful on her SATs and the end of all decent regular season programming as we know it. It started out all well and good, with real-life ivy leaguers talking in irritating tones of tenements and scourges, but before I knew it, there they were. Pale women with rosy cheeks in unassuming frocks. Ah, hell. Here we go. Time for a flashback. Seriously, was I expected to be transported to the 19th century by a man with an epoxied pony hair moustache*? Modern television re-enactments are offensive enough, but actors in old-timey garments set against stagnant backdrops spewing such forth such quotes as “her stools were a living culture of typhoid bacilli”? Please. Did I not just see that “town doctor” on an episode of One Tree Hill? Yeah. I thought so.
All that said, this woman will not die before she gets to Medieval Times in all its ridiculous splendor. You’ll have to pry that turkey leg from my cold, dead hands.
*What's worse? I bet even that guy has a date for next weekend. (Ye know it's true.)
Labels: snark
