No company for old men (and women)

I somehow missed an essay called No Country for Old Men (and Women) by Steve Grubbs, about agism in the media, especially as companies seek “synergies and cost savings” after they merge (good-bye Time Inc.!)  Chillingly, he writes about running into “a senior executive at a major media company who indicated she ‘had maybe two years left.’ She is in her early 50’s.”

As factors, he cites the pressures imposed by Wall Street when media companies miss their earnings’ mark. But fair enough, as this pressure is a byproduct of being a publicly held company, yeah? More on the mark, specifically for media sellers, is the death of relationship selling, thanks to programmatic ad buying.

N.B.: Ageism is also true on the creative side, per this post.

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Sanctuary

And just as we launch ourselves into “the holiday season,” which is almost entirely equated with shopping, here’s a beautiful story about a Dutch church (shared by a friend, how did I miss this?) and its 800-hour service, as a means of protecting a Armenian family from deportation.

Apparently under Dutch law, police officers are not permitted to enter a church while a religious service is taking place, CNN explains. So for more than a month, hundreds of pastors and volunteers have conducted a continuous service, all in support of the family, whose asylum claim was rejected.

Not for nothing, the church is called Bethel Church.

The meaning of Christmas, indeed.

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The meaning of Christmas

 

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Growing Darkness

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Wild + Precious

I just found out that the literary world is dismissive of the poet Mary Oliver, whom I love to pieces. I was thinking of the “sun swinging east” during these “days of growing darkness,” quoting “Lines Written During These Days of Growing Darkness.” Feeling as if I had elevated my experience of a bleak day. Feeling a bit smug to be thinking about poetry as I walked home from the train station as opposed to, say, about the wine I was going to drink when I got there. Turns out my poet of choice was deemed “the kind of old-fashioned poet who walks the woods most days, accompanied by dog and notepad,” per a profile in The New Yorker. The profile also tells me she was a Provincetown girl who wrote about the world but stuck close to home. When asked if she might like to travel she said yes, agreeably, then would “go off to my woods, my ponds, my sun-filled harbor, no more than a blue comma on the map of the world but, to me, the emblem of everything.”

And speaking of everything, take this you also-smug New Yorker profile writer: “There is only one question; / how to love this world,” from Oliver’s “Spring.”

I give you “Lines” which I recited, almost by heart, at the Bowery Poetry Project this past summer (a story for another time).

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?

So let us go on, cheerfully enough,
this and every crisping day,

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.

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What women want

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It’s not that complicated. But brands don’t get that women want to see themselves reflected—their bodies, their ages, their ethnicities, their preferences—in branded messaging. Recently, a Victoria Secret executive dismissed the thought of casting plus size and transgender models in Victoria’s Secret shows.

“Why don’t you do 50?” L Brands CEO Ed Razek retorted, referring to garment sizing. “Why don’t you do 60? Why don’t you do 24? It’s like, why doesn’t your show do this? Shouldn’t you have transsexuals in the show? No. No, I don’t think we should. Well, why not? Because the show is a fantasy. It’s a 42-minute entertainment special. That’s what it is.”

It’s Ed Razek’s fantasy, and indeed fatal flaw, that women want to watch an “entertainment special” featuring pantily-clad women at all. Per the NY Times, the company’s stock is down 41 percent this year and in response to questions asked in recent consumer study, 60 percent said they think the brand feels “forced” or “fake.”

I’m recalling a 2013 flameout when an executive at Lulu Lemon told the press that plus sizing was not part of its “formula.” Posted on its Facebook page: “Our product and design strategy is built around creating products for our target guest in our size range of 2-12. While we know that doesn’t work for everyone and recognize fitness and health come in all shapes and sizes, we’ve built our business, brand and relationship with our guests on this formula.”

Meanwhile, ThirdLove, started by women offers 74 sizes and “nude” tones across the spectrum of human skin colors. That’s what women want.

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I’m Rich

My Grandma Howard used to say — chortle, really — ‘I’m rich,’ when referring to her six grandchildren. Funny, because she was a mostly unsentimental person about family and everything else (and also because she was rich, money wise).
I’m reading a book* about a man who has suffered a violent assault and is recovering at home, full of pain and rage, his memory addled. All he wants is to return to what was once so unremarkable he was entirely unseeing of it: his ordinary life. He wants to be just a man putting on his jacket before leaving for work in the morning, stopping to rinse out a coffee cup and check his pocket for keys. Unremarkable except when it’s all gone and you no longer have a job to go to or the ability to make coffee or the dexterity to use keys or the mobility required to walk down a sidewalk on your own. I read in this both a caution and an invitation. Notice all these things, they are not yours forever (the bad news). Don’t dismiss your ordinary blessings because you’re too busy wanting other things. Also (and the good news): while you have them you are rich indeed.
*The Witch Elm by Tana French

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How to be 60: Find Your Peeps

I seek women of my age or stage who look cool and proud and smart and stylish and modern. I imagine they recognize one or more of these qualities in me and we acknowledge each other as we pass, silently. ‘I see you, lady!’

This requires that the woman not be arrogant or self-involved or have some similar blinding factor. (Note: arrogance and self-involvement are limiting!”) Why? Because otherwise they won’t see me. 

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Storyholic

I have a horror of landing someplace without a book or streaming device or a way to write — a way to distract myself with a story. The more tired I am the simpler the distraction must be: an Instagram feed works well. Embarking on a 20-hour trip to Shanghai, I have 3 physical books, 5 novels on 3 platforms (Hoopla, iBooks, Scribd) and episodes downloaded to Netflix and Amazon Prime. Good to go.

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I Feel Bad About My Neck

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This is the title of a book of Nora Ephron essays, which, when I got it as a Christmas present, I found dated and schtick-y (I also thought, at the time, I’m too young for this). But now it happens to be true, though I feel like a bad feminist for admitting it. Maybe I should reframe the emotion as ‘I feel good about turtlenecks.’

 

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Lost + Found

Lost + Found

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I got through 21 days of Whole30 before succumbing to a glass of Pinot Noir last Saturday. I meant to complete the program—which I was also calling Sober October—but found another glass of wine in my hand on Monday night, out to dinner with family, and yet another while out to dinner with colleagues on Tuesday night. And so on. I expressed some self-serving (not to mention wine-serving) thoughts about the ‘magical thinking’ around needing to complete 30 days. And how much I loved Whole30, even while quitting it.

Here’s what I lost: a few pounds, maybe three, but more significantly a narrowness around my waist. I have a pair of pants, purchased this time last year, that had begun to make me feel bad and sad—tight around the waist which caused my stomach to look wide and round.

Here’s what I gained:

  • My attachment to wine in the evenings, as a means of changing my moods. Before Whole30, I felt deprived if I couldn’t pour a glass after work; now I feel slightly repelled by the thought of the wine-induced shift in brain chemistry.
  • My hunger for grains—pizza, pasta, sandwiches, popcorn. I craved those kinds of carbs. But now I don’t.
  • A super-productive run of weeks—a renewed interest in getting things done, as compared to the dulled and restless mood I felt before the program

Here’s what I’m thinking:

  • Continue with moderate drinking. No rules come to mind, but I’m thinking about them, at the very least.
  • Continue with the zero-to-minimal grains. For instance, in the airport very early this morning, I was thrilled to find RxBars, which satisfy so completely.
  • Continue with the focus on protein—was that the key to my improved energy?
  • Continue to avoid entirely sweets and salty snacks, which I’d protest are not a weakness of mine, until I consider the late afternoon candy, pretzels, popcorn and whatever else is being dispensed at the office.

Here’s what I’m still missed: a creative urge, the inspiration to write, this post notwithstanding. I’m writing it but in a workaday way. Same applies for reading. I can’t find the intellectual curiosity to take up ambitious novels, favoring pulpy women’s literature (The girl/woman in the window/on the train/in Cabin 10 and in all sorts of other perilous situations) and murder mysteries. And somehow connected to this is my aversion to yoga. The task of emptying my mind seems impossible; worse, it doesn’t appeal to me. At all. Where have you gone, mind of mine? And when will you return?

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Look at Her

Giuliani

Look at Him

Rudy Giuliani has said and done some odious things since he was declared “America’s Mayor” after 9-11. Getting in bed with Trump was one of them but making matters worse, he took it upon himself to explain why, in his opinion, Trump would have never had an affair with someone like Stormy Daniels.

“I’m mean look at her,” he said in a televised interview, disparaging Daniels as not attractive enough, not educated enough and not classy enough for the likes of Trump. His facial expressions—a wince, an eyeroll and the kind of Borscht-Belty mugging Trump himself deploys—dismissed even the “remotest possibility” of a Daniels/Trump affair. And then he felt the need to add that he couldn’t respect a woman who sold her body for money. “I mean, come on.”

“You misogynistic fool. Are you kidding me? Just look at Stormy Daniels? Just look at yourself,” Mika Brzezinski responded, frostily, after playing a clip from Guiliani’s speech. “Let me tell you something. Stormy Daniels could indeed bring down this president, so I hope you all just look at her.”

Co-host Joe, wisely, refrained from interrupting her, or saying anything at all, as Mika continued, which was a nice piece of theater unto itself.

So many baffling things about Guiliani’s words but some of them include: Trump already admitted to the affair, you fool, and Marla Maples is nobody’s idea of classy and, by the way, FLOTUS, at one time, also “sold her body for money” (see photos below).

FLOTUS

Classy

 

 

 

 

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