Unpaid Spokeswomen #21

Welcome to Unpaid Spokeswomen, a column where we log what we’ve been into this week. Behind the wigs, makeup, costumes, and several layers of irony, we are two humans who genuinely enjoy doing things. Here is a weekly roundup of our unfiltered expert recommendations.

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Trixie: 

Being Tall

There are many personal attributes that are well-suited to be taken for granted. Intellect, beauty, a masculine nose that keeps you looking perfectly Greek and strong but not at all like a bird… these are all features easily gone uncelebrated. Some personal attributes are even hated. Having huge breasts, if you ask a busty lady, is described as a painful burden. I happen to have a huge round ass that I was embarrassed of all through my 20s until I went out into the world and realized real men like triple-thick milkshakes.

Short people, let me just tell you this: Being tall is as litty as you imagine it to be. You just never hear about it because sound travels horizontally and not vertically. Just a few inches above your head, tall people are regularly having conversations about the lush experience of tallness. Oh, how joyous to unearth forgotten snack bars on the top shelf of a pantry. Oh, how stunning to be able to regularly use the top shelves of the linen closet for storing and accessing illegalized brands of pornography. And oh, how lovely to list your height on Grindr as “six foot _______” and see the short men line up like fleshy chess pawns. 

They make insoles, lifts, high heels, stilts, platforms…. All devices engineered to “heighten” the human experience. I am an even six foot and I pray every night to stretch up a few more inches. Being 6’3” for example? I’m pretty sure you just get to pick your salary at that point. The universe blooms for you like a Troye Sivan ballad.

If you’re tall, own it and enjoy it. You live your life closer to the lord and you look like a Tim Burton character. Good for you! If you aren’t tall, your options are to do spikey fetish heels full time or stack yourself up with a few short friends and throw a trench coat over yourselves with a fake mustache.

A candid from this morning.

RENO 911!

I was a child who grew up watching COPS, a now-defunct and problematic television program, with my grandparents while we ate dinner. While COPS was a show that unevenly portrayed lawbreakers as “bad” and police officers as “good,” its cultural impact was significant enough that it opened itself up to be parodied at some point. Enter RENO 911.

This entirely improvised single-camera comedy is presented mockumentary-style and follows police officers of a fictional squad attempting to do police work in Reno, Nevada. While the comedy presented is “cancellable” by today’s standards, the program is a satire of a broken system and portrays police officers as ignorant, inept, and morally fluid government employees. In this sense, the writing uses the COPS format as a basis for sketch comedy that is deeply politically incorrect. Every cast member is a star and every episode offers several screaming-at-the-television laughing moments.

Katya: 

Chicken Noodle Soup 

I am lucky to enjoy an unreasonably robust immune system for about 95% of the year, despite a history of being reckless and rambunctious when it comes to self-care and hygienic consistency. Even as my rusted hooptie of a body is swerving into the 40 year-old lane, I usually can’t immediately recall the last time I was very sick. But every other year or so, I tend to get a mild-to-moderate cold in the wintertime, which usually consists of a phlegmy cough and some aches and pains, but nothing serious enough to keep me away from my true passion: spending time alone. I am so grateful for this, because I’m a big whiny bitch baby when I don’t feel good. Of course, no one likes being sick, not even those Munchausen people who pretend to be ill (pretending to be ill– now that’s really sick!)  What’s worse than being sick is having to do it alone, with no one around to help out here and there. This is sometimes the curse of the misanthropic hermit type. It’s all fun and games until you catch the croup, get the grippe, or la peste comes a knockin’ on your 14th-century chateau and there’s nary a soul nearby to bring you Tylenol, soup, or leeches to drain the extra blood from your feverish pustule-ridden skin. So last week, when I came down with the usual non-covid mild-to-moderate yucky, I was extra grateful for all the wonderful people in my life, especially the ones I pay to be there, namely my new assistant Chrysta, fresh off the boat from Athens, Georgia. Boy does she reek, and while she may not speak a word of English, this brawny dame knows her soup. I had just wrapped a hot towel around my head when I was startled by the slimy creek of Chrysta squeezing her giant shoulders through my bay window. She grunted something, maybe in Latin, and then the wet thud of a large soggy plastic bag indicated it was lunch time. Soup’s on, is what I imagine she meant to communicate, and goddamn was she right, for once, courtesy of Canter’s Deli. I’m a picky eater in general, and when I’m feeling unwell my finicky palette is so fussy, you might as well just euthanize me. But this soup was just incredible. It was a beautiful, brothy bonanza with a small but sturdy cast of characters that have stood the test of time: carrots, noodles and chicken. But then Chrysta threw a curveball, as I felt the warm flaky crust of a baguette slap me in the jaw. No wonder where she got those shoulders from. She played in the big leagues all right, and this soup was about to win the world series. It is just so fabulous, and I slurped down every savory, delicious drop of it. If you’re ever sick in Los Angeles, I encourage you to patronize this lovely establishment located on Fairfax and Oakwood. I had the food delivered (Chrysta moonlights for GrubHub) but I’ve eaten there a few times before the pandemic and the waffles were fine.

Amanda Seyfried

I was just enjoying some lively conversation with a couple of friends. I love relaxing with a small group of friends, and it’s always a treat when the conversation is easy, intimate and spontaneous. After an unexpected lull in the conversation (both friends happened to be Greek men in their sixties) I asked,  “What if you could do a Scooby Doo-style reveal right now and rip off your skin to reveal the body and face of someone, any person living or dead, and that’s what you’ve got for the rest of your life?” Without a second’s pause, both friends shouted in unison “Rita Wilson!” Synchronicity is a very common phenomenon, they assured me as I sat there stunned. It is a Greek word after all. I would choose Amanda Seyfried, and while this is a written piece, there are not enough words in English or Greek to describe even a fraction of this woman’s beauty. Numbers couldn’t do it either. Sometimes a face is just so beautiful, people are called to look at it. That’s how the cinema was invented, so it’s no surprise that the gal in question is in fact a successful actress. And before you shout some nonsense about “just another pretty face,” I’ve got some news for you: Underneath the large doe eyes, the full pouting lips, and the whole constellation of sacred geometric proportions that come together to breathlessly form her angelic countenance, lurks a deep, rich pool of talent. Talent with a capital T. Don’t believe me, well take a look at one of her films. I would recommend one but I haven’t seen them. Not yet, but I’m looking forward to it.