Suspiciendo, Despicio: As above, so below

JBB's Bombshell On What the New Year Will Bring


Your Bombshell has gathered the research and consulted the charts, and the verdict is in: the word for 2007? Auspicious. 2008: fruition. 2006: big happenings. All right, that’s two words. But it’s hard to express an entire year in one word.

In the Western tradition, a horoscope is cast by charting the positions of celestial bodies from the astrologer’s physical perspective during a specific moment in time. Traditional thought has held that the planets and their positions relative to the constellations of the horoscope strongly correlate to human affairs on a global and individual level. The scientific community rejects this theory as a whole but allows for a few possibilities.

Isaac Newton’s theory of universal gravitation posited that the gravitational effects of the planets within our solar system are of sufficient strength to effect human behavior. Modern scientific thought holds that the universe acts as a single unit and any happening within it will inevitably be felt throughout its entirety; ie. the ripple effect, or chaos theory.

Your sign is indicative of the sun’s position at the time of your birth. Jyotish astrology, a Hindu tradition and the most ancient form of astrology, casts an individual’s horoscope based on the position of the moon, arguing that the moon is a closer and more sympathetic body.

Western astrology uses the position of the moon too; in the West, it is called your “rising sign.” Your rising sign is different than your Zodiac sign. For example, I’m a Capricorn, but my rising sign is Scorpio. Capricorns are supposed to be serious, sober, and frugal people; Scorpios fiery, flaky, and hedonistic. I’m writing an article on astrology while eating chocolate. Some of that chocolate is in my hair. I tend to pay more attention to the Scorpio horoscope.

Many people, especially women, find that they identify more with their rising sign. You can find your rising sign in any simple astrology book. If you really are a helpless little thing, drop me a line and I’ll find yours for you. I will of course need your date and time of birth and don’t forget the magic word, “leopard print.” All right, that’s two words. But it’s hard to appease the bombshell with just one.

This new year is a very good year for the winter signs: Sagittarius, Capricorn, and Aquarius. Last year, you summer people- Cancer, Leo, and Virgo- had a go as activity in the Cancer constellation was high. But we winter babies will benefit from proximity to Sagittarius, the constellation that will see the most activity this year.

The ruling planet in 2007 will be Jupiter, which is traditionally associated with hard work and good luck. Jupiter is also associated with publishing, financial gain, and commitment. So commit to getting that book published this year and you’ll make a bundle. Or find yourself a rich publisher and commit to him.

Jupiter is the “winner” planet, something we will all benefit from in the coming year. In addition to this good luck, we have very few retrogrades to wrench the gears. Last year saw dozens of retrogrades, periods in which a planet appears to be moving backwards due to the Earth’s passing on its orbit. Retrogrades are believed to bring bad luck, complication, and miscommunication. In 2006, Venus was in retrograde twice. This means a lot of couples fell in and out of love and probably back in love again.

Mercury was in retrograde four times. When Mercury is in retrograde, areas of finance, friendship, and future planning are compromised. Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Pluto, and Neptune all had periods of retrograde in 2006, culminating in the early fall until mid-November, when all five were retrograde at the same time. This was a highly unusual state of affairs. At least the first three quarters of last year were sloppy. Many plans went awry and many projects fell by the wayside.

We have very few retrogrades ahead in 2007. Mercury will retrograde in March, late June through early July, and October, so keep your head down during those times. Pluto will be in retrograde until September. Pluto is the planet of decision and duty, so you might find that you have a difficult time being tied down until then. But when Pluto goes direct again, it will travel through Capricorn, the sign of dedication, steadfastness, and tradition for nineteen full years.

Many astrologers predict a massive change in the world’s political stage during Pluto’s trip through Capricorn. The last time Pluto was in Capricorn, both the French and American revolutions occurred. The period between 2009 and 2011 seem to hold the most potential for such an upheaval. But before you get your combat boots on, remember that 2008 is anticipated to be the happiest year in decades. All signs point to the realization of many a dream then.

Last year was a character-building year in which ideas were challenged and the going was slow. The planets were against us. But take heart—whatever your endeavor may be, 2007 promises to generously reward those who keep their eyes on the prize. Love, your career, that burlesque class— anything you turn your attention towards in the coming year will benefit from your efforts. Ben Franklin once said, “Work hard, get lucky,” and that seems to be the motto of 2007.

Happy travels, babies. The planets will be with us!

Read more!

For the Love of Sport

Some time ago, my Bombshell came into JBB World HQ lamenting her lack of sportsy knowledge. As she perched on Trusty Editor Oline’s desk reapplying her red lipstick and fluffing her leopard-print skirt, my Bombshell asked in exasperation: “Who the hell can teach me about this sports stuff?” Trusty Editor Croftie leaned over and whispered to Trusty Editor Oline: “Le Jock!”

Thus, for one night and one night only, Jack Black’s Body brought together Jack Black’s Bombshell and Jack Black’s Jock for an epic meeting at a quaint French restaurant, where the pair talked bats and balls until the wee hours of the morning, as my Trusty Editors hid in the corner scribbling as fast as they could.

[Curtain up.]

Bombshell: So, dear Jock.

Jack's Jock: Yes, lovely Bombshell?

Bombshell: (leaning in over her crêpe, her baby blue eyes opened wide) I’ve decided that I need to understand a bit more about sports. Because… well, my boy tells me that he thinks the life of a bombshell is kind of pricey. What with my bombtastic clothes and such. But he’s so into sports, and I just read in the paper some baseball team just spent more than $100 million on a pitcher named Dicey J, or something like that. So, just what is it with the wide world of sports? How can one guy be worth so much money?

Jack's Jock: (cracking his knuckles in excitement) Well, my dear… let us start with this “Dicey J.” Or rather Daisuke Matsuzaka (Dice-uh-kay Mat-soo-Zah-kah). People in Boston, where the Red Sox just picked him up, are buying tee shirts with a pair of dice and the letter K on them for simplicity’s sake. But in one of the more difficult contract negotiations in the world of sports, Daisuke was bought out of his contract from a Japanese baseball team, the Seibu Lions. Fifty-one million dollars of that went to pay the team for releasing him. Daisuke will get the remainder over the next six years. Which is a lot… but is certainly not the most expensive contract in baseball.

Bombshell: But why choose this guy from Japan?

Jack's Jock: He’s a legend there. His win/lose record is extremely impressive. He’s got at least four different pitches to trip up batters. It’s a gamble, but Seattle did the same thing years ago when they picked up Ichiro Suzuki from a Japanese team, and he’s been their star player ever since.

Bombshell: OK, Jock. I think I see what you mean about Dice-K. But I’m still not sure I understand what the big deal is about this baseball thing. What about those “Play-Offs” that had me in a tizzy? Men all over this city were strangely emotional. The Bombshell does not enjoy being ignorant of what’s happening in the sphere of men. What’s worse, I felt completely unequipped to deal with this, because—well, Jock—I don’t know anything about “sports.”

Jack's Jock: Those play-offs had me in whatever the burly, manly version of a tizzy is, too. A man-tizzy? A manizzy? Yes... a manizzy. Not out of confusion, but because it was the World Series, baby! A series so big it only happens every October! Which I know sounds often, since it’s annual—but just come along with me on that one. So yeah... emotions were running high.

Bombshell: (blinks eagerly and bounces in her seat with anticipation) But I still have questions, Jock, a lot of them. That whole week, my boyfriend wouldn’t let me wear red. Why was that, Jock?

Jock: Your beau was likely having you swear off red because he's a Tigers boy... and his team was playing the Cardinals of St. Louis—who are always draped in red—for THE ring. The World Series ring.

Bombshell: And why ever is it called the World Series? It’s really just the American Series, right? Or will the winner go on to play the Tokyo Blowfish or the Vienna Spatzels?

Jock: Well, this World Series doesn’t actually involve the entire world. But there is a real World Series: the World Baseball Classic. Players from all over the world participate, so that one’s a real contest from teams all over the globe. However, Major League American baseball has become very much an international affair. You can start by going back to our good and expensive friend Daisuke. And from there, just look at the rosters of all the MLB teams: Ichiro Suzuki, David "Big Papi" Ortiz, Edgar Renteria, Bobby Abreu, Chien-Ming Wang, Adam Loewen—he's Canadian, but it counts, Carlos Guillen... You get where I'm going. America invented baseball and athletes come from all over the world to play on our turf. And when we have our World Series, the world watches, Bombsy!

Bombshell: Here's another question for you, Jock: If a team is good, why all this shuffling around and trading of players? I mean, if you've got a full house, why give away your best cards?

Jock: (put his fingers to his temples and squints across the table) It’s all a matter of contracts and trades and prospects and such. Players sign different agreements for different amounts of money for different lengths of times. Their contracts can be sold to other teams for “young guns” in the bullpen, or fresh blood in the infield. Only a perfect team with perfect chemistry can carry you all the way to the World Series.

Bombshell: Do managers and coaches change every year, too? Where’s the continuity?

Jock: Contracts for managers and coaches are deliberated in much the same way. It’s all about contracts, contracts, contracts. So much of sports is about the team’s President & CEO, not the team’s coach. Your Epsteins & Steinbrenners. The corporation or private businessman footing the bill.

Bombshell: It's all a little promiscuous if you ask me...

Jock: It’s a dirty business of Benjamins to back the big buck bonds each body in every band of ball players bears.

Bombshell: Dirty, indeed.

Jock: But sometimes buying talent isn’t all there is to it. Look at the Yankees. They have some of the best talent in baseball and bought the incredible Bobby Abreu this season to bolster their post-season chances. But it still wasn’t enough. So much of managing a team and putting the right players together is a gamble.

Bombshell: (pauses in thought) I suppose I can understand the draw of baseball, even from afar... The lazy summer afternoons and sunflower seeds. It’s all rather romantic. But what about this football business, Mr. Jock? What is so interesting about a bunch of enormous men running up and down a field for hours on end? What are they doing out there?

Jock: My Bombshell, students of war can answer this one. But since we don’t have any of those around at the moment, I’ll do my best. Football is essentially a war on a battlefield. But rather than acquiring land and conquering the enemy’s army, you’re moving a ball downfield.

Bombshell: Ok, I can give you the war analogy. But I hear that football’s a "complicated and intricate" game, and I just don’t get it. What’s so complicated about moving a ball down a field? What’s so intricate about men running into each other?

Jock: Yes, the offensive and defensive lines do seem to just run into each other. But there really is so much intricacy to what you see in a football game. It’s a test of strength and skill. Can you protect your quarterback? Can you work the ball through the line or pass it successfully downfield? As the defense, can you force a loss of yards? Can you get the sack? The fumble? Getting the ball downfield isn’t just scoring. They do look to be just running back and forth. But what’s really happening here is a clash of brains and brawn.

Bombshell: But what’s the intrigue of football? Is it the cheerleaders? Take a moment and extol the fabulousness of football for the Bombshell, if you will. Tell me what all the fuss is about. I just don’t get it, Jock!

Jock: It’s totally the cheerleaders. No, actually, it’s the players, not the ladies, who create the intrigue. Every man will tell you that when we were boys, football players seemed almost like superheroes. Because they’re covered in shoulder pads and helmets, they can take massive hits and often get up unhurt and keep playing. And this way, we don’t feel bad when a game’s over because no one’s actually killing anyone. What you’re seeing on the football field each week is men reliving the Romanesque clash of warriors.

Bombshell: But I know plenty of ladies who watch football. What’s in it for them?

Jock: Maybe they just like all the muscles and tight pants.

Bombshell: I know I do! But not even those muscles and delightfully tight pants can keep me interested for an entire game. If I’m going to date a sports fan, I want to appreciate more than just the players’ physiques. I want to know what’s going on. My fella tells me this season isn't over until APRIL! Basketball and hockey are going now, too, and I’ve got so much to learn! Just in case I get stuck down at Seamus McDunlay's Pub watching the football, give me a crash course of useful terminology, would ya? And throw in some wickedly expert terms too. So far all I have is "Run the Buttonhook!" "Pound the Ball!" and "Sack!" That last one's my favorite. How often does a girl get to yell "sack" in public?

Jock: Well first and foremost, let me say I don't think any man can actually resist a woman screaming, "Pound the ball!" Yowzah! But if you want a bit more, be willing to discuss the benefit of a two-point conversion—this is when the team runs the ball back into the end zone instead of kicking the extra point after a touchdown. Go to the website of your boy’s team, and read a little bit about the quarterback. Check his regular season win/lose record.

Bombshell: That sounds like a good idea. I do want to be, you know, like..."supportive" of his love of the game, so I’ll learn all I can. But I don’t actually want to have to give up my life to sports… Jock, how to I wrangle my tiger away from the television without creating resentment?

Jock: Bombsy, my girl... it's really all about balance. If one of the biggest games of the seasons is on, realize the boy will be much happier the next time he sees you if he got to watch his game, whether his team won or lost. But if there's something major going down, like your sister's wedding or your grandmother made a home-cooked meal just for him, and he just keeps saying, "Baby, the game is on!" Well, then just inform him that tonight he can go to bed, not with you, but with Neil Everett and Scott Van Pelt—the boys from ESPN's SportsCenter.

Bombshell: It's funny you should say that, because Scott Van Pelt IS my boyfriend. Small world.

Jock: Oh my God! Can I meet him?

[Curtain down.]

Read more!

For the Love of Marilyn

JBB's Bombshell Pays Her Respects to la Muse

She was alone when she went. But solidtude was her element, her constant state of being. In the early years of her life she was left unclaimed; in her later years placed on so high a pedestal that none could claim her. She was alone and she must have been in terrible pain. Why else take twenty-two sleeping pills? It’s ironic, then, that in the hours after her death so many descended on her house, crowding around her bed. If only one concerned soul had been there the night she lay down under the weight of her pain, perhaps she would have risen to see one more sun dawn on her hope. But that is one of life’s most painful ironies; we almost always conceive love in our souls only after its object has been lost forever.

In the hours, days, weeks and decades after Marilyn Monroe’s death on August 5, 1962, the world has been overcome by its love for her. Immediately following the news of her overdose, the suicide rate in Los Angeles jumped by 40% for two months. She was the world’s most photographed person, and is now the most often reproduced image in American media. Everything she touched, said, or wore is holy to us now. She is a figure of cultish worship and endless speculation in even the most sophisticated intellectual forums. We just cannot let her go.

Widely considered something of an erotic freak in life, Marilyn has become a bona fide goddess in death. It was of course the abrupt tragedy of her end that has been responsible for this ascension to immortality. Had she lived to grow old, the spell would have worn off and we would have fallen out of love with her. But she did not grow old and begin to tarnish. We will never know what could have been. The destruction of potential is an irresistible catalyst to the imagination; especially when the person of potential is as enchanting as Marilyn.

Our collective imagination has struggled to explain Marilyn’s death, the void she left has been filled with outlandish murder plots and conspiracy theories. I believe this is because we are all dealt a devastating blow of despair when a fellow human being reaches the height of fame and fortune, yet cannot justify her life to herself any longer. What hope is there for the rest of us down here on the ground if the few who have reached the very summit of modern life simply give up? Surely they must have been stuck down by the Mafia or the Kennedys or Kruschev; the alternative is too awful to face.

But perhaps it doesn’t have to be. Marilyn Monroe was a powerhouse of dynamism, charisma, and beauty. She was also a heartbroken woman. And it was her immense sadness—her unfathomable isolation—that she alchemized into luminosity. Her demons drove her relentlessly on toward greatness, perfection, impossibility. In her profound need for love and acceptance, she literally transformed herself into the American ideal of love.

As brightly as she burned, it is little wonder that she spent herself so quickly. In thirty-six years on this planet, few have given as much of themselves as she did…and then she was simply finished. So perhaps her death was not a tragedy. She came, she captivated the world, and she left us mad with desire for more. Marilyn was an unbelievable success.

If there is a tragedy in this love affair, it is that we could not induce her to stay longer. We used her up, we toyed with her, we humiliated her. We denied her very humanity in our frenzy to make love to her. And so she played along for awhile, until she was done. Now that she has gone, we cannot accept the permanence of her absence or the magnitude of her loss. That, I believe, is the moral of the story of Marilyn Monroe. Love what you have while you have it, because when it is gone, you’re going to feel its absence forever.

Read more!

On Being a Bombshell*

By JBB’s Very Own Bombshell Leslie

*bomb·shell
1 : BOMB
2 : one that is stunning, amazing, or devastating

The Bombshell gets away with things many women cannot.
You name it—fashion faux pas, not having any money, forgetting people’s names, frequently calling in sick to work, public inappropriateness, and streaks of profanity. The Bombshell is forgiven many foibles. There are several reasons for this.

First, the Bombshell is unapologetic. She knows it is part of her appeal that you just never know what to expect from her. Brigitte Bardot has a llama and two goats living in her house (at last count), and Elizabeth Taylor once accidentally flushed down a hotel toilet the multi-million dollar diamond ring given to her by Richard Burton. Any one who knows a Bombshell is aware of her chronic randomness. So when she does something like sets her cheese sandwich down on the jewelry counter at Tiffany’s, it’s simply par for the polka-dotted course.

Second, a Bombshell forgives many eccentricities in return. A Bombshell will gloss over any awkward situation in an effort to keep the mood at its scintillating best. If you completely wipe out in the middle of a street, a Bombshell will tell you how graceful your recovery was.

Finally, the Bombshell looks seriously cute doing amazingly stupid things. Don’t ask why, it’s just part of her art.

The Bombshell is a female’s female.
While men may adore her, the Bombshell is definitely a girls’ girl. She revels in all things female—romance novels, glittery body powder, Lifetime Television for Women. If it’s fuchsia, feathery, and nauseatingly girly, the Bombshell has three of them. The Bombshell believes that being sent into this world as a female is a miracle and a blessing of the highest degree, and endeavors to make an art of her femininity. Which is why she wears high heels while vacuuming.

The Bombshell is superstitious.
The Bombshell not only believes in the great beyond, she believes. What ever spiritual medium she chooses, she has a profound reverence for the otherworldly. She may run the rosary before boarding a plane or making plans for auditions, dates, and dinner parties according to her astrological guide. She hedges her bets. The Bombshell knows there is something divine at work in this world. There has to be. How else can you explain Chanel No. 5?

The Bombshell is intellectual.
It’s tempting to think that the Bombshell spends her weekends at the beach or under a hair dryer. This is simply not so. A true Bombshell is most likely to be found at a museum or a theatre, or perhaps sitting in the corner of her local bookstore with a pile of books. Her passionate love affair with life manifests itself in her endless self-education. Also, she knows that sexy starts with the mind. Your piled platinum hairdo will only get you so far with the fellas if there’s nothing going on underneath it. Marilyn knew that. That’s why she read Ulysses.

The Bombshell has done her homework.
The Bombshell knows that in order to be the best Bombshell she can be, she must study and learn from those who have gone before her. It is a surprising and consistently true fact that, since intensive self-education often begins at an early age, most Bombshells were complete nerds in their teenage years. During these years, the Bombshell would have read biographies of everyone from queens to courtesans, geishas to actresses and muses. Cleopatra won the heart of the most powerful man of her era at the age of 19. A Bombshell would want to know how. For centuries, the courtesans of Venice were the only women allowed access to the university libraries. A Bombshell would want to know why. The Bombshell studies the great ones, men and women, alive and dead. She always strives to learn from examples of excellence.

The Bombshell has a voracious appetite.
Food, drink, love, literature—when it comes to the best things in life, a Bombshell just can’t get enough. Moderation is not a word you will find in the Bombshell lexicon. Tragically, many Bombshells perish at a relatively young age—Jean, Marilyn, Jane, Evita. Because of this, the Bombshell psyche is imbued with a deep sense of the brevity of life and the inestimable value of each and every day, which should be lived to the fullest. The drawback to this noble sentiment is that it often leads to overindulgence in chocolate and alcohol, and the occasional ill-advised marriage.

The Bombshell cannot cook.
I don’t know why this is.
When Marilyn Monroe hosted her first dinner party, guests were amazed to see her pull out a hair dryer and blast the lasagna noodles. I have heard that European Bombshells, mainly around the Mediterranean, can cook quite well. But your standard-issue American Bombshell makes macaroni and cheese with a fire extinguisher and a prayer.

The Bombshell comes in many packages.
A low-cut dress does not a Bombshell make. The Bombshell comes in many shapes, sizes, shades, and vintages. She is not always immediately identifiable by outward trappings, such as three different articles of animal print. You will know when you are face to face with a Bombshell, however, because the world will suddenly seem that much sexier. The Bombshell has a devestating aura.

And finally, the most important Bombshell quality…Joi de Vivre.
The essential quality of Bombshellism is joi de vivre; the Bombshell is a Bombshell because she full of love and she is always in love. She loves her man, her fellow man, and her menagerie of pets. She loves babies. She loves you. Most of all, she loves life. This effusiveness and eagerness is much like champagne overflowing a glass. The Bombshell overflows in all things, not just her dress.

Darling, Are You A Bombshell?
If you answer “yes” to any of these questions, you most definitely are.
• Your lingerie matches your curtains.
• You refer to your bedroom as “The Boudoir.”
• Your refrigerator contains no actual food, but is well stocked with nail polish, eye masks, cold cream and a forest of perfume bottles.
• Your mother was a Bombshell.
• No one is actually certain what you do for a living, but they think it involves, or is fronted by, a salon.
• You know all the words to Eartha Kitt’s “Let’s Misbehave.”
• You can shout down a construction worker and keep your sundress clean.

Still not a Bombshell? Fake it ’till you make it!
• Download Ethel Merman’s “I Enjoy Being a Girl” and skip around your house.
• Replace your daily water consumption with Pink Champagne. It’s guaranteed to bring out the kitten in you.
• Fall in love.
• Take a Burlesque dance class. I DARE you not to feel sexy after that one.
• Do your research. The Bombshells’ Guide to Style by Lauren Stover is a glorious little volume that covers everything Bombshell from the wardrobe and coiffure to literature and musical selection. There’s even a Bombshell Zodiac and a chapter on how a Bombshell entertains a man. Behave.

Go forth and be fabulous, little Bombshells.
Smooches,
Bombsy

Read more!

Tango Boot Camp

Jack Black’s Bombshell: Queen of the Dance

Last weekend I took my first steps of Tango.

I am in the midst of a ridiculously passionate love affair with a profoundly romantic young man. This poetic soul believes dance is a crucial manifestation of the relationship between man and woman, and therefore an essential part of courtship and love. In our initial conversation on this topic he told me that he believes the Tango is the apex of this experience; the intense intimacy of the embrace, the intricacy of the steps, the outrageously plaintive lyrics. Every other dance pales in comparison.

We quickly identified Tango as a metaphor for the kind of sustained, unapologetically consuming love that so many of us want and so few of us have yet achieved. He looked into my eyes, shyly but steadily. “It may be that you and I will Tango. Maybe we can learn this, together.” The words were very simple, the message was subtle, the invitation immense.

Some weeks later on a Friday afternoon this young man and I met downtown for the first night of “The Chicago Tango Mini-Festival,” or “Tango Boot Camp” as we came to call it; three days of back-to-back classes followed by a Milonga (dance) each evening until the wee hours of the morning. We were a little puzzled by the rigorousness of the schedule. I suppose I envisioned a Tango festival with a lot of dim lighting, black clothing, and roses clamped between gleaming teeth. Perhaps some temperamental man would rant in an indiscernible Argentinean accent for half an hour on the beauty and pain that is Tango, and then we’d learn some swishy turn and have an espresso. The schedule I held in my hand looked more like my last semester of college.

In retrospect, I learned a lot about myself and my beloved at Tango Boot Camp. Firstly, it was revealed that I have disturbing soccer-mom tendencies. Other women showed up with dancing shoes and blithe smiles. I had an enormous bag stuffed with granola bars, band-aids, hair ties, aspirin, and back-up batteries for the digital camera. I shudder to think of what I would have been brought had a mini-van been at my compulsive disposal.

The first class began and I was amazed that despite the many other couples present, we two were the youngest people there. Given the stunning sexuality of a well-executed and heartfelt Tango, one would think that hungry twenty-somethings would be flocking to Milongas everywhere. Not so. There are very few young people, mostly couples, mostly married.

Our instructor, Robert, had us begin by simply leaning chests and shoulders together to form a sort of pyramid. “Lean close enough to each other to feel your partner’s heart beat, yet keep yourself centered enough so that if your partner stumbles, you will not fall.” The music began.

We swayed back and forth a little. My young man looked me in the eye, and we took our first step together. It was more a balancing act than anything else as we tried to move with the correct posture; dignified, steady and mercilessly personal. It was bliss. Clumsy, hesitant bliss.

By the end of the first evening, we were able to move forward around the floor and execute a turn or two with surprising ease. We had also learned a fast, choppy little Tango-esque dance that has the virtue of being very easy to do while looking quite complicated and impressive to the viewer. I was psyched.

At the first Milonga, we encountered the wildest, most dangerous and elusive breed of Tango-er: Crazy Tango Stallion Man. He burst in exactly like Antonio Banderas in “Desperado.” The women, as if of one mind, turned wide, fearful eyes on him. He snatched up one woman. I didn’t envy her as he executed a series of appallingly erotic and painful looking lifts, turns, and holds with her. When he released her and she crawled away, I watched as he asked and was refused by woman after woman. Some turned their backs on him. Some pretended not to notice his approach and scuttled quickly towards the chips and soda. Apparently, Crazy Tango Stallion Man has a reputation. Ladies, beware.

By the end of the second evening, my young man and I were tripping over intermediate moves and feeling the intense urge to slap each other. We were hungry, tired, and our feet felt like they’d been dipped in acid. We’d been under the instruction of two women from Argentina, both stars on the Buenos Aires dance scene. These women were beautiful, mysterious, and intensely cold. They had very little patience for the all-American crowd and watched with thinly veiled contempt as we attempted to repeat the slinky little combination they had demonstrated. We bowed our heads and shuffled off towards the train with the intention of hitting the “Hard-Core All-Night Milonga” that evening and perfecting the step. Instead we went home, ate many, many tacos and fell asleep in our clothes.

The third and final day delivered us back into Robert’s capable hands. After the combination-step craze of the day before, he brought us back to keel with the slow, balanced art of feeling your partner’s movement. We ambled, then swayed, then spun around the beautiful, baroque hall while thunder rumbled outside and the music lilted on the wind.

At the final Milonga I found myself again standing across from my young man. Here we were, three days, six classes and many, many tacos later. He leaned into me, put his arms around me, and began to lead me across the floor. Having danced with so many partners over the weekend, I had actually only danced with him a few times and his embrace felt almost foreign to me. I was surprised by the level of grace and ease he had reached over these three short days. We stumbled once or twice, but they were neat little rhythmic stumbles and no one fell down or sprained anything. We were still fairly remedial in our Tango, but we were Tangoing nonetheless.

Each time we dance, we must find that balance first. I move my hair to one side so my femininity doesn’t asphyxiate him. We must take equal strides so as not to step on each other’s feet. We hold one another close, but do not cling. I cannot attempt to anticipate his next move, as doing so will only tangle our feet. I have to provide him enough resistance to move me forward, but not so much tension that I become heavy.

He always kisses my cheek, once, just before we begin.

Read more!

Meet Bombshell Leslie

Bombshell Leslie (Bäm-"shel Less-lee) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something actress, writer, receptionist, and muse living in Lincoln Park, Chicago. A graduate of Southwest Missiouri State University, Bombshell Leslie is JBB’s Marilyn Monroe, Cleopatra, Luna-tic, burlesque, bombshell-stuff expert. She enjoys chicken noodle soup, her Pheobus, and street fighting. She will cut you.

Read more!

Glorious & Ghetto Happenings

An Exploration of Human-Lunar Phenomena
by Bombshell Leslie

It’s been a hard week, people. I’ve been dropping things, stumbling down the street, and generally questioning the direction of my life. It’s enough to make me want to sit in my bath tub and cry like a little girl.

Yet, I am relatively comfortable with this madness because, in about a week or two, my luck is going to change. That homeless guy on the 22 Clark St. bus is going to stop playing with my hair. My father is suddenly going to realize the profound wisdom of my stance on capitol punishment. I’m going to find my godforsaken can opener. Things are going to get easier. Why? Because the now-waning moon is going to be waxing soon, gathering strength rather than losing it, and infusing me with energy and inspiration rather than sucking my will to live.

I am a firm believer in the moon’s ability to affect life on this planet in much the same way that it affects the oceans’ tides. My less than concrete understanding of this phenomenon does not detract from the very real influence I recognize in the ebb and flow of my own life and its alternately glorious and ghetto happenings. Invariably, when I make this remark to my friends, they raise indulgent eyebrows and nod sympathetically. Luckily, I move in an open-minded and accepting social circle.

More often than not, this encouragement on the part of my audience leads me into one of my favorite tirades: What’s up with the scientific community’s inability to provide good solid evidence for me to hang my hat on? A little research on my part has revealed that earnest studies of the moon and human behavior began right around the time The Simpsons first aired. Why hasn’t this issue been more extensively studied? As for the few tentative forays that have been made, what has modern science produced in the way of an explanation?

My terribly sophisticated research methodology has uncovered the fact that the contemporary debate over the moon’s effect on human behavior is being almost exclusively fought out between the scientific titans England and Australia. Both countries have committed their governmental and academic resources to undertaking a serious investigation of lunar-human phenomena and have, thus far, come up with facts and figures that directly contradict each other. Excellent.

The Bradford Royal Infirmary in Bradford, England reviewed Emergency Room admissions over a two-year period. They noted that the incidence of critical animal-inflicted injuries, such as dog bites and bear maulings, were twice as high on the dates of or immediately leading up to the full moon. Not to be outdone, one Sydney Chapman (who, let us note, is lacking in academic prefixes) at the University of Sydney, Australia, did the same study in Australia and rather stubbornly found the opposite to be true. Not only was there no correlation between the full moon and animal attacks, but the ER admissions reflected an overall decline during the full moon.

Mr. Chapman offers no explanation for why English critters would be so affected by the moon’s phases, while the emotionally balanced Australian fauna are impervious to such neurosis. In turning his scientific experiment into a personal attack on Britain’s wildlife, Mr. Chapman betrays a rather imbecile colonial inferiority complex.

*It should be noted from this point forth that the author is prepared to completely reject Mr. Chapman’s findings on the grounds of his being Australian. She will assume the educated reader feels the same. *

Just to show that we, as a people, have forgiven all past occupations and oppressions, the scientific facts and figures produced by the few American researchers in the field seem to align with those of our buddies across the pond. A homicide study in Dade County Florida that spanned fifteen years, found that when plotted against the waxing and waning of the moon, the frequency and volume of murderous activity consistently rose and fell in a concurrent manner. In other words, when the moon was in its first or last quarters, relatively fewer first dates and baby showers ended in tragedy. But when the moon was full, the average Miami resident was significantly more likely to be impaled by a loved one, or have a complete stranger throw a brick at his or her head.

Historically, this is not a new concept. In Victorian England, the “Lunatic Defense,” claiming that an individual could not be held accountable for his or her actions during the full moon, was regularly invoked in criminal court. The massive Stock Market crash of 1929 was blamed on the approaching full moon by many members of the press. And to this day, multi-million dollar lumber-harvesting contracts in Southeast Asia and the rainforests of South America are timed in observance of the moon’s movements.

Some years ago, the Philadelphia police department commissioned the American Institute of Medical Climatology to investigate the correlation between human behavior and lunar activity. Arson, kleptomania, suicide attempts, and reckless driving topped the list. According to those in the know, these are all apparently “Psychotically Oriented Crimes.” In fact, 81% of mental health professionals surveyed in the United States and Europe believe that lunar cycles directly affect human behavior. No Australian psychologists could be reached for comment.

So what does science offer by way of explanation for the link between the moon and human behavior? The leading theory is this: The small gravitational influence exerted by the moon governs the ebb, flow and general tidal activity of Earth’s water bodies. As it would happen, the human body is composed of 80% water. The hypothesis is that the human body experiences a “biological tide” not unlike those observed in nature. According to the Journal of the Florida Medical Association, “82% of post-operative bleeding crises occurred nearer the full moon,” suggesting that the moon’s pull affects blood-flow as well. And as it turns out, those South American tree-ring lords are quite wise in timing the harvest with the moon—the full moon causes sap to rise in the trees, attracting all manner of nasty insects.

Dr. Robert Doyle of King’s College, London, proposes that while there is a marked change in human behavior during full moon phases, it may be attributed to evolutionary conditioning rather than a perpetual relationship. “There is certainly reason to believe that people’s very personalities do change,” he says, “but not because of any astronomical force. In the days before artificial lighting, the full moon created optimal lighting conditions for feeling carefree and mischievous.”

Try as they might, scientists cannot find proof-positive that a link exists. Even more discouraging is that those who do undertake to establish a link are coming up with contradicting evidence. “The studies are not consistent,” says Dr. Kelly of the University of Saskatchewan, “For every positive study, there is a negative study.”

Well, I say try harder.

Dr. Aussie can tell me until he’s blue in the face that the moon’s movements don’t affect my psychological well-being or the major events in my life. But let it be known that every day, I bust out my Astrological guide to see what the moon is up to, and I act accordingly. In February, it warned me that the full moon of that particular month was extremely strong (being very near the Earth) and would bring with it some serious happenings. That week I got an obscenely large tax return and met the man of my dreams. So there.

Another theoretical gem offered up by the University of Sydney chalks the whole thing up to selective memory, or what psychology dubs “confirmation bias.” This implies that because some beliefs are so essential to us, or so thrilling to cling to, we will seek out and mentally highlight information that confirms our individual and collective theories, while ignoring evidence that contradicts or undermines them.

I heartily reject this notion as well. This is a phenomenon that has been puzzling mankind for thousands of years, not some sort of disorganized mass hysteria. As for myself, perhaps there may have been an instance in my life when the moon failed to exert its almighty influence on my mood and inclination towards psychotically oriented crimes, but I certainly cannot recall it.

Read more!