Don't cry out loud

JJ cried the day the Tigers came to town…

OK, enough quoting of bad Judy Collins songs from the 70s. My brain is exploding with such happiness right now that I can scarcely think of anything funny to say. So I’ll just settle for HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU LOST YOU FRICKING BLUE DEVIL, BASTARDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And now we chant. LSU! (SEC!) LSU! (SEC!) LSU! (SEC!)

Can I get a HELL FUCKING YEAH, people??!!!

We now return to our normal programming.

iPole

Over dinner recently with CEinie, I met a new acquaintance that told me about a fascinating revolution in the world of exercise and body image. I can’t remember the exact name of it, but I thought it was called “The X Factor” (though I tried Googling this today and found nothing related…but that’s what I’m calling it for the purpose of this blog).

Apparently, the X Factor is a series of 8-10 classes where you go for a combo of exercise and self-esteem building via pole and lap dancing techniques. Yep, you read that correctly: you pay to pole dance (and lap dance too I think). Genius! Not only do you perform individually, but they actually encourage you to wear “strip club”, excuse me dancer-type attire to class. You know, to get in the spirit. My new acquaintance informed us she had just purchased 6-inch platform heels and a very, very naughty short skirt and cut-off shirt to wear. Double genius! And it’s not even Halloween!

Initially, this just sounded like some good crazy fun to me. Being the karaoke microphone hog that I am, I naturally thought: “Me + pole + audience of non-pervy men = fun!” My initial reaction was “CEinie! Let’s sign up!”

My new acquaintance was quick to point out that good crazy fun is NOT the purpose of the class. The purpose (I think) is to get you (women) comfortable with your body by seeing other people dance in an uninhibited fashion no matter what their body flaws are. Let’s face it, we all have them (remember Tyra’s sage advice on “America’s Top Model”: “Girl, I got a stomach too…you just gotta learn to hold that IN.”) and we all think that the body flaw world revolves around each of us and that there are gigantic arrows pointing ours out to everyone else. Or maybe the point is, the more frequently you get your stuff out there and get comfortable with it, the less it will bother you. Clearly, I do not know the point. Clearly, I am not yet on this higher plane.

The class is $450 for 8-10 sessions. Since I’m mulling over how to work in basic cable and wireless Internet at my new home, this probably won’t happen for me right away.

It did get me thinking though. What song would be my pole/lap dance signature sound? And what would my naughty attire consist of?

After a quick sift through my iPod, I quickly remembered the song that always seems to make me run a little faster and with a little more ‘tude when I actually make it to a treadmill and inspires me to dance 80s video-vamp style when I hear it at bars. Without further adieu, I give you, the RBrown pole-dancing tune of choice:

“Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard.

I think a pair of very tall white go-go boots with a very short but fitted 60s-style shift dress would go nicely with this song (yeah, I know it’s an 80s song but it’s my blog, people! Let me have a moment here!). I see hair and makeup similar to Sienna Miller’s 60s look donned in the 2004 version of “Alfie”. Yes, yes. My sound and look is coming together nicely.

Now, dear friends of the blogosphere, it’s YOUR turn. What’s your song? What will you wear? Guys, don’t think you can get off so easily (look at that – a copywriting pun…go figure). I’d love hear any one of the following:

a) what your song would be
b) what you’d like to see your girlfriend dance to (note the distinction here: I did NOT say what you’d like to see the local “dancers” dance to
c) if you’re just too uncomfortable with the whole thought of this, tell me what you “at-bat” song would be if you played for (insert favorite pro baseball team here).

Come on! Don’t be shy! Let it all hang out, people!

The madness behind The Madness

There are a few types of people in this world that I’ll never understand: people who rob people during funerals and weddings, people who watch absolutely NO TV, people who don’t like dogs and – most timely for right now - people who vehemently refuse to succumb to March Madness in some manner, either by filling out a bracket or by just watching the last 10 seconds of some particularly exciting game so they can add something to the water cooler convo at work.

Basketball has always been the great equalizer for me. Yesterday, I was the Quiet Girl at work. Today, I’m “Girl Who Knows You Always Pick At Least ONE 5 Seed Over a 12 Seed” girl. And if my luck holds out, I’m “Girl Who Picked Montana over Nevada” girl. I’m a GENIUS.

Growing up in Kentucky breeds an assortment of quirky behaviors and a head full of useless knowledge that only fellow Kentucky fans and a handful of fans from other diehard sports schools/teams actually get.

For example, everybody knows that it’s not just the team and coach responsible for wins during the tournament. The consistent contribution of each individual fan matters too. And I’m not talking about just showing support at games.

Let’s say you watched the 1996 NCAA tournament at Trump’s Sports Bar in Lexington, KY with your 2 friends John and Matt (hypothetical friends, by the way). Kentucky won it all that year. But in 1997 Matt couldn’t make it because his wife was in labor with the birth of their first daughter. Kentucky loses in the national title game to Arizona. Way to go, Matt. Way to fuck it up for all of us. You can bet your sweet ass that even though Matt’s wife was open to hosting a viewing party at their house for the 1998 tournament, Matt’s ass was back at Trump’s with you and John. ONLY you and John. In the SAME chairs you sat in in ’96, ordering the same items off the menu you got in ‘96. And if those same items weren’t on the menu, Matt and John just explained the situation to their server, who explained it to the cook, who then called a friend to go find the now defunct jalapeno poppers and make sure they were served to Matt and John on exactly the same type of serving plate to ensure everyone was doing their part in helping pull out another championship.

You think I’m making this up? Trust me. I’m not.

What’s happened to my Cats since 1998 you might ask? I can’t speak for the rest of the fans’ behavior since then but I do know that I am solely responsible for last year’s Kentucky loss. I flew to Cyprus. That’s right. Cyprus. To meet Ex British Lover’s family. During March. Cyprus is beautiful but there are no sports bars playing the NCAA basketball tournament, there are no Internet cafes to catch scores at, and EBL’s family is on a waiting list to get Internet and phone connection at home (usually a couple of years in Cyprus). So it wasn’t until I returned to London – ONE WEEK AFTER OUR GAME – that I found out we lost in a tight one to Michigan St.
I’m so sorry, Tubby and team. Never again will I leave the country for ANYONE during March. Period.

Don’t even get me started on grudges. Christian Laettner, 1992. That’s just dirty fucking basketball, people. That launched a hatred for Duke that can never be reversed, a dislike for any and all teams that Laettner ever played for and an intense distaste for pretty much all Duke fans who, for the LIFE of them cannot get one single fucking statistic right to save their lives, even the simple ones like which schools have more championships than theirs (never argue with a Carolina, Kentucky, UCLA fan (possibly Indiana?) on that issue for sure, you useless fuckwits.) It also ensures my support of any team who ever playsDuke. There are other grudges, but the Duke one is more permanent because, in my opinion, their fans are the most know-it-all and offensive of pretty much any other school.

I also reserve a special category of annoyance for what I like to call the “new money” schools. Arizona, for example. OK. So you beat us in 1997. Good for you. But building a dynasty is a marathon, not a sprint, and only a handful of schools are in the club, and as painful as it is for me to say it, Duke’s one of them. Sure, it’s cool to get to the Elite Eight 4 times in the past 6 years. It’s cooler when you’ve actually won championships – PLURAL - over a longer period of time, under different coaches. Call me in, oh, 100 years, you Arizona whores, when you’re actually a threat.

But your off years. Suck. And you want. To die. Really. I’m only slightly over-dramatizing. Kentucky hasn’t showed this poor of a performance since Nixon was in office. Seriously. I can’t decide which is worse: the pain of knowing that your team will do absolutely nothing in the tournament or the depression you experience after a loss in a year in which you were supposed to do something. Whereas tournament days feel as exciting as 5:30 on Christmas Eve in Lexington, with everyone bustling about to get to their destination so they can soak themselves in bourbon and beer cheese, days following a tournament loss feel like half the city was killed in a freak earthquake, tsunami or some other unnatural-to-Kentucky disaster. It’s unbearable.

But if anybody knows how to celebrate it’s a bunch of people from the south who like bourbon and worship basketball like it’s a religion. All pretense of normal behavior is off. One of my favorite family memories is from ’98 when we beat Stanford in the national semi-finals. My family watched the game together and as tacky as it sounds, we all got ridiculously loaded (didn’t we? Or was that just me?). So after we won, we did what any all-American family of drunk basketball freaks does: we got a huge bell and the Kentucky flag and ran through the neighborhood ringing the bell, ushering our neighbors out to celebrate with us in a kind of gigantic Kentucky basketball conga line. Klassy – with a K!

This year, though, I’m not pretending. We’re not going anywhere after game 2, max. I’ll still enjoy the tournament, rooting against Duke and for my other picks. My final 4: UCLA, Texas, UConn and Villanova. I’ve got Villanova beating Texas in the finals.

Why Villanova? I used a mixture of statistics, tempered with a tiny bit of emotion. RPI rankings weighed less into the decision than did their team name (um, they’re Wildcats too).

Oh, and last time they won a championship? 1985, Rupp Arena, in beautiful Lexington, KY.

Told you it was madness.

It's time to fly my freak flag

I’m composing this entry on my lunch hour. As I eat my salad at my desk. Alone. I think I’m in dangerous territory at work of getting labeled as “The Quiet Girl”. Holy. Fricking. Shit. Where have I gone wrong?

I’m having lunch-table flashbacks to the first day of school at elementary, middle and high school. Don’t get me wrong – everyone here is really nice. I just have that feeling that people don’t really know what to make of me yet, they’re still in the critical “decision phase” that we all know we put people through but maybe don’t want to admit doing. Now is the time when I need to take the bull(s) by the horn(s)! Bring out my best material! Regale with my Gregory Peck stories! Dazzle with my quick wit! Harness the camraderie of co-workership with my thoughtfulness (“I brought you a muffin for all those great layouts you did!”). So why am I freezing up? As Tom says in “Office Space”: “I’m a PEOPLE PERSON, goddamnit!”

I’ve never had this problem before. Ever. And I’m trying to figure out what it is now. I just realized today it’s been 3 1/2 years since I started a job without the comfort of having a partner by my side. And the first day of a marketing job is a lot less intimidating than the first day of an agency job (it was for me, anyway). Better Darker Half and I had a theory: all it takes is one big night of drinking with your co-workers and you’re in. The truth is, this job seems to have brought out my quiet, shy, deer-in-the-headlights side and I need to rid myself of this faster than that bad prairie shirt look from 1983. Me! Quiet? Serious? The people who know me outside this blog are checking the URL to make sure they’re at the right place. It’s ridic, right?

But what do you do when you a) have no money to go drinking b) have no money to go to lunches c) have no energy to do either anyway d) don’t really want to get into the fact that you’re trying to “do a cleanse” of drinking and meat-eating since your co-workers are all young and vibrant and healthy as a bunch of fucking horses and e) want to protect your out-of-work time like Ft. Knox so you can spend it with the non-work friends you barely get to see now? Anyone? Bueller?

I have a few ideas. But I think they’re a little progressive. For example, I’m reading “Lullaby” by Chuck Palahniuk right now and I’m thinking of writing a culling song that I can sing around the office…you know, the modern day version of getting people to drink the RBrown Kool-aid.

Perhaps a culling blog would be more appropriate for an agency that specializes in interactive media? I could send a link from an anonymous email to an entry that, following reading, would somehow encourage people to stop by my desk and chat, accept my impromptu invitations to step out for coffee, part their happy hour social circles when I approach. The little things. I think this is a good plan save a couple of minor flaws:

1) Culling verses/songs are meant to kill people. And I think that’s just taking things too far. I just want them to like me, for Christ sake.

2) This seems fairly obvious but it is conceivable that while researching the elements of culling songs/verses I could read something that actually does kill me, ironically defeating the need for anyone to try and get to know me. But an untimely death would make me ridiculously popular at work posthumously. I’d probably even score a movie on Lifetime or the Oxygen Network. Hmmm. Probably not worth it. OK, so kill the culling blog.

So what now? I need some advice. Set me straight, blogosphere. Any techniques that will knock me out of my solitude and shyness and back into the warped and dark stratosphere I normally inhabit would be much appreciated.

PS - Don't tell me to have them read my blog. Cause then I'll feel all restricted about what I can write. I know you'd think that Krazy RBrown would rear her warped head in her work somewhere but honestly...I'm not sure people even read the stuff that's been the funniest and the other stuff is financial-related. (translation: NO ONE WILL EVER READ IT EXCEPT THE CLIENT)

March Madness...a little early

For anyone out there who doesn't like basketball, doesn't "get" March Madness (gasp!), thinks brackets are hard to understand (it's choices, people, just choices) or doesn't understand what people mean when they talk about Cinderella in relation to basketball, please watch this. 2 minutes. It'll make you a believer and it'll make your Friday. I promise.

www.collegehumor.com/movies/1667265/

And by the way, even though my team is experiencing the worst suckage since pegged jeans were popular, I'm still excited about March Madness. Because I think I just heard a Blue Devil choking on a little nugget called pressure to perform in March. Too bad, so sad. I don't know the Heimlich. Bye, bye, Devil.

Happy March.
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Late addition: This has absolutely nothing to do with March Madness...unless the word "cock" getting worked into advertising is considered "mad". This, my friends, is why I love the Brits. Any excuse to work in a cock.

Click on the top left hand film:

www.littlerbritain.co.uk/