Marketing masquerading as a movement.

After a lot of failure and second-guessing myself, I finally started getting a little bit of success with my writing. It felt like making a fire by rubbing two sticks together; you feel like an idiot until there’s a tiny spark, and then all your energy goes into feeding that spark.

For me, that meant revamping my wardrobe from the ground up — dress for the job you want and all that. And part of that meant revamping my underwear game. What can I say? There’s just a certain kind of confidence that comes from knowing you’re wearing nice underwear.

So I caved and went to Victoria’s Secret. I know, I know, Victoria’s friggin Secret, but come on, when it comes to cute underthings, it’s kind of the only game in town. There was a marked difference this time around though: The mannequins weren’t all gaunt, and this video was projected against the back wall, featuring models of different body shapes, ages, and even a trans woman. Hey, absolutely a step in the right direction! But also… the video clips were accompanied by this insufferable self-congratulatory text. Just in case you don’t want to watch a 1-minute advertisement for Victoria’s Secret (and who can blame you?), here’s an Instagram post in the same vein:

For decades, society and institutions—including ours—defined very narrow expressions that represented beauty, sexiness, and self-worth for women. The truth is the only person who can genuinely define a woman is herself. Now, we want to hear from you—tell us, what makes you uniquely #Undefinable?

My knee-jerk reaction was, “Oh, isn’t this just typical. Big corporation does 180-degree pivot trying to appear inclusive because that’s what sells these days.” Yeah, lemme go ahead and share my story so #Undefinable can reach “trending” status. Honestly, what could be more disingenuous than Victoria’s Secret doing an ad for body positivity?

I came home, started angrily writing this post, searched for “Victoria’s Secret” on YouTube to try to find the video… and found this instead:

If I could go back and tell myself when I was younger / I’d say, psst / I know Victoria’s Secret / Girl you wouldn’t believe / She’s an old man who lives in Ohio / Making money off of girls like me / Cashing in on body issues / Selling skin and bones with big boobs / I know Victoria’s Secret / She was made up by a dude

God, do young women these days know how good they have it? Back in my day, LFO’s (an acronym for “Lyte Funkie Ones”) hot summer hit “Summer Girls” included a line about how they “only date girls who wear Abercombie & Fitch”… a company owned by the very same “old man who lives in Ohio,” Les Wexner. (Abercrombie & Fitch, by the way, once openly stated, “we want to market to cool, good-looking people.”) Speaking of cool, good-looking people, here’s what LFO looks like these days… is what I wrote before I Googled them and found out two of the three are dead. Eeeesh…

Anyway, this summer’s hot summer hit was a fun, body-positive anthem by Jax, a young woman speaking from personal experience. I’m seriously so glad that girls growing up in the 2020s have pop culture options that aren’t actively trying to brainwash them into developing eating disorders. How far we’ve come!

The other thing that popped up when I searched “Victoria’s Secret” was this:

Victoria’s Secret: Angels and Demons is a Hulu documentary about the relationship between Wexner, the aforementioned old man who lives in Ohio… and Jeffrey god-damned Epstein. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that a guy who made billions of dollars off of an industry that created body image issues for generations of young women was friends with an actual monster.

Wexner jumped ship in 2020, retiring in Ohio with a net worth of nearly $6 billion. A year later, with sales plummeting and the #MeToo movement damaging the brand, the board of directors of Victoria’s Secret was replaced with women (well, except for one man). Typical. Old dude capitalizes off of creating mental illness for generations of young women and then peaces out with the profits, leaving a woman CEO to deal with decades worth of backlash.

Around the same time, the Victoria’s Secret Angels were replaced with the VS Collective: a more representative array of models, yes, but also rife with promises to “celebrate and empower individuality,” “drive systemic change,” and “unite and inspire.” Which are all really nice ideas, but… come on, get REAL. This is a corporation. Corporations exist to make money, not change.

But okay, let’s assume that the MBAs who inherited the Victoria’s Secret platform truly have the best interests of their customer base in mind. How do they go about making it right? Give reparations to everyone who developed an eating disorder during Les Wexner’s reign of terror (1982-2021)? 50 percent off for everybody who still has body dysmorphia from peeking at their mom’s Victoria’s Secret catalogues? Maybe tie Les Wexner to a wall and every girl who ever starved herself to look like a Photoshopped model can stand in line to tell him what he did… and then smack him as hard as she fucking can. Or just take all his money and disperse it evenly among all of us, whatever hurts more.

And that’s what really bothers me about this move toward body positivity: Victoria’s Secret isn’t doing enough to acknowledge the damage its brand has done over the last nearly four decades. Throwing out their board of directors is a start, but a few woke social media posts isn’t enough. We shouldn’t be so easy to forgive a company just because they’re offering us a thin veneer of representation. That would be like forgiving someone who abused us for years and years just because they said they’re turning over a new leaf. Victoria’s Secret got where they are today by peddling suffering. (God only knows what the conditions are like in their factories…) They don’t get to erase that just because they hired Paloma Elsesser and Megan Rapinoe.

One more thing: Why the need to sell me an identity? Isn’t that what got Victoria’s Secret in trouble in the first place? Les Wexner made his billions-with-a-B by selling the idea of sexy… a really pathetic, disgusting idea of sexy as defined by a pervy old man and his friend the pedophile. Now Victoria’s Secret is trying to sell empowerment. But in trying to market the idea of #Undefinable, they’re still creating a definition: of inclusivity, of womanhood, of justice. But who knows what kind of angry blog posts someone who got fucked up in the crossfire will write 40 years from now?

I’m not shopping for an identity, Victoria’s Secret. I just need new underwear.

On lyrics

There are two kinds of people in the world: People who listen to lyrics, and people who can’t believe there are people out there who actually listen to lyrics, ugh, how banal. Can you tell which one I am? Can you tell which one my ex-boyfriend was? (Not Obscure-Bridge-Obsession guy, different guy.)

Some lyrics seem like afterthoughts, or something obligatory you have to hang over the melody to distract from the fact that it’s essentially the same four-chord song that’s been written a thousand times before. I tend to believe that the secret to a good pop song is a catchy chorus you can scream along to; the rest of the lyrics are just something for fans to geek out over, and a space for everyone else to tune out and resume their conversation. (Have you ever really listened to the lyrics of “All You Need is Love”? They’re meaningless, just a frame for the chorus. But also, what a chorus!)

Then, of course, there are the John Darnielles and Josh Ritters. The exception and not the rule — and probably for the best. If all pop songs were nuanced, layered meditations that you needed a solid working knowledge of theology to truly understand, then there’d be no AWOLNATION… and no Mountain Goats, for that matter.

This is why I love world music so much: There are lyrics, but you don’t understand them. Best of all worlds! And if you actually do the legwork of finding a translation of the lyrics (or translating them yourself), you get to learn cool words in a new language — and maybe a little bit about the parent culture, too. Of course, the same is true of lyrics in English, which is why I listen in the first place: If you take a deeper look, there’s often meaning behind the words, and beyond the intent of the person who wrote them.

What I’ve been listening to: Guys whining over their acoustic guitars

Spotify is that one relative who knows you ride a bike, and so every present they ever get you has bikes on it. Yes, Spotify, I listened to Iron & Wine in college. I also used to climb on the roofs of buildings and light off bottlerockets. You love a thing, you grow up a little, and you still love the thing, just in a less immediate way, in the way that recognizes that even though you’re not in that place anymore, it was a step on the path that brought you here.

Until the algorithm figures out that shade of human emotional nuance, it’s going to keep suggesting songs like these:

“Honey Hold Me,” Morningsiders

Ukulele, glockenspiel, acoustic guitar, croaky vocals — in the words of my sister, “This sounds like an Apple commercial.” Also the album art is a coffee ring with a lopsided doodle of a sunrise in the middle, which really tells you all you need to know. “Gonna hold my breath until you're here / ‘Cause I can't breathe without you.” I’ve broken up with guys for saying dumb shit like that to me.

Author’s note: After I finished writing this, I deleted this song from my playlist.

“White Daisy Passing,” Rocky Votolato

This guy is the Richard Bachman to Gregory Allen Isakov’s Stephen King. But that line about “evenings on the back deck of our first apartment” is kind of a heart-wrencher.

Also, dumb story, I used to work at a pizza restaurant with a bunch of hipsters, and this cool hipster girl who also worked there said she loved Rocky Votolato, and I was like, “Omg me tooooo” but I didn’t really, so now when I listen to this song, there’s this little part of me that’s like, “Hey cool girl from Pizzaria Vesuvius whose name I can’t remember: I’VE FINALLY ARRIVED.”

“Fine Foods Market,” Tim Barry

This song is funny. If I were walking down the Lower Broadway in Nashville and heard this guy playing, I’d walk in and have a fine time.

“Avoiding Catatonic Surrender,” Tim Barry

Ahh, but he only knows how to write the one song. I dug this one a little when I was still in Jersey, because it’s about being stuck in Jersey, but… I just lose patience for songs that whine about situations with easily attainable solutions. “I left for work directly after / for a 15 hour day / made just over a hundred bucks / none of which I ever saved.” Tim Barry, minimum wage in New Jersey is $13; you could literally get a job at McDonald’s and make twice what you’re making now.

“Old Ties and Companions,” Watchhouse

Good pickin’.

“Kick Out the Windows,” Parsonsfield

When I was 25, there is a 100 percent chance I would put this song on a mix CD for a guy I liked. Now I’m slightly embarrassed that I like a song with such bald, banal lyrics about rebellion — kicking out the windows, “lead[ing] the charge, at least, if not the way,” and going kicking and screaming into that good night. Ugh, and the building drums + violin that lead to him singing about truth: “If it’s a whisper / or a battle cryyyyyyyyy”?

I wonder at the intention behind the lyrics. I doubt he’s actually writing about something specific. Maybe he’s being intentionally vague to try capture that uniquely youthful feeling of rebellion — against expectations, capital-S Society, the bogeyman of getting older, the specter of vitality wasted and dreams unrealized.

Oh, let’s be real, he just had a triumphant-sounding riff and wrote some vague song about kickin’ out the WINDOWS for 20-somethings to make out to because market research shows that’s trending. I think I hate this song now.

“Spring Wind,” Jack Johnson

THIS JACK JOHNSON SONG MAKES ME CRY.

“Daylight,” Watchhouse

Slowed-down, twangy folk. I can’t come up with anything sassy to say about Watchhouse songs; maybe they’re actually good!

“Real Peach,” Henry Jamison

I think I like this song because it reminds me of Ben Howard’s second album, which reminds me of hiking the Appalachian Trail (and is also just a good listen besides, if you’re willing to forgive some dad-rock vibes). The chorus is creepy though, and makes me not want to listen to the lyrics too closely lest I have a moment like the time I was really into this super-breathy female singer-songwriter version of “I’m on Fire” that I heard in yoga class and texted my boyfriend at the time to tell him “This song was really doin’ it to me right in yoga class today!” and then I listened to the lyrics and had to dump that boyfriend out of sheer embarrassment. (jk i broke up with him because, true story, he talked about obscure bridges too much.)

a hard article to write.

“A beautiful day for a bike ride”

This story was my shot. I’d just had a piece published in Adventure Cycling, Liberal Education had asked to see a draft of a feature I’d pitched, and now The Ann Arbor Observer wanted to give me a chance. After nine months of rejections, my writing was finally getting some attention.

Of course, I got the story assignment three days before deadline — and an hour and a half before I had to go to my job at the climbing gym. I immediately began feverishly researching and writing. As I got to know the story better — cyclist, father, and all-around good guy Ed Erickson is riding his bicycle to raise money for charity when he gets struck and killed by some husk of a human being hopped up on benzos at 11 in the morning, the SECOND time she’d been charged with operating a vehicle while intoxicated, by the way — I felt a wave of emotions. Guilt that I initially thought about this tragedy as “my shot.” Anger at the unfairness of the situation. Sadness on behalf of his wife and kids, and then self-recrimination — who am I to feel sad on behalf of this guy’s family, I’ve never met them. Pressure, not just because of the deadline, but because if nothing else, Ed Erickson deserved a well-written article.

Then there was the fact that the more I learned about Ed, the more he reminded me of Doug. Obviously there’s the bike connection, but they’ve also both spent time living and working in Japan. I started getting scared on Doug’s behalf. The drivers here in Michigan make the drivers back in Jersey look positively sane, and the shoulders here are more pothole than pavement. I found myself wanting to say, “Be safe,” when he leaves the house — a phrase we detest. (Be “safe”? What is “safe” supposed to mean, exactly? Am I supposed to stop taking risks for your benefit? Tell ya what, why don’t you be safe, and I’ll keep living my own life.) I had three 8-hour shifts at the rock gym that week, so when I wasn’t cleaning up chalk dust and teaching folks how to belay, I was living/breathing/eating/sleeping this story.

There’s a special kind of relief, a specific feeling of freedom that comes from handing in a story. There’s nothing more you can do; it’s in the readers’ hands now. But this one was harder to let go. I still think about Ed Erickson, even though I was never lucky enough to meet him. I’ve talked about him to people. It feels good to say his name, invoke his memory, let this tragedy serve some purpose — drive safe, for god’s sake. Some stories you write, and some stories you feel. This story rewrote a little part of my own narrative, leaving a mark that I think will last well past its publication date.

What I’ve been listening to: Trucker songs.

I’m writing a book about the time I was a truck driver, and sometimes I like to listen to trucking songs to get in the mood. Here are a few of the ones that stuck out to me:

“Give Me 40 Acres,” by the Willis Brothers

“Some guys can turn it on a dime or turn it right downtown / but I need 40 acres to turn this rig around.” A funny song about my career as a truck driver.

“That’s Truck Drivin,” by Slim Jacobs

And this one! I wish I’d known about this genre of music when I was driving. I would have felt a lot less like a failure.

“Trucker Speed,” by Fred Eaglesmith

This song is sad and slow, and I’m not a huge fan of the lyrics, but it makes me feel connected to a culture I might otherwise judge, harshly.

Freelance piece in Literary Traveler

It’s called Into Denali: Not Quite Following in Chris McCandless’s Footsteps.

I submitted another piece to this online literary magazine, and they sent me an encouraging rejection. Every aspiring writer knows that the encouraging rejection is the first step on the road to success, so I read a few of the other essays on their site and then wrote this piece specifically for them. It was a bit of a revelation: You get published when you give the publishers what they want. I’m exploring this a bit more with some work for The Ann Arbor Observer and pitches to a few other magazines. It’s exciting, tons of fun, and a great opportunity!

What I’ve been listening to: Boss female vocalists of the ’80s

Pat Benetar, “We Belong”

I tried to make the argument that the lyrics of this song are fart rebus*, but Doug protested SO strongly that I’ll walk it back. All I have to say is, THOSE DRUMS.

Juice Newton, “Angel of the Morning”

This song reminds me of listening to this song while riding in an old pickup truck on an Antarctic ice shelf… which is bragging and doesn’t tell you what this song sounds like. But honestly, this song has been out for 60 years and you probably have your own cool experiences with it. Or maybe it’s just been a guilty pleasure?

*Fart Rebus describes lyrics that don’t make a lick of sense — “expert texpert / chocking smoker / don’t you know the joker laughs at you,” that kind of thing. The phrase is borrowed from some hilarious graffiti Doug and I found on a boulder near a climbing wall outside Bowman Lake, California.

What I’ve been listening to: Willie Nelson edition

I never wanted to be one of those old people who only listens to the music of their youth, so every morning I wrestle with my Spotify algorithm and try to actively seek out new music. This… is harder than it should be. For an app that apparently has access to all the music in the entire world, Spotify sure plays a lot of Josh Ritter! Seriously, why isn’t there a “Random” button on that thing?

When I got off The Ice this year, I bought Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die by Willie Nelson in a used bookstore in Christchurch, New Zealand. He has a two-page section where he lists “good pickers,” and I figured that was as good a place as any to discover new music. I mean, if these musicians have the Willie Nelson stamp of approval, they must be good, right? Here, now, are a few pithy observations about some of ol’ Bill Nelson’s recommendations:

“West Virginia My Home,” by Hazel Dickins

They don’t make songs like this anymore… I mean, unless they’re about California. Mourning, yearning, real emotion about a very beautiful state most people treat like a joke where the punchline is “methamphetamine.”

“It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels,” by Kitty Wells

Reedy vocals, and the song moves at the pace of a walking horse, and it’s syrupy, dusty, and sad.

“One’s On the Way,” by Loretta Lynn

A funny song, without a trace of resentment or cynicism, about the flaws of first-world feminism.

“Smoke! Smoke! Smoke!” by Tex Williams

I gotta admit, this song made me laugh. If this song came on at a club, I would tell everyone in my life to go to that club.

“Jam Man,” by Chet Atkins

The only song in this little essay that I’m not embarrassed to show other people. Some musicians know how to make their instruments talk, and some know how to make them sing. Chet Atkins knows how to make a guitar tell a story.

Let’s retire Karen.

Karen is a term that’s been around since the 2010s that’s defined as “a pejorative slang term for an obnoxious, angry, entitled, and often racist middle-aged white woman who uses her privilege to get her way or police other people’s behaviors.” 

Which, like… is kind of a broad range, don’t you think? “Karen: She’s an annoying person you might meet in your customer service job, she has a distinctive haircut… and she’s an IRREDEEMABLE RACIST.”

I’m not sure what’s the point of euphemistically calling a person a racist. Wouldn’t direct honesty be a more productive way to address the incredibly important issue of racism? But I’m not here to talk about that. I want to talk about “Can I speak to your manager” Karen. 

I’ve spent a total of four years working as a waitress, plus various other customer service jobs. My two worst waitressing horror stories involved customers who were LGBTQ and BIPOC. (I’ll share the abridged versions, not as evidence that these are groups that deserve prejudice, but just because who doesn’t love a good waitressing horror story? 

#1: A 10-top walks in at 7 on a Friday night. After the team put together their table, poured 10 glasses of water, put in 10 orders, and the orders were cooking… the 10-top made a scene and left. On their way out, they upended a dish of candied fennel right in the entranceway. We had to drop everything in the middle of rush to VACCUUM. 

#2: A couple tried to scam us for free food and spoke so harshly to me that I teared up. The people sitting at the table next to them felt so bad they tipped me $20.)

By the logic behind the Karen phenomenon, I should be on my guard when a LGBTQ/BIPOC table comes into my restaurant… but I never would. Not because I’m blamelessly without prejudice (is anyone?), but because that’s bad waitressing. People can read your attitude, and they aren’t going to tip well if they think you’re judging them. 

Besides, there are so much more deserving prejudices. Like toddlers — if they’re not shrieking, they’re playing a game at TOP VOLUME on their iPad. After they leave, you get to clean up after Hurricane Cheerios for a totally average tip (and hey, no judgment — diapers are expensive). And little old ladies, oh my dear god… I once had this table of four LOLs who I swear to you were messing with me. Every time I returned to their table, another one would pipe up and ask for something else: a cup of ice, two lemons, napkins, an iced tea spoon, more napkins, a mug of hot water, yet more napkins. I imagined them snickering as I hustled away, trying to think of more inane requests. “What about… a side of Russian dressing.” “A to-go box — ‘in case my eyes are bigger than my stomach’!” “Screw it, I’m asking for more napkins.”

… ahh, but I feel bad telling that story, because at the end of the meal, they gave me $40 and said, “You earned it.”

The thing about Karens is that sometimes they’re also waitresses… and good ones at that. I’m a Karen, and I got it from my mother and grandmother before me. My grandmother worked customer service for a toy store after her husband died. That’s where she learned this valuable lesson: The manager gets paid more, so they get to deal with the annoying customers. When she retired on a fixed income, she used this knowledge to make sure that when she spent her money, she got what she paid for. 

My mom was a stay-at-home mom (a job fundamental to all mammals and most birds except brood parasites and megapodes, and one that we in America seem hell-bent on replacing with glowing screens) with a 15-year-old B.A. in sociology when she and my dad divorced. Good thing there’s always waitressing! That magical job where, if you’re good, you develop a fan base of regulars who keep on coming back just to see you and give you money. My mom was so good at it that she spun it into a successful career in sales. Two examples of Karens who know how to work the system… because they worked their way up through it. It was the only card they had to play. It was that or let their families suffer. 

What pains in the asses, am I right??

Vilifying the middle-aged woman who stands up for herself and demands that her money go to what she’s paying for isn’t Standing Up to the System — it’s blaming a person for not letting herself get ripped off. Not that blaming women for systemic problems is anything new. In Delaware and Minnesota, punishment is harsher for prostitutes than it is for johns. There are 27 states that have different laws for sexual assault victims who intentionally became intoxicated. And let’s not forget abortion laws that saddle the woman with the burden of a pregnancy she did not cause by herself. This is a post-Roe world, ladies, and our bodies are no longer our own; they’re sites of governmental regulation. Like roads and public parks. 

There are no laws that regulate men’s reproductive freedom, and there’s no male equivalent of Karen. 

Corporate America must love the Karen trope. Say you’ve got some person working at Panera Bread. They’re powerless in the Panera heirarchy, they’re apathetic about their job, and the only power they do have is over the customers. Now say you’ve got a Karen complaining about her sandwich. If she stays quiet, she pays $13 for a meal she didn’t enjoy and Panera wins her money. If she’s brave enough to ask for a manager and try to get what she paid for, the worker drags her on Reddit or social media for being an entitled bitch. (And don’t forget, probably racist too.) Tale as old as time: Keep the working class squabbling amongst each other and we won’t notice who’s really keeping us down. 

Well, any astute waitress knows you can’t judge people by their appearance. Even if they’re middle-aged white ladies with angled bobs. I’d like to think we can get to a place where prejudice has no place in customer service — whether you’re the customer or the server.