G-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-H

Internets, I’ve gone on at some length about how much I like to read, and how I’m all into, like, words and whatnot, and how I’d happily kill with my own hands any person who sees no difference between its and it’s and uses them interchangeably. So you might think I likes me some crossword puzzles.

Except, no.

Holy flaming SHATNER, do I hate crossword puzzles. They drive me insane. The cutesy tricksiness of the clues, the “cleverness” of the wordplay, the way people brag about having completed rilly tough ones -- argh. If you like ‘em, bully for you – but for me, as a hobby, it’s right up there with math jokes, Sudoku and that riddle about the duck, the fox, the bag of corn and the boat that only carries two at a time across the fucking river on the list of things they’re gonna make me do all day in hell.

*This post brought to you by a post in one of my longtime favorite blogs, Pop Culture Junk Mail. Gael is pro-crossword, which goes to show you: To each her own. Heh.

I'm just saying.

OK, I'm just saying, if our elected officials in Congress were one one-hundredth as diligent and tenacious in their investigating of the "reasons" for, and subsequent nonstop lying about, Operation Desert Boondoggle as they have so far been in investigating Roger Clemens's buttockal region, we might not be in the vile, fucked-up horrible situation in which we as a nation currently find ourselves.

But hey, priorities, right?

GOD, I was such a BADASS back in the day.

Things I Can’t Believe I Was Allowed to Do as a Teen, But It Was Really OK That I Was Allowed, Because I Was a Goody Two-Shoes and Nothing Actually Happened, But Still.

--Pile in my friend CB’s mom’s minivan with a half dozen other shrieking teenage girls, drive ten hours on the highway to Lubbock, TX to see our high school get totally destroyed in the 3A Regional Boys’ Basketball Tourney, and stay over at the motel where everyone was staying. This was, I think, junior year, or possibly even sophomore year – at any rate, yes there was a bathtub full of ice and wine coolers, and no, none of our parents thought this was really all that bad an idea. I suspect they didn’t know about the bathtub.

--Spend several days of spring break, senior year of high school, in a Residence Inn in Ft. Worth with what seems now to have been a pretty random group of my friends, for the sole and stated purpose of going to clubs every night. My dad didn’t believe for one second that we weren’t drinking, but we weren’t. Because we didn’t plan ahead and didn’t get anyone to buy us any alco-ma-hol. Really.

--Drive. I mean it, I was like a wreck/police magnet, as many older posts will show. And those weren’t the half of it – that was just when I got caught. People, I was and am a danger to myself and others on the road.

--Go visit my older bro at UT-Austin when I was (I think) 17. I guess they figured the future law blogger would be a good-enough chaperone?

--At sixteen, babysit a pair of rich kids for an entire school week in their home waaaay out in the boonies. The girl was a good friend of my sister’s, and only three years younger than me, and her brother was I think three years younger than her. These people left me in charge of driving their kids to and from school, supervising homework, making meals, monitoring TV viewing, etc. I was a Responsible kid, sure, but – sixteen is sixteen. I’m not sure that was even legal.

Viggo Mortensen, Daniel Day-Lewis Join Cast of Deadwood: The Musical – On Ice!

No, not really – they were just dressed that way last night at the Oscars. Although how freakishly awesome would that actually be?

First of all, can I tell you how deeply chagrined I am that that alleged Diablo Cody person’s Oscar win is going to legitimize the cause of annoying-ass attention whores the world over? (Not to mention regular whores, if her alleged bio is to be believed.) Way to flaunt stupid ugly tattoos and wear a stupid ugly housedress that blows out to reveal your lady bidness when you walk, you twerp.

Also, I would like to ask you all: What is up with the plethora of dark, plain, severe eveningwear on the ladies? Wearing all black all the time because I’m too fashion-retarded to deal with colors – um, I mean, because black is how I feel on the inside – is MY thing, folks. Y’all are supposed to have stylists and whatnot to tell you that you look old, pinched and uncomfortable crammed into that black Ace bandage of a dress (Jennifer Garner, Hilary Swank, Laura Linney, et. al.).

Also, don’t y’all think even Jack Nicholson is tired of Jack Nicholson by now? Also: Patrick Dempsey is still the dork from Can’t Buy Me Love (always & forever), Cameron Diaz is still a waste of space (why is she invited to this, again?), Cotillard’s mermaid getup looked like a motel bedspread, The Clooney could power a thousand suns with his Handsome Wattage, Keri Russell is too thin, Ruby Dee maaay have had some work done, Zellwegger’s still as boring and shrewy as always, good LORD is Helen Mirren cool, and the fact that that douchebag Travolta got a second shot at a career? That’s on YOU, Quentin Tarantino. And you’ll pay for it someday. Oh yes you will.

Like a goddamn Tori Amos song in human form

Sorry I didn't post yesterday -- yada yada yada my computer suffered the blue screen of death. Fun times.

So, where were we? Ahh, yes, Laura Linney, the first in a series of Movie Rules that I will post whenever another of my many rules crosses what passes these days for my mind.

Movie Rule: Laura Linney
I am not about seeing movies which contain Laura Linney. I've got no beef with her personally -- it's just that every movie she's in seems to be about bitter dysfunctional half-crazy families, with her as the bitterest most dysfunctional one of all, full of nervous tension and with tears of frustration always close to the surface. Her roles seem the same to me -- all lonely, damaged this, and tenuously-forged connections to humanity that. If a movie has Laura Linney in it, I know it's gonna be fucking depressing, so why do I gotta pay to see it? Answer: I don't, beyaaatch!

Two-fer Tuesday

Couple of things for y'all back at work today ...

1) Stuff White People Like. More to the point, stuff that white liberals with money like ... but close enough, eh wot? Nails me to the wall, at least. Heh.

2) Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians. Poor ol' Jimmy Page ain't the half of it, folks.

Enjoy! Because tomorrow we're back to the hate, and the hate's gonna have a focus: Laura Linney. Why? Because that's how I roll.

When you sleep / I will creep / into your thoughts

OK, Internets, I am Done watching horror movies. Done. Fighting sleep and startling awake at every near-subaudible sound at 4:30 a.m. Sunday morning, actually hoping Kid Gleemonex would wake up crying so I'd have an excuse to get up and turn on some lights, I realized I cannot keep doing this shit to myself. Fuck you very much, Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, et. al. Gaaaaaaaaaaah.

Dollars to donuts

Perhaps I was too harsh in Tuesday's post -- I mean, if some douchebag wants to drop $1100 on a piece of Dutch design in an effort to hang onto what he or she perceives as his or her hipster cred despite the fact that he or she is now so unhip as to be a parent, then let 'em. There are worse ways to spend $1100. There are also better ways. To wit:

HALF A DOZEN WORSE WAYS TO SPEND $1100
--Donating to a Republican political candidate
--Two payments on your new H2
--Leather furniture
--Christian Homeschool Curriculum
--Enough modest swimwear to outfit your whole brood
--A shitload of Bill O'Reilly merch

HALF A DOZEN BETTER WAYS TO SPEND $1100
--A plane ticket to Amsterdam to see a whole shitload of Dutch design.
--A case and a half of the Michel-Schlumberger 1998 Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon
--About 70 sock zombies
--A fucking AXE!
--Donation to Habitat for Humanity
--Going completely apeshit in Powell's

Oh kiss the world / Oh kiss the sky / Oh kiss my ass / Oh let it rock

Happy Festival of Ridonculous, y'all! Me and Mr. Gleemonex are totes rebels -- we're going out tomorrow night. Tonight, it's the usual -- hanging out with my mother-in-law in front of the teevee while all three of us rotate attempts to put Kid Gleemonex down for the night. (She's a Very Obliging Baby in general, but her Unhappy Hour lasts from about 7-9 p.m. daily. She just wants to stay up and party with us, dammit!)

So far, no flowers have yet arrived at my office, thus maintaining my perfect 34-year record of non-flower-getting, but the nice ladies at the wonderful Nas Coffee gave me a Ferrero Rocher bonbon thingie with my small double nonfat latte this morning, which was super kewl of them. Ya don't generally get that sort of thing at the Buck.

Drink some champagne for me, y'all, and dudes, remember: Don't propose today. Do it tomorrow, or next week or something. Just ... not today, mkay? Stay classy!

Balm for the crotchety soul

Ohhhh, kids -- can you feel it? Can you smell it in the air? It's all hope and potential and fresh green grass, newly-raked dirt and blue skies for miles ... it's just about baseball season, Internets, and there's nothing else like it.

If you had a butler, what would you name him?

Today's my first day back at The Office, y'all, and I'm feeling kinda shaky ...

Sunday afternoon, Mr. Gleemonex and I went to a birthday brunch for two of our friends at this place called the Park Chalet, stepbro of the famous Beach Chalet, on the edge of Golden Gate park and the mighty Pacific Ocean.

Thing the First: That restaurant sucks. The food is too expensive for its quality, the service bloooows, they have no idea how to handle the brunch crowd. If you go there (because of its admittedly awesome location), go to sit on the lawn and drink beers; order several right up front, because that waitress ain't comin back.

Thing the Second, in which I get to my ranty point: It was a sunny, warmish, yay-global-warming day, and everyone and their dog (literally) was out enjoying the weather. On the drive up the Great Highway, within a half mile of our destination, we saw a minimum of seven (7) of these $1100 strollers. That's eleven HUNDRED dollars, y'all. For a STROLLER. Which is a conveyance for INFANTS who DO NOT KNOW OR CARE THAT THEY'RE BEING WHEELED ABOUT IN A GODDAMNED ELEVEN HUNDRED DOLLAR STROLLER, YOU HIPSTER DUMBASS.

Oh my god, does my heart flame with fiery flamey hate for people who buy (and then prance about with) shit like this. WHAT a bunch of assholes. "More money than sense" doesn't even begin to cover it. And those poor innocent babies are going to be dunked daily in this brew of entitlement and privilege, in which their imaginations will be stunted and their hearts flash-frozen and before you know it, they'll be throwing stuff at the nanny, trying to buy Richard Pryor and pitching king-hell shitfits when their trio of ponies arrives the day BEFORE their sixth birthday instead of DURING THE PARTY like they TOLD THEIR BITCH MOM TO ARRANGE AND NOW SHE'S RUINED THEIR LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE.

Mememememe

I've been memed, y'all! And by a Canadian, no less!

Here's how it's all gonna go down:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open it at page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence/phrase.
4. Blog the next four sentences/phrases together with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig your shelves for that very special or intellectual book.
6. Pass it forward to six friends.

SO:
------------

When they shook hands in the parking lot, the Australian knew he was in business. Griffin watched him drive away in his rented car, and then went home, thinking now only of his answering service and if June Mercator had called.

She had called a little after nine, and the message from her was to call whenever he got in. So he had alarmed her.

--Michael Tolkin, The Player

------------

Get on it, y'all! (I only have five friends who haven't been tagged with this one yet.)
http://slugger.wordpress.com/
http://hiphoplawyer.blogspot.com/
http://displacedtxmom.blogspot.com/
http://ayearinthefirm.blogspot.com/
http://chiieew.blogspot.com/

Oblivio

OK, my sister, the former Head Cheerleader, always used to say that I read so much, and am so hard to reach when I'm reading, that if I ever had kids, they wouldn't even know what my face looks like -- just the top of my head over the line of a book.

Well, I'm pretty sure Kid Gleemonex recognizes me, but the point is a fair one -- when I read, I am Not There. I don't hear you, I don't see you, I don't know what the fuck's going on outside whatever I'm reading. Sort of a trance state, or something. Therefore, I've missed my share of subway stops, deli orders, entire conversations and whatnot, but today -- today was a new level in real-world obliviousness.

Kid Gleemonex and I were hanging out in the Cafe at the End of the Universe*, she enjoying her tasty tasty fingers and me my small double nonfat latte. I was reading Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson, an xmas gift from the awesome Mr. Gleemonex. Now, keep in mind that this cafe is glass walls on three sides, the sea (just across the street) wasn't especially rough this day, and the music -- an excellent mix of Beatles, Sloan and Jesus and Mary Chain, almost as if I'd programmed it myself -- was just loud enough to hear from an iPod dock behind the counter.

So, imagine my surprise when I gathered book and baby and headed out, only to find about a dozen fire, police and rescue vehicles (lights, sirens), a KRON-TV van, and about a hundred spectators gathered around a fish n chip shop three doors down -- which fish n chip shop some hapless fool had driven an SUV all the way into at considerable speed, smashing the entire front (glass), and causing Shatner knows how much terrible commotion sometime in the past 15 minutes.

A normal person, I'm pretty sure, might've cottoned on to the fact that something was going on outside her own head in this situation.

*Not its real name, but when I open a coffee shop, that's totally what I'm calling it.

Exercising the franchise

People, it's time for a DK Declaration of True Fact:

IF YOU DO NOT VOTE, YOU ARE NOT ENTITLED TO AN OPINION ABOUT POLITICS, GOVERNANCE, PUBLIC POLICY OR ANY PERSON HOLDING OR RUNNING FOR ELECTED OFFICE IN THIS COUNTRY.

There are only two exceptions: 1)you are legally denied the franchise, or 2)you suffer some medical calamity to your own physical body which prevents your going to a polling place on the day of the election or mailing in your ballot in advance of the election.

That's it.

Vote or die.

Finito

It may or may not surprise y'all that I'm a fan of Bob Knight -- he's a right bastard, I know (and I have Major Deep Issues with his politics, as I do with all people who think that living an upright life is the sole property of the Republican Party), but he's a king-hell basketball coach and an undeniable force of nature. Plus, as a person with somewhat of a temper myself, and a low tolerance for jackassery not my own, I often side with the man on his, ah, interpersonal conflicts. He's fuckin hilarious, y'all!

In pure basketball terms, I used to love watching him with Indiana, and I have loved watching him take all the nobodies and also-rans who can be persuaded to go into what this writer charitably calls the "minimal tradition" of the basketball program at Texas Tech, and bring them into the friggin NCAA tournament a handful of times since 2001.

Plus, as the article linked above points out, Knight has done it all without cheating. Think about it: completely clean hands after more than four decades in the increasingly sordid and corrupt world of college basketball. He has 902 wins, and a near-100% graduation rate for his players in all that time -- he really, sincerely gives a fuck about making sure those kids are equipped to handle life once they're out from under his thumb.

So I'm sorry to see him go (and frankly, I wonder what he thinks he's going to do with himself as a retiree), but I also think it's perfect the way he did it -- no fanfare, no nothing, just claps twice, shows the eye in the sky there's nothing in his hands or up his sleeves, and turns his shift over to the next guy. Good work, Coach.

So, how long till pitchers & catchers report?

Y'all know I ain't into football, but I usually watch the Super Bowl -- with TiVo, of course, because I don't know how people watch televised sports without it. And this time, the game was actually pretty good -- how bout that last quarter, sports fans? Takes a lot to get me interested in a football game not being played by HHL, but damned if I didn't holler a few times loud enough to startle the baby. [Or just "baby," eh, Tunoi?]

But I wanted to talk about lessons learned from the commercials (and by the way, can we declare a complete permanent ban on saying you watch the Super Bowl "for the commercials?" What horsepucky.). So:

WHAT I LEARNED BY WATCHING THE COMMERCIALS DURING THE SUPER BOWL

1) Chicks and dudes are like totally different. Chicks want to talk and have like emotions and stuff, whereas dudes like to drink beer.

2) Everyone who is behind any part of the name, concept, product or service, public image and/or marketing of the entity known as "GoDaddy" should be forced to sleep on a pillow made of wet diapers for the rest of their natural lives.

3) Ugly girls do not deserve love.

4) Racism is totes hilare.

5) FOX has a new show coming out. It looks stoopit.

6) Smashed-in-the-goolies jokes are comedy gold. (Admittedly, they're even funnier if they're happening to Justin Timberlake.)

7) A woman can be a world-class competitor at a male-dominated sport (or "sport"), but she still has to show us her tits.

8) Chicks? You know, and dudes? Are like totally different.

But wait, DK readers: Did any of you notice what WASN'T advertised? Not even once? Dr. Porkenheimer's Boner Juice! Seriously, no Levitra, no Cialis, no Viagra -- no "clever" imagery involving throwing footballs through tire swings or garden hoses spilling water all over the place, no knowing glances between middle-aged couples, no breathlessly rushed warnings about heart attacks or 18-hour erections. That was awesome -- let us thank Shatner for our blessings.