Monday, March 31, 2008

He buzzes like a fridge / he's like a de-tuned radio

Sometimes I wish I weren’t such a crusty old bastard. It is possible to get tired of your own curmudgeonly rantings, you know. But I yam what I yam, and that is why I must confess that this sounds to me like a total balls-to-the-wall sheep-dipped shoot-em-up NIGHTMARE.

Hippies. People encroaching on your space. Can’t hear or see the bands. Costs $225 to NOT have a seat, and ALSO not hear or see the band. Port-A-Potties. Heat, or – much more likely in San Fogcisco – goolie-freezing damp cold with a side order of paint-scouring wind. Festivalgoers for whom the actual music is an afterthought. “Art,” "crafts," henna tattoo booths and all that sideshow bullshit, arrrrgh.

I have seen Radiohead three times,* and it has fucking ROCKED every single time. They are a band worth doing some felony-level crimes to see live, seriously, sincerely. But having had that experience, I’m not going to dilute it by signing on for this suckfest. I’m too damn old for the all-day outdoor music/festival thing anymore, man.

You kids go and have fun. Grandma’s going to be over here with her bourbon and her Matlock marathon, knitting some tea cozies. Here’s a nickel to buy yourself some candy corn. And if you see anybody fornicating it or smoking the pot, you stay clear of the likes of them, you hear?

*Plus Thom Yorke once (Bridge School Benefit) and the Easy-Dub All-Stars performing OK Computer in its entirety at the Catalyst in Santa Cruz

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Thursday, March 27, 2008

Guilt-flecked Thursday

I have to tell you, I am troubled by the fact that every single item we bought at Target and Babies R Us for KidGleemonex the last few days -- she's starting solid foods, which requires lots of paraphernalia, and will be attending a house party at Diamond Mike & Blondie's soon, which requires (incredibly adorable) swimsuits, swim diapers, etc. -- every single non-food item was made in China. This I realized when I was going through everything, cutting off tags and peeling away layers and layers of durable plastic product-packaging exoskeleton.

Why must this be the case? Is it REALLY that much cheaper to have things made on the other side of the Earth and shipped here in durable plastic product-packaging exoskeletons? I'd pay the extra fucking fifty cents for a 10-pack of bibs that were made on this continent, but the Baby-Industrial Complex gives me no choice, and so here I am, feeling uselessly, unproductively guilty. Bleah.

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Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Thrice-Baked Wednesday

None of these are a full post by themselves, but all together, they make potpourri!

You guys, this is the most boring engagement ever. It's like in olden times when people married whoever was around just to have someone to cook their meals (men) or keep a roof over their heads (women). Yawwwwwn. Stretch. Barf.

The whole DB Cooper thing sorta fascinates me, in a half-assed way (as in, I'm not a fiend for it, but I dig it), and if I were in law enforcement, I'd be inclined to let the guy go, should he ever be found -- points for style, doncha know. But here's the thing -- this story, about kids finding his parachute (maybe)? It has all kinds of weird smells about it, and I'm not buying it for one minute.

If you are a woman about my age, you read your share of VC Andrews. Don't deny it. Miss CPA, I'm lookin at you! Heh. This semi-critical, totally awesome review/breakdown of one of the classics, My Sweet Audrina, will make you laugh and also get the fantods.

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Monday, March 24, 2008

Hallucinations, or just a rather shaky grip on reality? You decide.

I have this problem with anthropomorphizing inanimate objects – I see faces in just about everything, from light sockets (obvious) to the little caddy that holds our electric toothbrush heads (it looks like it’s screaming in abject terror, especially when one of the brushes is removed – abject one-eyed terror! Ahhhhhhh!). So this pic, from lolcats, made me laugh like a lunatic.

The lunatic laughter, or at least the pitch and duration of same, may also owe a debt to the fact that Kid Gleemonex has awakened Mr. Gleemonex and I every two hours on the friggin dot for the last three nights in a row and I am RUNNING ON FUMES HERE, PEOPLE.

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And there should never have been even one.

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Thursday, March 20, 2008

Three questions, in descending order of seriousness

1) Did you actually read or watch Obama's speech on race? Because no matter what your political affiliation or your opinion on the candidate(s) of either party, you owe it to yourself -- as an American and a citizen and a human being -- to do so. I'll save you a Google search: The text is here. Get on it.

2) How's y'all's NCAA tourney brackets doing? I made my picks with bold ignorance this year, instead of heartfelt and learned consideration as I normally do (because we watch a ton of games thanks to the miracle of TiVo, but this year haven't really had the time), so I'm expecting a much better outcome than my usual horrific flameout. And also I decided to forego my annual pick of Oral Roberts (har) in the first round. Well, but that basically ensures they'll go to the final four, since this is the one year I skipped the joke. Dammit.

3) Would you guys eat at a restaurant called The Knife and Peach? I dreamed it, complete with logo (a circle etched in glass, featuring a ridiculously sharp chef's knife and a peach, with the restaurant name in Copperplate font below it), a Google search (the whole page, with "the knife and peach" in the search field and a page full of results, including citysearch and yelp reviews, a couple of blog links, etc.), and an episode of No Reservations in which Anthony Bourdain and his local fixer were going to dine there with some chef friends of his. I could actually hear him say "The Knife and Peach."

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Monday, March 17, 2008

She blinded me! With science!

Internets, you know all about me and science, and how we are pretty much the opposite of BFFs, right? So I was surprised to find, via this quiz, that I could in fact pass eighth grade science, were a vengeful Shatner to send me back there as punishment for my many sins -- yay me!

But the grade I got -- an 88 -- would have sent me into a tailspin of despair, angst and self-loathing back in the actual eighth grade. I would have lain awake at night, wondering where my mojo had gone and how I could get it back. Out of shame, I would have buried deeeep within the laundry hamper the Harvard sweatshirt that had somehow come my way, and begun to consider what career options were available to a person without a college degree. I would've paid twenty cash American dollars to my bro to take me to school at six o'clock in the a.m. the next day to lie in wait for the teacher so that I'd have at least one uninterrupted hour to beg for extra credit opportunities to make up the stinking lousy twelve points I'd failed to achieve. And depending on how that all went, I might or might not have plotted to sabotage the test scores of The Eventual Valedictorian, Pumpernickel Opperheim, D.W. (always a threat!), and Mister Smartypants on the next quiz, just to even things out.

Because seriously, an 88? I may, in fact, have had to cut a bitch for that.

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Friday, March 14, 2008

Apologize, schmapologize

About the Spitzer thing: Unlike Mrs. Spitzer, no FUCKING WAY would I stand by my husband if I and the world had just found out he'd been using prostitutes for years. Well, at all, actually -- one single time would be an instant, permanent total dealbreaker, no make-ups and no backsies, much less all that time, and all that money spent. Within forty-five seconds of receiving this news, I'd be on the horn with the world's best divorce lawyer, my financial planner, and the bank (withdrawing all funds to which I had legal claim), in that order, and on the way to the airport with my passport and a single change of clothes within five minutes after that. I would try to find some sort of decontamination shower as soon as possible, but the important thing would be to get the fuck away from this disgusting lying sack of shit to whom I had minutes ago been married, and never ever come back. I'm not saying this from a high-handed moral point of view, exactly -- I'm saying, I find it vile and repulsive and thoroughly repugnant, and there is no way I could ever look my husband in the face again, much less submit to any part of his body touching any part of mine (no show-of-support handholding for THIS cookie!). Even if I felt pity for the man -- which I emphatically would not -- there' s nothing I could do as his wife to save his career; that shit is TORCHED. And my show of support wouldn't save him from jail. And it wouldn't help his image, or mine -- who respects a woman who gets walked all over by a guy with feet that dirty? So, to hell with him. Let him go find comfort from some more whores, if they'll have him.

PS: HHL is right about the Spitzer investigation being mostly a political witch-hunt, but I disagree that prostitution is a victimless crime -- think about underage girls sold into prostitution by their families all over the world, or look at season two of The Wire for a concise sketch of how the system works and who's being exploited by it. My point is a person-to-person thing, not a larger societal thing, which I'll leave to people with more rationality than I currently possess.

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Thursday, March 13, 2008

Worst. Date. Ever.

OK Internets, we've all had bad dates. Like the time we somehow agreed to a triple-date at a RenFaire in which one of the other couples was our ex-boyfriend who recently dumped us and the person he dumped us for, or the time the summer after sophomore year that we went out with a basketball player who had developed a strange fascination with us (demonstrated by the large purple hearts he drew encircling our face every place it appeared in our own yearbook, which was a lot of times, considering that we were on the yearbook staff and tended to put pics of ourself and our friends wherever there was space) and he sat on the same side of the table with us at Chili's and kept trying to look down our shirt and then later he turned out to be the absolute worst kisser ever (tons of slobber, more than the usual number of lips somehow) in the 10-second good-night-and-good-bye kiss and we never went out with him again but we think he told his idiot friends that more had gone on because when we ran into him at the video store, the friends were all googly and snickering. (And but then he waited on us and our mom and grandmother at a Red Lobster years later, having flunked out of college, so there.)

But the other day, I saw what might've been the Worst Date Ever. After work on Friday, I took Kid Gleemonex to the Coffee Shop at the Edge of the Continent to chill and watch the ocean, and I couldn't even read my book (Patrick Hughes' Diary of Indignities, a fabulous read that you should all buy right now) because I got sucked into the vortex of this date a few tables over.

The couple were both around fifty, and dressed as if just off of work -- both teachers, as I came to discover. The guy had his back toward me, but he was clearly no great prize -- kind of dumpy, with the sort of falling-apart-at-the-seams shirt/tie/sportcoat ensemble that a certain kind of male non-coach high school teacher is partial to. The lady had it much more together -- a very pretty skirt, quite a flair with the jewelry, and nice hair.

And this guy -- o Internets. This fuckin guy. He opened his cake-hole and never stopped yammering the entire time we were in there, regaling his date with the tee-ninseyest details of his BORING-ASS JOB for forty-five goddamn minutes, with maybe three four-second pauses for her to get literally two words in, and you guys shoulda seen her face. This sort of frozen smile, like "Oh my GOD you are even more boring than you are in the teachers' lounge! How long do I have to stay here before I can politely call it a night and bail the fuck out, go over to Maddie's and get shitty with her and Shirl and Edie on chardonnay? Jesus H. SHATNER!"

Meanwhile, he's blaring away, all "And so I filled out alllll the paperwork for the Kaiser grant and we put on the show -- not the show sponsored by the Kaiser grant, the other one -- and yada yada yada I feel no responsibility to bring this girl forward yet, she's only a sophomore and there are several juniors and seniors who can take the responsibility yada yada yada and see I'd already done the application for the grant but there was this other paperwork for yada yada other thing and these seven kids -- no, six -- no eight, let me see, there was Tyler, and Amanda, and Jordan and yada yada yada so we got to the place and there was no one there to direct us where to put our stuff so we just established camp in the corner of the main room and HA HA HA [inappropriately-placed laughter] I tell you, we had been there since 7:15 -- no, it was more like 7:10, because we were waiting for the guy with the thing for 45 -- no, 50 minutes, maybe 55, no, more like 50 I'm pretty sure and yada yada something else yada yada infinity the grant application process, whooo!"

I wanted to go over there and tell her she didn't have to put up with this, there ARE better men in the world and some of them even let you talk sometimes, but I decided that even if she felt SHE had to put up with it, at least*I* didn't, so I gathered up my baby, made like a tree, and got outta there.

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Tuesday, March 11, 2008

A wall. I has hit it.

Two things I found just seriously disproportionately funny yesterday, beyond all reason:

1) A shoe – a black, low-heeled slingback, to be specific – lying in the middle of an intersection a block from work, getting run over again and again and again. I dunno, something so pathetically hilarious about it … I laughed and laughed. To myself. Like a crazy person.

2) A Ziggy cartoon. I’ve never, ever laughed at a Ziggy; in fact, sort of like with that “Love Is … “ shite, which is a rancid tin of Vienna sausages in cartoon form, but with this hideous tractor-beam quality that draws the eye to it with a terrible power and ruins your day with self-loathing once you’ve helplessly read it and looked at the naked genitalless midgets against your will, I’ve long considered Ziggy one of the places where humor goes to die. It’s a cartoon only a Republican could love, know what I mean? And but so, there it was, in the paper edition of The Onion: Ziggy stands there in his bathrobe, staring glumly at his TV, which blares: "¡A continuación, 'Bailando con Los Simpsons!'” I … o help me, I larfed. Out loud. And showed it to my officemate. Who did not larf at all. Um. Maybe just cause it was in espanol, this play on the endless endless “Blanking With a Semi-Celebrity” crapola that passes for televisual entertainment these days? But also it was, you know, in the cartoon world? Los Simpsons? Ahhhhh. Just Taze me and put me to bed for a couple of days, willya?

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Monday, March 10, 2008

Got to keep the devil down in the hole

Now, THAT is how you end a television series, bitches!


So, like I was saying: THAT is how you end a television series, bitches! Look on it and weep, you shithead cut-to-black fucktard David Chase.

They didn’t wrap everything up with neat little ribbons (red ribbons, heh), but they did bring things around full circle – meet the new boss, same as the old boss – and touched most of the major storylines, just a beat or two each, in a most satisfying (if sometimes chokingly sad) way.

Michael’s the new Omar (RIP, Omar!), Sydnor the new McNulty, Carver the new Daniels, poor goddamned Dukie the new Bubbles, and Bubbles – oh man, he’s REGINALD now. How awesome was that, when we looked up the stairs and saw the door to the house opened, and him stepping through it? Visual poetry, you guys – it was amazing.

My other favorite moments included:

--Slim Charles offing that traitor-ass Cheese (and nobody objecting, except about the money, heh)
--The corner boys retelling some Legend of Omar stories and not recognizing Marlo
--Levy getting his junk trussed up right neatly by Pearlman
--The sadness in Prezbo’s eyes when he agreed to give Dukie the money, knowing what it was for and that he’d never see Dukie again
--Partlow & Wee-Bey buddying up in prison
--Commissioner Valchek
--Shardeen + Freamon = luv & Louis Quatorze dollhouse furniture
--That little sociopath Kenard in cuffs
--Judge Pearlman and Lawyer Daniels

I am going to miss this show so badly – but thank you, Simon & Co., for rewarding the investment I’ve made in it, for not leaving me hanging, for totally ruining all other cop shows forever, for breaking my heart and making me give so much of a damn about these people and their lives. You went out on top. It was a great ride.

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Thursday, March 06, 2008

Also: Less churchin, more drivin around smokin

Courtesy of the great Slugger, whose only detectable flaw is that he’s a Red Sox fan, here is a wee list of …

Things I’d Do Differently if I Went Back to the Eleventh Grade Knowing What I Know Now

--Not get so torqued up over MR. Wow, what a self-absorbed drama queen that guy was. (Probably still is.) I mean, just because a guy is from somewhere else, listens to the Smiths and has books all over his room and posters for bands you’ve never heard of, doesn’t mean he’s actually interesting. And all that mumbling about how “I’ll probably be dead before 25”? GOD. Get over yourself.
--Let the dream of playing tennis for a Division III school die. Let it die.
--Dial back the energy expended on this one particular friend to zero. I can’t go into any more detail here, but let’s just say, borderline sociopaths will never, ever reward your care.
--Antagonize that dickweed government/econ teacher a little more. He deserved it, the shithead, and when his race-baiting finally got the better of MV, who flipped him the ol’ double eagle, said “Fuck you!” and walked out? I shoulda walked out with him.
--Not set myself up for getting totally burned by N. in front of the whole Algebra II class, thusly: (Me) “Yeah, well, just wait till we get PSAT scores back, and then we’ll see who’s smarter than who.” (N, calmly): “Who’s smarter than whom.” I mean, it was funny, even at the time, but … arrrgh! I really walked into that one.

On the other hand, some of these things were valuable lessons, so maybe it’s good that we don’t get do-overs. Heh.

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Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Are there really no other women in Canada? Or is it just the one?

Hey now! The return of Warren the Hunky Helicopter Pilot, whose sins included his functioning eyesight (and through it, his ability to appreciate female beauty of the non-Pattersonian variety) and -- even worse -- his inability to be at Liz's side 24/7 like the Human Tub of Small-Curd Cottage Cheese (motto: Winning Through Constant Proximity!).

But it's a stinky, smelly, maggoty dead red herring, folks. The Liz/Granthony Tango of Despairing Settlement lacked only one more small bump on the road, one more patch of clammy sweat on the parquet floor of romance, as it were, before reaching its inevitable lukewarmly-ever-after conclusion. And here it is: Warren, another in a long line of Suitable Bachelors who've realized their mistakes and come to confess them in distraught anguish to an increasingly matronly Elizabeth. Warren has apparently ditched his previously exciting and fulfilling career for love of Our Wide-Assed Lady of Tractor-Beam Awesomeness, without even asking her if that was kewl. Or, apparently, talking to her at any time in the last year or so.

The thing is, Warren, old buddy old pal, it only works the other way -- Liz ditches HER previously exciting and fulfilling career for no good goddamn reason. She was only using you for sex and transpo, and since she's totes done with sex for the rest of her life, without the whirlybird, you're no good to her. Sorry, broheim -- game over. Although if you wanted to stalk her and then attempt to rape her, we could go ahead and rerun THAT whole storyline again, and this time it could be Granthony's opportunity to propose mawwiage. Rawk.


Monday, March 03, 2008

Movie Rule: George Thorogood

Use of any of the major or minor works of the George Thorogood oeuvre in any part of a movie or its trailer is grounds for automatic disqualification from me ever seeing said movie. Could a movie maker possibly get any lazier than to employ "Bad to the Bone" to signify badassery either earnestly (as in the case of the movie's hero or anti-hero as he suits up in black leather) or ironically (as in the case of, say, a chihuahua 'bout to go up against a Rottie)? Because what it actually signifies is: This movie was not so much "written" or "directed" as "assembled from a holey, smelly old grab bag of the tiredest, lamest, most annoyingly dull cliches of televisual entertainment of the last 30 years by the Skrip-Tron Corporation's Direct-o-matic 2000."