Thursday, July 29, 2004
Baring My Soul, and Anything Else that Won’t Get Me Arrested
Lately I’ve been sort of obsessed with the website grouphug.us, where people "confess" things that have been bothering them or that they feel bad about. I have to admit there’s a certain degree of shadenfreude to my enjoyment; no matter how strange I sometimes feel, I can look at these confessions and say "hey, well, at least I’m not into monkey porn" or "thank god I’ve never had fantasies about Janice from the Muppets." But what really interests me about the site is trying to figure out which confessions are made up. For instance, if you’re confessing to one bizarre sexual conquest, okay, I believe you. But if it becomes three or four, it seems less likely, especially if they were supposedly in the course of an hour or if you claim there was a salad bar involved (trust me, you would never get past the sneeze guard). Or "confessing" that you watch The Goonies whenever they rerun it on television? Okay, that’s all of us. Why don’t you confess that you breathe oxygen or that you think Ben Affleck is overexposed?
But anyway, in keeping with the spirit of confessing (and lying), I’ve come up with my own list of never-before-told secrets. Some of them are real and some of them are fake. The first person to guess correctly which are which wins a prize, which will be all the more enjoyable because it is completely unverifiable.
– In second grade I had a crush on my science teacher. I used to imagine she was demonstrating how friction can create static electricity only for me.
– Even though it’s completely great literature and all, I think The Faerie Queen is like the boringest thing ever. It makes me think that maybe banning books wouldn’t be entirely a bad thing, so long as I got to pick 'em.
– I once killed a man with my bare hands. I felt kind of bad, but I didn’t really have anything else to do.
– Once when my friend and I were drunk and violent we broke the couch in my living room. We didn’t tell anyone, and then we let my roommates think it was broken because a fat guy sat on it.
– I played the role of "Betsy" on the popular daytime television program As The World Turns from 1982-1984.
– I am the one who told Demi Moore to make a film version of The Scarlet Letter. It was also my idea to add all the fucking.
– I came up with the nickname "White Trash Face" for this girl at my undergrad, and it caught on. I think her makeup and scrunchy bangs were more to blame than me, however.
Isn’t this fun? Send me your guesses and I will most likely completely ignore them, but at least it will make you feel involved in the process. Kind of like voting in Florida.
Lately I’ve been sort of obsessed with the website grouphug.us, where people "confess" things that have been bothering them or that they feel bad about. I have to admit there’s a certain degree of shadenfreude to my enjoyment; no matter how strange I sometimes feel, I can look at these confessions and say "hey, well, at least I’m not into monkey porn" or "thank god I’ve never had fantasies about Janice from the Muppets." But what really interests me about the site is trying to figure out which confessions are made up. For instance, if you’re confessing to one bizarre sexual conquest, okay, I believe you. But if it becomes three or four, it seems less likely, especially if they were supposedly in the course of an hour or if you claim there was a salad bar involved (trust me, you would never get past the sneeze guard). Or "confessing" that you watch The Goonies whenever they rerun it on television? Okay, that’s all of us. Why don’t you confess that you breathe oxygen or that you think Ben Affleck is overexposed?
But anyway, in keeping with the spirit of confessing (and lying), I’ve come up with my own list of never-before-told secrets. Some of them are real and some of them are fake. The first person to guess correctly which are which wins a prize, which will be all the more enjoyable because it is completely unverifiable.
– In second grade I had a crush on my science teacher. I used to imagine she was demonstrating how friction can create static electricity only for me.
– Even though it’s completely great literature and all, I think The Faerie Queen is like the boringest thing ever. It makes me think that maybe banning books wouldn’t be entirely a bad thing, so long as I got to pick 'em.
– I once killed a man with my bare hands. I felt kind of bad, but I didn’t really have anything else to do.
– Once when my friend and I were drunk and violent we broke the couch in my living room. We didn’t tell anyone, and then we let my roommates think it was broken because a fat guy sat on it.
– I played the role of "Betsy" on the popular daytime television program As The World Turns from 1982-1984.
– I am the one who told Demi Moore to make a film version of The Scarlet Letter. It was also my idea to add all the fucking.
– I came up with the nickname "White Trash Face" for this girl at my undergrad, and it caught on. I think her makeup and scrunchy bangs were more to blame than me, however.
Isn’t this fun? Send me your guesses and I will most likely completely ignore them, but at least it will make you feel involved in the process. Kind of like voting in Florida.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three
Today is the second (and last) day of the Illinois Bar Exam, that semi-annual exercise in pain, futility, and jauntily-layered test-taking fashion. Each July and February, literally hundreds of tired- and crazy-looking people who didn’t know what else to do after graduating with political science or history degrees converge on Chicago’s magnificent mile, temporarily bypassing the lures of the American Girl store and the Rainforest Cafe for two days of number-two-pencil-induced madness. Brows furrowed with concern, they sit in tiny, over-air-conditioned rooms and try to remember how negotiable instruments work or what the hell a fee tail is. Afterwards, they all sit around drinking as though they can kill those specific brain cells that were devoted to the useless memorization of choice of law rules and talking about the test, or about how they don’t want to talk about the test. It’s a cruel, ridiculous haze, but still ultimately preferable to the equivalent two days of actual work in any office in any industry in this country. The bar exam is painful, but at least each day is over in six hours and there’s no bitter, deeply troubled boss to criticize you while you’re taking it. So congratulations to all my friends and everyone taking the bar, and good luck. Because there are no "study breaks" in the world of employment, and try though we might, life’s biggest questions simply can’t be answered via scantron.
Today is the second (and last) day of the Illinois Bar Exam, that semi-annual exercise in pain, futility, and jauntily-layered test-taking fashion. Each July and February, literally hundreds of tired- and crazy-looking people who didn’t know what else to do after graduating with political science or history degrees converge on Chicago’s magnificent mile, temporarily bypassing the lures of the American Girl store and the Rainforest Cafe for two days of number-two-pencil-induced madness. Brows furrowed with concern, they sit in tiny, over-air-conditioned rooms and try to remember how negotiable instruments work or what the hell a fee tail is. Afterwards, they all sit around drinking as though they can kill those specific brain cells that were devoted to the useless memorization of choice of law rules and talking about the test, or about how they don’t want to talk about the test. It’s a cruel, ridiculous haze, but still ultimately preferable to the equivalent two days of actual work in any office in any industry in this country. The bar exam is painful, but at least each day is over in six hours and there’s no bitter, deeply troubled boss to criticize you while you’re taking it. So congratulations to all my friends and everyone taking the bar, and good luck. Because there are no "study breaks" in the world of employment, and try though we might, life’s biggest questions simply can’t be answered via scantron.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Morning in America
Have I mentioned that I am not a morning person? I would estimate that I spend easily the first hour of every day utterly unable to function, halfway stuck in bizarre dreams about spaceships and the Russian gymnastics team, lying on my bed staring blankly at traffic reports on NBC5 and wondering if maybe Ellee Pai Hong and Dick Johnson have something going on between them. Even once I rouse myself, I lack the ability to string English words together into coherent sentences until well nigh ten, a deficit that no doubt corroborates my co-workers’ view that I am in fact a hardcore drug user.
Coworker: Hey, Jay, how’s it going?
Jay: Huh?
Coworker: How are you?
Jay: Morning... so cold... the light...
Coworker: Rough night last night, huh? You seem a little "out of it."
Jay: Sleep... so tired... must kill.
Coworker: Ha ha, well, good luck with that. Lay off the hard stuff, okay?
Jay: Put the monkey on the piano...
It’s not until later, after I’ve drooled all over my keyboard and dazedly "reorganized" all the files in my office into a huge pile on the floor that I come to my senses (and even then I use that term loosely). Of course, by mid afternoon I’m pumped so full of caffeine and sugar that I’m jibber jabbering like Robin Williams’s slightly-less-sexy cousin, but it’d be nice to have some middle ground, you know? I’m not exactly sure what the answer is, but I’m betting it’s got the words "Phizer" and "Pharmaceuticals" in there somewhere.
Have I mentioned that I am not a morning person? I would estimate that I spend easily the first hour of every day utterly unable to function, halfway stuck in bizarre dreams about spaceships and the Russian gymnastics team, lying on my bed staring blankly at traffic reports on NBC5 and wondering if maybe Ellee Pai Hong and Dick Johnson have something going on between them. Even once I rouse myself, I lack the ability to string English words together into coherent sentences until well nigh ten, a deficit that no doubt corroborates my co-workers’ view that I am in fact a hardcore drug user.
Coworker: Hey, Jay, how’s it going?
Jay: Huh?
Coworker: How are you?
Jay: Morning... so cold... the light...
Coworker: Rough night last night, huh? You seem a little "out of it."
Jay: Sleep... so tired... must kill.
Coworker: Ha ha, well, good luck with that. Lay off the hard stuff, okay?
Jay: Put the monkey on the piano...
It’s not until later, after I’ve drooled all over my keyboard and dazedly "reorganized" all the files in my office into a huge pile on the floor that I come to my senses (and even then I use that term loosely). Of course, by mid afternoon I’m pumped so full of caffeine and sugar that I’m jibber jabbering like Robin Williams’s slightly-less-sexy cousin, but it’d be nice to have some middle ground, you know? I’m not exactly sure what the answer is, but I’m betting it’s got the words "Phizer" and "Pharmaceuticals" in there somewhere.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
A post? On Sunday? Now I've seen everything!
It's not typically our practice here at the blog to post on Sundays; it being The Lord's Day, we tend to be heavily involved in our regimen of fasting, making offerings of small, charred mammals, and wailing and gnashing our teeth. Today, however, we have witnessed a clash of entertainment titans, a Sophie's Choice of quality cable television, if you will (and frankly, you must, since you're not actually here), that has brought us right out of our rhythmic-chanting-induced comas and straight to the keyboard (okay, with a stop off in the kitchen for Li'l Debbies and Coke). For TBS has chosen to air Sister Act 2 opposite both FX's broadcast of America's Sweethearts and ABC Family's broadcast of Hope Floats.
At first, okay, it's an easy choice. Sister Act 2 has the merits of both a young, pre-anger Lauryn Hill belting out sub-Alan-Menken Disney arrangements and the gentle comic touches of Whoopi Goldberg, who was no doubt signed for a sequel simply in hopes of preventing her from ever hosting the Oscars again. And there's all those adorable nuns. But think about it -- America's Sweethearts is the movie so ridiculously absurd that it seriously pushed the limits of this country's love affair with Julia Roberts, even before she began shacking up with cameramen. Plus, it reminds us why we really think Hank Azaria should stick with being a "voice actor." And Hope Floats is... well, Hope Floats. If the tenuous romantic stirrings between Sandra Bullock and that guy with the overbite who obsessively channels Frank Sinatra don't move you, well, you're pretty much like everyone else in America. And don't forget that there's a precocious child involved in the proceedings.
So all I'm saying is that there are difficult choices that fall into every life. All we can do is make decisions and move on. We're ordinary heroes. And we'll all be back watching Crimes of Fashion, the ABC Family original based on a hilarious mixing of mob and fashion cliches, in prime time this evening. Stay strong, people.
It's not typically our practice here at the blog to post on Sundays; it being The Lord's Day, we tend to be heavily involved in our regimen of fasting, making offerings of small, charred mammals, and wailing and gnashing our teeth. Today, however, we have witnessed a clash of entertainment titans, a Sophie's Choice of quality cable television, if you will (and frankly, you must, since you're not actually here), that has brought us right out of our rhythmic-chanting-induced comas and straight to the keyboard (okay, with a stop off in the kitchen for Li'l Debbies and Coke). For TBS has chosen to air Sister Act 2 opposite both FX's broadcast of America's Sweethearts and ABC Family's broadcast of Hope Floats.
At first, okay, it's an easy choice. Sister Act 2 has the merits of both a young, pre-anger Lauryn Hill belting out sub-Alan-Menken Disney arrangements and the gentle comic touches of Whoopi Goldberg, who was no doubt signed for a sequel simply in hopes of preventing her from ever hosting the Oscars again. And there's all those adorable nuns. But think about it -- America's Sweethearts is the movie so ridiculously absurd that it seriously pushed the limits of this country's love affair with Julia Roberts, even before she began shacking up with cameramen. Plus, it reminds us why we really think Hank Azaria should stick with being a "voice actor." And Hope Floats is... well, Hope Floats. If the tenuous romantic stirrings between Sandra Bullock and that guy with the overbite who obsessively channels Frank Sinatra don't move you, well, you're pretty much like everyone else in America. And don't forget that there's a precocious child involved in the proceedings.
So all I'm saying is that there are difficult choices that fall into every life. All we can do is make decisions and move on. We're ordinary heroes. And we'll all be back watching Crimes of Fashion, the ABC Family original based on a hilarious mixing of mob and fashion cliches, in prime time this evening. Stay strong, people.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
100!
Okay, so I realize that making a one-hundredth post is one of those accomplishments that isn’t really an accomplishment, like winning at FreeCell or banging Christina Aguilera. I could quite easily have just posted the punchlines from each day’s Marmaduke to the blog and reached 100 posts just as quickly, and with more crazy that-dog-will-do-anything style. But I do feel a certain sense of satisfaction if only because, as obscure and fitfully entertaining as this site has sometimes been, you can rest assured that it has almost killed me.
You see, dog-sitting anecdotes and Kevin Federline slams don’t write themselves, and many an afternoon has been spent with laptop or legal pad in hand, wondering "will anyone get a Small Wonder reference, or was that just me?" or "is it too soon for another story about a crazy person molesting me?" The challenge has come from the fact that, despite my daily audience of approximately 2.5 friends and relatives, I have actually come to care about what I post here, and only the finest quality sex and poop jokes will suffice for my gentle readers. I like to think that I provide the Internet’s best alternative news source, if you define "news" as including only stories about myself and the things that celebrities do.
But anyway, I’m 100 posts into the game now, and I may make a few changes to help avoid becoming bored with or frustrated by what I’m doing here. I may not post as often and I might play with the content a little to make it more interesting to myself, as opposed to you, because seriously, who do you think you are? But I will continue to be here, whether anyone likes it (or knows it) or not. Because I have a keyboard and Internet access, baby, and that somehow makes any random thought I might have worth foisting on the general public.
Okay, so I realize that making a one-hundredth post is one of those accomplishments that isn’t really an accomplishment, like winning at FreeCell or banging Christina Aguilera. I could quite easily have just posted the punchlines from each day’s Marmaduke to the blog and reached 100 posts just as quickly, and with more crazy that-dog-will-do-anything style. But I do feel a certain sense of satisfaction if only because, as obscure and fitfully entertaining as this site has sometimes been, you can rest assured that it has almost killed me.
You see, dog-sitting anecdotes and Kevin Federline slams don’t write themselves, and many an afternoon has been spent with laptop or legal pad in hand, wondering "will anyone get a Small Wonder reference, or was that just me?" or "is it too soon for another story about a crazy person molesting me?" The challenge has come from the fact that, despite my daily audience of approximately 2.5 friends and relatives, I have actually come to care about what I post here, and only the finest quality sex and poop jokes will suffice for my gentle readers. I like to think that I provide the Internet’s best alternative news source, if you define "news" as including only stories about myself and the things that celebrities do.
But anyway, I’m 100 posts into the game now, and I may make a few changes to help avoid becoming bored with or frustrated by what I’m doing here. I may not post as often and I might play with the content a little to make it more interesting to myself, as opposed to you, because seriously, who do you think you are? But I will continue to be here, whether anyone likes it (or knows it) or not. Because I have a keyboard and Internet access, baby, and that somehow makes any random thought I might have worth foisting on the general public.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
A Chilling Vision of Things to Come
With the one hundredth post here at the blog only a day away, you might think we’d be drowning in nostalgia, reminiscing warmly about the post we did on how those Citibank commercials are annoying or that time we punched Hillary Duff. And sure, to be fair, we do have to pat ourselves on the backs for hating Nicole Kidman before it was cool. Not content to rest on our laurels, however, primarily because we’re not so completely sure what laurels are, we present this special look into future events in the life of the blog, sponsored by Ralston-Purina:
– A series of terrible guest hosts, including Kathie Lee Gifford, Jared from the Subway Commercials, and TV’s Urkel, drives the blog close to cancellation.
– The blog merges with FOX News and begins devoting 95% of its content to Clinton blow job stories.
– Image consultants attempt to make the blog more "young, hip, and urban;" OutKast references now outnumber Edith Wharton references almost two to one.
– The blog announces its engagement to a swarthy, unshaven, and unemployed "backup dancer," vehemently denying rumors that it is pregnant.
– We present a very special Christmas post, featuring the reanimated corpse of Bing Crosby, Kelly Osbourne as the Virgin Mary, and the three surviving original oompah-loompahs.
– The FCC fines the blog three million dollars after a special segment on the Janet Jackson piercings we didn’t see.
– The so-called "ghosts" haunting our server turn out to be nothing more than our cantankerous neighbor, Mr. Krinkle, and his tabby cat Minx.
– A shocking tell-all autobiography reveals that the blog once had a naughty dream about Don Johnson.
– In a surprising twist, the blog sweeps the MTV Movie Awards, taking trophies for Best Fight, Best Stream-of-Consciousness Rant about Reality Television, and Best Kiss (with Sarah Michelle Gellar).
– Brand new "theme weeks" are instituted and quickly cancelled after "Communicable Diseases Week" fails to, pardon the pun, "catch on."
– A shortage of bullet points causes the blog to fold.
See, there’s so much exciting stuff left to come!!!! Or if not exciting, at least overpunctuated!!!!
With the one hundredth post here at the blog only a day away, you might think we’d be drowning in nostalgia, reminiscing warmly about the post we did on how those Citibank commercials are annoying or that time we punched Hillary Duff. And sure, to be fair, we do have to pat ourselves on the backs for hating Nicole Kidman before it was cool. Not content to rest on our laurels, however, primarily because we’re not so completely sure what laurels are, we present this special look into future events in the life of the blog, sponsored by Ralston-Purina:
– A series of terrible guest hosts, including Kathie Lee Gifford, Jared from the Subway Commercials, and TV’s Urkel, drives the blog close to cancellation.
– The blog merges with FOX News and begins devoting 95% of its content to Clinton blow job stories.
– Image consultants attempt to make the blog more "young, hip, and urban;" OutKast references now outnumber Edith Wharton references almost two to one.
– The blog announces its engagement to a swarthy, unshaven, and unemployed "backup dancer," vehemently denying rumors that it is pregnant.
– We present a very special Christmas post, featuring the reanimated corpse of Bing Crosby, Kelly Osbourne as the Virgin Mary, and the three surviving original oompah-loompahs.
– The FCC fines the blog three million dollars after a special segment on the Janet Jackson piercings we didn’t see.
– The so-called "ghosts" haunting our server turn out to be nothing more than our cantankerous neighbor, Mr. Krinkle, and his tabby cat Minx.
– A shocking tell-all autobiography reveals that the blog once had a naughty dream about Don Johnson.
– In a surprising twist, the blog sweeps the MTV Movie Awards, taking trophies for Best Fight, Best Stream-of-Consciousness Rant about Reality Television, and Best Kiss (with Sarah Michelle Gellar).
– Brand new "theme weeks" are instituted and quickly cancelled after "Communicable Diseases Week" fails to, pardon the pun, "catch on."
– A shortage of bullet points causes the blog to fold.
See, there’s so much exciting stuff left to come!!!! Or if not exciting, at least overpunctuated!!!!
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
The Way We Were
– Anchorman. Okay, so it’s not exactly a Moliere comedy. But I’d pay the $9 just to see Will Ferrell play jazz flute any day. And I don’t mean that in a dirty way; I imagine that would cost a lot more than $9.
– The Lincoln Park Zoo. One of those nice, non-corrupt zoos where the animals don’t appear to have been drugged or tazered. If I could get e-mail alerts letting me know when the meerkats will be sequestered in "a non-public space," however, it would save me a lot of heartbreak.
– Automotive Repair. I’ve learned that the magic words are "I’m just out of money." After that they don’t seem to worry so much that the alignment of your rear license plate lights might be slightly off.
– The Emmy Nominations. It’s just nice to finally see Tyne Daly get the recognition she deserves.
– Courtney Love. Apparently, she now has a "legal guardian." It’s hard to think of a worse celebrity-related job, unless it’s "Carrot Top’s hairdresser" or "Michael Jackson’s Grammys date."
– The Political Conventions. I’d like to see them formatted more like a celebrity roast or a WB-produced dating show. Just put the candidates in a hot tub, start insulting them, and watch the sparks fly!
– Anchorman. Okay, so it’s not exactly a Moliere comedy. But I’d pay the $9 just to see Will Ferrell play jazz flute any day. And I don’t mean that in a dirty way; I imagine that would cost a lot more than $9.
– The Lincoln Park Zoo. One of those nice, non-corrupt zoos where the animals don’t appear to have been drugged or tazered. If I could get e-mail alerts letting me know when the meerkats will be sequestered in "a non-public space," however, it would save me a lot of heartbreak.
– Automotive Repair. I’ve learned that the magic words are "I’m just out of money." After that they don’t seem to worry so much that the alignment of your rear license plate lights might be slightly off.
– The Emmy Nominations. It’s just nice to finally see Tyne Daly get the recognition she deserves.
– Courtney Love. Apparently, she now has a "legal guardian." It’s hard to think of a worse celebrity-related job, unless it’s "Carrot Top’s hairdresser" or "Michael Jackson’s Grammys date."
– The Political Conventions. I’d like to see them formatted more like a celebrity roast or a WB-produced dating show. Just put the candidates in a hot tub, start insulting them, and watch the sparks fly!
Monday, July 19, 2004
The Best Weekend Ever!
So I think I may have contracted West Nile Virus during my office retreat. It all started on Friday, when I found myself experiencing major UFO-abduction-style "lost time" while attempting to read some briefs. The truly enjoyable part was that, being a major nerd, I would continue to dream that I was reading even after I fell asleep, leading to the creation in my head of some truly dubious appellate arguments involving unicorns, racecars, and Jessica Simpson. My Farrah-like grip on consciousness was accompanied by a sore throat that caused me to wonder if I had, in fact, perhaps swallowed an operating salad shooter. (I don’t recall doing this, but I did, after all, have some lost time.) So I started swilling Dayquil and cough drops and my own home remedies of Twizzlers and the Green Apple Slushie from 7-11.
Things were not to improve, however, when I began having massive chills that led me to, in a half-conscious and no doubt half-crazed state, put on several layers of clothing (including, I must confess, some formal wear), wrap myself in every blanket in the house, and climb back under the covers. When I awoke in a frantic sweat no more than twenty minutes later, I remembered none of the brilliant blanket plan, and was convinced that I had either been placed in a straightjacket for ultimate commitment to one of Chicago’s finer asylums or non-consensually signed up for a special April Fool’s Day episode of Ultimate Makeover. Things took a real turn for the worse when I somehow missed the rather prominent warning not to drink alcohol with my cold medicine and ended up spending an entire night lying on my bed spouting a stream-of-consciousness monologue about the Northern Renaissance (still a nerd even when altered) and shaking violently. I cannot think of a better way to spend a weekend.
So I think I may have contracted West Nile Virus during my office retreat. It all started on Friday, when I found myself experiencing major UFO-abduction-style "lost time" while attempting to read some briefs. The truly enjoyable part was that, being a major nerd, I would continue to dream that I was reading even after I fell asleep, leading to the creation in my head of some truly dubious appellate arguments involving unicorns, racecars, and Jessica Simpson. My Farrah-like grip on consciousness was accompanied by a sore throat that caused me to wonder if I had, in fact, perhaps swallowed an operating salad shooter. (I don’t recall doing this, but I did, after all, have some lost time.) So I started swilling Dayquil and cough drops and my own home remedies of Twizzlers and the Green Apple Slushie from 7-11.
Things were not to improve, however, when I began having massive chills that led me to, in a half-conscious and no doubt half-crazed state, put on several layers of clothing (including, I must confess, some formal wear), wrap myself in every blanket in the house, and climb back under the covers. When I awoke in a frantic sweat no more than twenty minutes later, I remembered none of the brilliant blanket plan, and was convinced that I had either been placed in a straightjacket for ultimate commitment to one of Chicago’s finer asylums or non-consensually signed up for a special April Fool’s Day episode of Ultimate Makeover. Things took a real turn for the worse when I somehow missed the rather prominent warning not to drink alcohol with my cold medicine and ended up spending an entire night lying on my bed spouting a stream-of-consciousness monologue about the Northern Renaissance (still a nerd even when altered) and shaking violently. I cannot think of a better way to spend a weekend.
Friday, July 16, 2004
On The Aisle
From Garfield: The Movie to White Chicks to Sleepover, summer is the time when Hollywood brings out all of its hottest hits to delight and amaze us at the multiplex. Sadly, however, there are always those few tragically great pictures that somehow get lost in the box office shuffle. Here are some lesser-known classics you might think about checking out this weekend:
Indiana Jones and the Rascal Scooter from Electric Mobility
The Muppets Take Scranton, New Jersey
Amistad 2: Amistader
Harry Potter and the Awkward First Stirrings of Puberty
That Nutty Doctor Doolittle Meets Pluto Nash at the Haunted Mansion
Omarosa: The Movie
Untitled Bronson Pinchot World War II Epic
Fahrenheit 7/11
Dr. Seuss’ Please Stop Turning my Books into Crappy Movies
The Many Madcap Adventures of Steven Hawking
A Flag Day Story
The Amazing Motionless Forehead of Nicole Kidman
From Garfield: The Movie to White Chicks to Sleepover, summer is the time when Hollywood brings out all of its hottest hits to delight and amaze us at the multiplex. Sadly, however, there are always those few tragically great pictures that somehow get lost in the box office shuffle. Here are some lesser-known classics you might think about checking out this weekend:
Indiana Jones and the Rascal Scooter from Electric Mobility
The Muppets Take Scranton, New Jersey
Amistad 2: Amistader
Harry Potter and the Awkward First Stirrings of Puberty
That Nutty Doctor Doolittle Meets Pluto Nash at the Haunted Mansion
Omarosa: The Movie
Untitled Bronson Pinchot World War II Epic
Fahrenheit 7/11
Dr. Seuss’ Please Stop Turning my Books into Crappy Movies
The Many Madcap Adventures of Steven Hawking
A Flag Day Story
The Amazing Motionless Forehead of Nicole Kidman
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Some Well-Deserved Praise
We get an interesting range of reader e-mail here at the blog. Some people write in simply to correct my typos or discuss the great eternal mystery of Lindsay Lohan’s Suddenly Ginormous Boobs; others encourage me to find the lord (as though he’s simply hiding behind the credenza) or at least a certified mental health care professional. Still others send me ads for various genital-related pharmaceuticals and real estate seminars, in what I can only assume is non-blog-related business. But as our 100th post here at the blog approaches, we’ve received a number of great completely-not-made-up compliments and remembrances that I thought I’d share with all you loyal readers. And what the hell, you disloyal readers can take a gander as well. Mainly because I like saying “take a gander.”
I like your blog because it doesn’t insult my intelligence. Okay, so once it might have said something about how my intelligence looks crappy in red, but it was just stressed out after a long day at work and it apologized right away.
-- Cheryl from Ohio
My favorite blog moment was when Fonzie wanted to join Richie’s band, but he wouldn’t let him. Fonzie went nuts and started killing people. It was hilarious. Man, what a great blog.
-- Mark from Michigan
The best thing about the blog is that it’s always there for you. Unlike my crazy ex-wife, Lorraine. Once she threw my bowling ball through the front window. Just because I happened to mention that her pot roast was a little dry. I haven’t had the blog’s pot roast, but I bet it’s better. Is the blog seeing anyone right now?
-- Dick from Kansas
I remember when the blog was just starting out and it had all these cute little observations about work and riding the train and the Home Depot and stuff. Man, what the hell happened? J. Lo jokes? What, have you been raiding the trash can at Ryan Seacrest’s writers’ room?
-- Marsha from Texas
The blog and I have had a fairly tumultuous relationship. It kills me that it refuses to recognize our child, but then it will go and do something wonderful like call Dr. Phil a phony, pretentious lardass, and I just melt.
-- Carolyn from Iowa
This weblog may be the greatest single artistic creation in the history of mankind. Of course, I’ve lived in a tiny, dank cave cut off from all civilization for my entire life, but I think I got the gist of it. I give it four thumbs up, as the saying goes.
-- Dave from Colorado
We get an interesting range of reader e-mail here at the blog. Some people write in simply to correct my typos or discuss the great eternal mystery of Lindsay Lohan’s Suddenly Ginormous Boobs; others encourage me to find the lord (as though he’s simply hiding behind the credenza) or at least a certified mental health care professional. Still others send me ads for various genital-related pharmaceuticals and real estate seminars, in what I can only assume is non-blog-related business. But as our 100th post here at the blog approaches, we’ve received a number of great completely-not-made-up compliments and remembrances that I thought I’d share with all you loyal readers. And what the hell, you disloyal readers can take a gander as well. Mainly because I like saying “take a gander.”
I like your blog because it doesn’t insult my intelligence. Okay, so once it might have said something about how my intelligence looks crappy in red, but it was just stressed out after a long day at work and it apologized right away.
-- Cheryl from Ohio
My favorite blog moment was when Fonzie wanted to join Richie’s band, but he wouldn’t let him. Fonzie went nuts and started killing people. It was hilarious. Man, what a great blog.
-- Mark from Michigan
The best thing about the blog is that it’s always there for you. Unlike my crazy ex-wife, Lorraine. Once she threw my bowling ball through the front window. Just because I happened to mention that her pot roast was a little dry. I haven’t had the blog’s pot roast, but I bet it’s better. Is the blog seeing anyone right now?
-- Dick from Kansas
I remember when the blog was just starting out and it had all these cute little observations about work and riding the train and the Home Depot and stuff. Man, what the hell happened? J. Lo jokes? What, have you been raiding the trash can at Ryan Seacrest’s writers’ room?
-- Marsha from Texas
The blog and I have had a fairly tumultuous relationship. It kills me that it refuses to recognize our child, but then it will go and do something wonderful like call Dr. Phil a phony, pretentious lardass, and I just melt.
-- Carolyn from Iowa
This weblog may be the greatest single artistic creation in the history of mankind. Of course, I’ve lived in a tiny, dank cave cut off from all civilization for my entire life, but I think I got the gist of it. I give it four thumbs up, as the saying goes.
-- Dave from Colorado
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Signs of the Times
– The Chicago Public Library. Otherwise known as the Internet porn solution for homeless people. Apparently they’re trying to impress the kids with a “Reading is Creepy and Smells Bad” theme.
– Vague Sadness. It has to be an indication of some sort of deficit in our lives that my roommate and I got so excited about our new vacuum cleaner. But you should see how great it is on rugs! And I think the attachment and I are common-law married.
– Summer TV. It still exists, right? They’d better start coming up with better stuff before I have to break down and actually establish human contact with someone.
– Five Day Workweeks. They just seem so excessive now, you know? Four days seems a lot more like it, and I still think one of those should probably be “movie day.” I bet that’s how they do it in Japan.
– Narcolepsy. I momentarily fell asleep while standing on the train this morning. Thank God for loud cell phone train talkers or I might have ended up in Evanston. I did have a lovely dream about eating a cookie cake, however.
– Mike Ditka. He’s thinking about being the new Republican senatorial candidate in Illinois. Given the problems the last guy had, he might want to leave the Levitra at home.
– The Chicago Public Library. Otherwise known as the Internet porn solution for homeless people. Apparently they’re trying to impress the kids with a “Reading is Creepy and Smells Bad” theme.
– Vague Sadness. It has to be an indication of some sort of deficit in our lives that my roommate and I got so excited about our new vacuum cleaner. But you should see how great it is on rugs! And I think the attachment and I are common-law married.
– Summer TV. It still exists, right? They’d better start coming up with better stuff before I have to break down and actually establish human contact with someone.
– Five Day Workweeks. They just seem so excessive now, you know? Four days seems a lot more like it, and I still think one of those should probably be “movie day.” I bet that’s how they do it in Japan.
– Narcolepsy. I momentarily fell asleep while standing on the train this morning. Thank God for loud cell phone train talkers or I might have ended up in Evanston. I did have a lovely dream about eating a cookie cake, however.
– Mike Ditka. He’s thinking about being the new Republican senatorial candidate in Illinois. Given the problems the last guy had, he might want to leave the Levitra at home.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Retreat!
This Thursday my work is having an all-day “retreat.” Do you have any idea how pumped I am about this? First of all, it will literally allow me to retreat from the work piled up on my desk. Secondly, I feel pretty certain we’re going to end up doing trust exercises in there somewhere, and I’ve got a list of people I’m just dying to “accidentally” drop cold on the floor. Then, there’s the possibility that we’ll all start sharing our deep thoughts about “quality” and end up hugging and crying. I think we’re going to be about two academic deans and an inflatable obstacle course from a college orientation, and I couldn’t be more excited.
Of course, the last time we did this they made us complete psychological profiles, under the guise of helping us learn to work together, but clearly so as to determine who might flip out and start attacking management. It may well be that this is all part of an evil plan to uncover employees’ innermost secrets, and that some of us will be “disappeared” Latin-American style at the close of the proceedings. But if that is the price I pay for the opportunity to play Kerplunk all day and still draw a salary, so be it. When they raise the stakes to urine tests, that’s where I’ll draw the line.
This Thursday my work is having an all-day “retreat.” Do you have any idea how pumped I am about this? First of all, it will literally allow me to retreat from the work piled up on my desk. Secondly, I feel pretty certain we’re going to end up doing trust exercises in there somewhere, and I’ve got a list of people I’m just dying to “accidentally” drop cold on the floor. Then, there’s the possibility that we’ll all start sharing our deep thoughts about “quality” and end up hugging and crying. I think we’re going to be about two academic deans and an inflatable obstacle course from a college orientation, and I couldn’t be more excited.
Of course, the last time we did this they made us complete psychological profiles, under the guise of helping us learn to work together, but clearly so as to determine who might flip out and start attacking management. It may well be that this is all part of an evil plan to uncover employees’ innermost secrets, and that some of us will be “disappeared” Latin-American style at the close of the proceedings. But if that is the price I pay for the opportunity to play Kerplunk all day and still draw a salary, so be it. When they raise the stakes to urine tests, that’s where I’ll draw the line.
Monday, July 12, 2004
A Series of Unfortunate Events
I got my car repaired on Friday. As usual, I was treated like a mildly retarded child molester. They actually asked me if I’ve “ever looked under the hood before.” Then they listed off thousands of problems with my vehicle that sounded like characters in a Dr. Seuss book (I severely doubt my snapdoozle was kreptingled) and basically accused me of not loving the car enough to fix them. It made me feel so worthless that I briefly wondered if the Catholic Church had indeed made the move into the auto repair market.
Despite all the fixin’, however, I was still treated to a “check engine” light about twenty minutes into my three hour journey to an out-of-town wedding on Saturday. I spent half an hour pulled over next to a cemetery checking the engine the best way I knew how—by calling friends and relatives to ask them if they thought I could just ignore it. This highly scientific poll finally resulted in a verdict of “continue until actual flames appear,” but the delay was sufficient to cause me to miss the actual ceremony, which is, as you know, the only place where there’s any chance they’ll sing “Hero” by Mariah Carey.
After a hard night of celebrating perfect love by costing the couple in question thousands of dollars in food, drink, and entertainment expenses, I rose at 7 AM Sunday so I could get back home in time for what we in the business call “a prior engagement” (read: hooker). Unfortunately, I forgot the cardinal rule of traveling, which is that one should never eat biscuits and partially-congealed gravy from a complimentary hotel continental breakfast before hitting the road. I’m actually not sure what continent it was they had in mind.
A few hours later, I made the rather dubious decision to stop for a pee break at a gas station with restrooms so filthy I felt I might contract leprosy just from looking at the condom machine. I was amused to note that there was a tastefully framed Norman Rockwell print over the never-cleaned toilet. I’m all for funding the arts, but maybe they should fund some sponges first.
I got my car repaired on Friday. As usual, I was treated like a mildly retarded child molester. They actually asked me if I’ve “ever looked under the hood before.” Then they listed off thousands of problems with my vehicle that sounded like characters in a Dr. Seuss book (I severely doubt my snapdoozle was kreptingled) and basically accused me of not loving the car enough to fix them. It made me feel so worthless that I briefly wondered if the Catholic Church had indeed made the move into the auto repair market.
Despite all the fixin’, however, I was still treated to a “check engine” light about twenty minutes into my three hour journey to an out-of-town wedding on Saturday. I spent half an hour pulled over next to a cemetery checking the engine the best way I knew how—by calling friends and relatives to ask them if they thought I could just ignore it. This highly scientific poll finally resulted in a verdict of “continue until actual flames appear,” but the delay was sufficient to cause me to miss the actual ceremony, which is, as you know, the only place where there’s any chance they’ll sing “Hero” by Mariah Carey.
After a hard night of celebrating perfect love by costing the couple in question thousands of dollars in food, drink, and entertainment expenses, I rose at 7 AM Sunday so I could get back home in time for what we in the business call “a prior engagement” (read: hooker). Unfortunately, I forgot the cardinal rule of traveling, which is that one should never eat biscuits and partially-congealed gravy from a complimentary hotel continental breakfast before hitting the road. I’m actually not sure what continent it was they had in mind.
A few hours later, I made the rather dubious decision to stop for a pee break at a gas station with restrooms so filthy I felt I might contract leprosy just from looking at the condom machine. I was amused to note that there was a tastefully framed Norman Rockwell print over the never-cleaned toilet. I’m all for funding the arts, but maybe they should fund some sponges first.
Friday, July 09, 2004
Mysterious Ways
So there I was last night, wondering what I could possibly write about for today’s blog entry.
“Well,” I thought, “You’ve already done that gripping piece on how you have weird dreams sometimes, and pretty much every thought you’ve ever had about pop culture is now memorialized for the ages. You could always beat on the Olsen twins some more, but that’s a little bit last night’s Leno monologue...”
A lot of my thoughts end with an ellipsis.
But anyway, just when I was at my wits end trying to think of a topic, the Lord Himself provided one. I went to start my car, in Andersonville, which is far from where I live, and to which I never, ever go, and wouldn’t you know the damn thing wouldn’t start?
God is kind of ironic, at least in the Alanis, more-annoying-than-ironic sense of the word.
So I thought, hey, maybe if I kept turning the key in the ignition over and over it might just suddenly jump back to life. And maybe the air conditioning and radio would suddenly be reborn as well. And maybe diamonds would fall out of the glove compartment and the ‘95 Neon would suddenly transform into a magic spaceship.
That theory proved to be incorrect.
So I called my roadside assistance people, who shall remain (BP) nameless. They helpfully asked me about half an hour’s worth of questions, apparently drawn from this month’s Cosmo quiz for all their usefulness, and then informed me that there was no way I could get assistance in under three hours. Because, right, you really wouldn’t want to RUSH emergency assistance.
On the plus side, their hold music was some lovely Kenny G.
Rather than wait three hours for what, for all I knew, could be Godot’s Towing Service, I decided to take a cab back and deal with all of this later. Unfortunately, I did not realize this would entail swerving down Lake Shore at one hundred and six miles per hour in a vehicle with no seat belts or, for that matter, rear windows. We took the off-ramp so fast I almost became airborne.
And this was when I realized I had in my wallet five dollars and some stamps with which to pay the nice crazy man.
So you see how the Lord provides? One minute I've got nothing to write about, the next minute I've been punk'd by the big Ashton Kutcher in the sky. I hate to think what He’ll provide the next time I run out of topics, but I’m guessing a felony drug conviction and a major case of scabies are on the list.
So there I was last night, wondering what I could possibly write about for today’s blog entry.
“Well,” I thought, “You’ve already done that gripping piece on how you have weird dreams sometimes, and pretty much every thought you’ve ever had about pop culture is now memorialized for the ages. You could always beat on the Olsen twins some more, but that’s a little bit last night’s Leno monologue...”
A lot of my thoughts end with an ellipsis.
But anyway, just when I was at my wits end trying to think of a topic, the Lord Himself provided one. I went to start my car, in Andersonville, which is far from where I live, and to which I never, ever go, and wouldn’t you know the damn thing wouldn’t start?
God is kind of ironic, at least in the Alanis, more-annoying-than-ironic sense of the word.
So I thought, hey, maybe if I kept turning the key in the ignition over and over it might just suddenly jump back to life. And maybe the air conditioning and radio would suddenly be reborn as well. And maybe diamonds would fall out of the glove compartment and the ‘95 Neon would suddenly transform into a magic spaceship.
That theory proved to be incorrect.
So I called my roadside assistance people, who shall remain (BP) nameless. They helpfully asked me about half an hour’s worth of questions, apparently drawn from this month’s Cosmo quiz for all their usefulness, and then informed me that there was no way I could get assistance in under three hours. Because, right, you really wouldn’t want to RUSH emergency assistance.
On the plus side, their hold music was some lovely Kenny G.
Rather than wait three hours for what, for all I knew, could be Godot’s Towing Service, I decided to take a cab back and deal with all of this later. Unfortunately, I did not realize this would entail swerving down Lake Shore at one hundred and six miles per hour in a vehicle with no seat belts or, for that matter, rear windows. We took the off-ramp so fast I almost became airborne.
And this was when I realized I had in my wallet five dollars and some stamps with which to pay the nice crazy man.
So you see how the Lord provides? One minute I've got nothing to write about, the next minute I've been punk'd by the big Ashton Kutcher in the sky. I hate to think what He’ll provide the next time I run out of topics, but I’m guessing a felony drug conviction and a major case of scabies are on the list.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
In Brief
– Spider Man 2. Okay, so it’s a fairly decent movie. But any flick featuring latex body suits and Kirsten Dunst’s lazy face ain’t exactly Ingmar Bergman. So forgive me if I don’t exactly see Aunt May sweeping up at the Oscars any time soon.
– McGriddles. I can literally feel my arteries clogging up as I eat them, and I like it. From now on, I want syrup laced into everything I eat—french fries, tuna, syrup.
– Politics. All this talk about running mates and elections has made me realize one thing: even the “attractive” politicians are fugly. Why doesn’t Congress appropriate itself some money for better hair care?
– Craigslist. Finally, a place where people can sell their used baby furniture and solicit sex partners all in one stop. Apparently America has a missed connection with its dignity.
– Road Trips. Now I know that, despite their differences, all the great states of our union have something in common: filthy gas station restrooms.
– Blind Luck. One of my friends won $20 on a scratch-off game this weekend. Meanwhile, my attempts to scratch my way into a contestant slot on something called “Hoosier Millionaire” were thwarted. Kind of makes you wonder if there’s really a God, doesn’t it?
– Spider Man 2. Okay, so it’s a fairly decent movie. But any flick featuring latex body suits and Kirsten Dunst’s lazy face ain’t exactly Ingmar Bergman. So forgive me if I don’t exactly see Aunt May sweeping up at the Oscars any time soon.
– McGriddles. I can literally feel my arteries clogging up as I eat them, and I like it. From now on, I want syrup laced into everything I eat—french fries, tuna, syrup.
– Politics. All this talk about running mates and elections has made me realize one thing: even the “attractive” politicians are fugly. Why doesn’t Congress appropriate itself some money for better hair care?
– Craigslist. Finally, a place where people can sell their used baby furniture and solicit sex partners all in one stop. Apparently America has a missed connection with its dignity.
– Road Trips. Now I know that, despite their differences, all the great states of our union have something in common: filthy gas station restrooms.
– Blind Luck. One of my friends won $20 on a scratch-off game this weekend. Meanwhile, my attempts to scratch my way into a contestant slot on something called “Hoosier Millionaire” were thwarted. Kind of makes you wonder if there’s really a God, doesn’t it?
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Milestones
We’re about ten posts away from our hundredth post here at the blog. Given the rather momentous nature of this occasion, I plan to pretty much drive the whole thing into the ground. Here’s what’s in store:
– A dramatic reenactment of my first post, featuring Meredith Baxter-Birney as me and Edward James Olmos as the blog.
– Readers from around the world share their best wishes for my future, in the form of an involuntary committal proceeding.
– The cast of Degrassi Junior High: The Next Generation stops by to present me with a very special restraining order.
– Jello shots.
– Ted Danson reprises his beloved role as the ever-irascible but always-hilarious Becker.
– A video retrospective of my numerous references to J.Lo’s still-more-numerous marriages.
– The blog and I spend a quiet day together at the L.A. Kabbalah Center.
– One hundred tiny magical unicorns dance one hundred merry jigs atop the computer monitors of one hundred lucky readers.
– Dianne Warren pens a new commemorative crap ballad in honor of the blog, entitled “Hope and Love in a New Dream for Tomorrow.”
– The blog announces that we are “taking a hiatus” due to “extreme exhaustion” and to “pursue side projects;” resurfaces as the newest member of Destiny’s Child.
– The City of Chicago issues an official proclamation declaring it “Poorly-Formatted Insane Rambling Day” throughout the land.
– I try out a series of radical new hairstyles; finally settle on “the Rachel.”
– Friends and well-wishers chip in for a cake with a celebrity stripper inside; due to a technical malfunction, Angela Lansbury suffocates.
Stay tuned. It’s sure to be magical!
We’re about ten posts away from our hundredth post here at the blog. Given the rather momentous nature of this occasion, I plan to pretty much drive the whole thing into the ground. Here’s what’s in store:
– A dramatic reenactment of my first post, featuring Meredith Baxter-Birney as me and Edward James Olmos as the blog.
– Readers from around the world share their best wishes for my future, in the form of an involuntary committal proceeding.
– The cast of Degrassi Junior High: The Next Generation stops by to present me with a very special restraining order.
– Jello shots.
– Ted Danson reprises his beloved role as the ever-irascible but always-hilarious Becker.
– A video retrospective of my numerous references to J.Lo’s still-more-numerous marriages.
– The blog and I spend a quiet day together at the L.A. Kabbalah Center.
– One hundred tiny magical unicorns dance one hundred merry jigs atop the computer monitors of one hundred lucky readers.
– Dianne Warren pens a new commemorative crap ballad in honor of the blog, entitled “Hope and Love in a New Dream for Tomorrow.”
– The blog announces that we are “taking a hiatus” due to “extreme exhaustion” and to “pursue side projects;” resurfaces as the newest member of Destiny’s Child.
– The City of Chicago issues an official proclamation declaring it “Poorly-Formatted Insane Rambling Day” throughout the land.
– I try out a series of radical new hairstyles; finally settle on “the Rachel.”
– Friends and well-wishers chip in for a cake with a celebrity stripper inside; due to a technical malfunction, Angela Lansbury suffocates.
Stay tuned. It’s sure to be magical!
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Culture Wars
So this past weekend I had the privilege of attending the biggest, baddest, bitchinest Hindu wedding of all time. Of course, prior to this my knowledge of Hindu culture had been drawn almost entirely from Bend It Like Beckham (most of which I spent trying to decide whether or not to hate Keira Knightly, anyway) and The Simpsons, so I spent a lot of time trying not to make some gauche remark about Pakistan or insult someone’s god. But after five days of curry-drenched, sari-spotting fun, I can honestly say that their culture kicks my culture’s ass like Al Roker cutting in line during all-you-can-eat night at Shoney’s.
For starters, Indian music rocks. They’ve got that song with the Knight Rider theme in it, and everybody does the little dance like they’re putting in light bulbs with both hands. Then, the groom gets to ride on a white horse to meet the bride’s family, which sure beats a Ford Aerostar. At this wedding we were also fortunate enough to have an honest-to-god chocolate fountain (think Willy Wonka) in which to dip oreos and, well, whatever, but get those dirty thoughts out of your head. Plus there were like five open bars staffed by surly, tight-permed waitresses. It was enough to make me forget that they wouldn’t give me a henna tattoo and that they tried to put yogurt on my chicken.
It did get me thinking, though, about the deficit of true culture I face as a white American male of unspecified descent. What is my tradition, my heritage? Liking Julia Roberts? Going to the GAP? I mean, the last time some of my white friends got married, the proceedings featured Bette Midler ballads, NASCAR paraphernalia, and a drunken bridesmaid puking up cake in a public restroom. I refuse to accept that as my culture. On the other hand, I don’t think most people would want to accept my wedding suggestions of a cheese-in-a-can buffet and classic lit party favors. Probably my desire for a common culture is just a desire to make everyone else like the things I like, and absent a sweeping change in our nation’s penal law, I’m just not going to be able to make that happen.
So this past weekend I had the privilege of attending the biggest, baddest, bitchinest Hindu wedding of all time. Of course, prior to this my knowledge of Hindu culture had been drawn almost entirely from Bend It Like Beckham (most of which I spent trying to decide whether or not to hate Keira Knightly, anyway) and The Simpsons, so I spent a lot of time trying not to make some gauche remark about Pakistan or insult someone’s god. But after five days of curry-drenched, sari-spotting fun, I can honestly say that their culture kicks my culture’s ass like Al Roker cutting in line during all-you-can-eat night at Shoney’s.
For starters, Indian music rocks. They’ve got that song with the Knight Rider theme in it, and everybody does the little dance like they’re putting in light bulbs with both hands. Then, the groom gets to ride on a white horse to meet the bride’s family, which sure beats a Ford Aerostar. At this wedding we were also fortunate enough to have an honest-to-god chocolate fountain (think Willy Wonka) in which to dip oreos and, well, whatever, but get those dirty thoughts out of your head. Plus there were like five open bars staffed by surly, tight-permed waitresses. It was enough to make me forget that they wouldn’t give me a henna tattoo and that they tried to put yogurt on my chicken.
It did get me thinking, though, about the deficit of true culture I face as a white American male of unspecified descent. What is my tradition, my heritage? Liking Julia Roberts? Going to the GAP? I mean, the last time some of my white friends got married, the proceedings featured Bette Midler ballads, NASCAR paraphernalia, and a drunken bridesmaid puking up cake in a public restroom. I refuse to accept that as my culture. On the other hand, I don’t think most people would want to accept my wedding suggestions of a cheese-in-a-can buffet and classic lit party favors. Probably my desire for a common culture is just a desire to make everyone else like the things I like, and absent a sweeping change in our nation’s penal law, I’m just not going to be able to make that happen.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
The Week in Denial
It’s been a huge week for celebrity denials! Between Mary-Kate’s crack-rumor smackdown, Britney’s pregnancy pshaw, and J.K. Rowling’s book-title brouhaha, publicists have been working overtime to repeat carefully-worded absurdities while maintaining straight, if botoxedly expressionless, faces. Unfortunately, with all the excitement, a few disclaimers of the semi-famous were bound to fall through the cracks:
Hi, I’m Courtney Love. I just want to deny, once again and for the record, that I am an unfit parent. Li’l Francis Bean is quite simply thriving. Why, just the other day she took her top off in the middle of the food court at the mall and started chucking soft pretzels at the security guards. And we have so much fun together—“singing,” attending court hearings, trying not to choke on our tongues. Next week, we’re thinking about taking up the Kabbalah. That’s right, we’re going totally inner peace on your asses.
Tom Cruise here. Have I denied being gay recently? Just thought I’d better put that one out there. Because if American legal process has taught us anything, it is that I am unequivocally heterosexual. That, and that separate but equal is inherently unequal. Now I’m going to go have some sex with women. Because I want to.
Ladies and Gentlemen, an Ex-President of the United States. I did not have sexual intercourse with that woman. Oh, wait, that woman? Shoot, I can’t really be sure. Could you give me like an identifying feature, like does she have a prosthetic limb or scream something amusing at the moment of climax? Hmmm. Yeah. Well, could we just agree that I did not have sexual intercourse with at least some woman? I guess it kind of depends on what the meaning of “some” is.
Hello America, I’m Joan Rivers, here to address the rumor that I died five years ago and that the E! network has secretly replaced me with an angry, robotic skeleton with an infinitesimally small knowledge of popular culture. The correct figure is more like seven years ago. Now will someone please plug me back into the wall?
Hey, it’s Madonna, or Esther, as the kids these days call me. I just want to deny recent reports that I have nothing left to deny. There are many, many scandalous stories left in me, like the one about how I tried to bar hikers from crossing my English estate. Damn, that’s not likely to make Page Six any time soon, is it? Well, how about the rumor that my vanity record label lost money? I guess that’s more Forbes than Star Magazine. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? I already made out with Britney and Vanilla Ice, for God’s sake. What, do you want me to marry J. Lo? Actually, that’s not a bad idea...
Taking a four-day holiday weekend. Let’s reconvene next Tuesday, shall we?
It’s been a huge week for celebrity denials! Between Mary-Kate’s crack-rumor smackdown, Britney’s pregnancy pshaw, and J.K. Rowling’s book-title brouhaha, publicists have been working overtime to repeat carefully-worded absurdities while maintaining straight, if botoxedly expressionless, faces. Unfortunately, with all the excitement, a few disclaimers of the semi-famous were bound to fall through the cracks:
Hi, I’m Courtney Love. I just want to deny, once again and for the record, that I am an unfit parent. Li’l Francis Bean is quite simply thriving. Why, just the other day she took her top off in the middle of the food court at the mall and started chucking soft pretzels at the security guards. And we have so much fun together—“singing,” attending court hearings, trying not to choke on our tongues. Next week, we’re thinking about taking up the Kabbalah. That’s right, we’re going totally inner peace on your asses.
Tom Cruise here. Have I denied being gay recently? Just thought I’d better put that one out there. Because if American legal process has taught us anything, it is that I am unequivocally heterosexual. That, and that separate but equal is inherently unequal. Now I’m going to go have some sex with women. Because I want to.
Ladies and Gentlemen, an Ex-President of the United States. I did not have sexual intercourse with that woman. Oh, wait, that woman? Shoot, I can’t really be sure. Could you give me like an identifying feature, like does she have a prosthetic limb or scream something amusing at the moment of climax? Hmmm. Yeah. Well, could we just agree that I did not have sexual intercourse with at least some woman? I guess it kind of depends on what the meaning of “some” is.
Hello America, I’m Joan Rivers, here to address the rumor that I died five years ago and that the E! network has secretly replaced me with an angry, robotic skeleton with an infinitesimally small knowledge of popular culture. The correct figure is more like seven years ago. Now will someone please plug me back into the wall?
Hey, it’s Madonna, or Esther, as the kids these days call me. I just want to deny recent reports that I have nothing left to deny. There are many, many scandalous stories left in me, like the one about how I tried to bar hikers from crossing my English estate. Damn, that’s not likely to make Page Six any time soon, is it? Well, how about the rumor that my vanity record label lost money? I guess that’s more Forbes than Star Magazine. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? I already made out with Britney and Vanilla Ice, for God’s sake. What, do you want me to marry J. Lo? Actually, that’s not a bad idea...
Taking a four-day holiday weekend. Let’s reconvene next Tuesday, shall we?
