Tuesday, May 30, 2006
The More You Know
I did a lot of key learning this past weekend that, in the spirit of public service, I feel I ought to share with you all. First of all, I discovered that eating approximately sixteen pounds of gravy does not exactly mix well with sitting in a darkened movie theater for two hours. About halfway through X-3 I really felt my stomach might perform a little mutation of its own all over the mullet of the theatergoing patron in front of me. And I'm pretty sure that wasn't just because of Halle Berry's impressively robotic line readings, although they couldn't have helped. I'm not one of those people who thinks they should start revoking people's Oscars for bad performances, though; I don't see why we can't just skip straight to ritualistic beatings. It's a cleansing blood.
Secondly, I learned that 94-year-olds are surprisingly opinionated on matters of style and fashion. My grandmother not only vetoed my wearing of shorts to Ruby Tuesday's, but also reprimanded me for "touching my beautiful hair." It still wasn't as awkward as when she told my sister that she had "a nice little body," and that all her "girlfriends down at the beauty parlor thought so, too," but it was damned close. And frankly, I'm just not sold on getting a makeover from a woman in a pair of knee-highs and a housedress.
Finally, I found that many strange things pass for entertainment in a small town. After taking a celebratory trip to the new Old Navy with my mother and being filled in on the exciting news that our local high school is doing Les Miserables (I don't know about you, but I'm thrilling at the vision of a pubescent Jean Valjean), it became crystal clear to me. Of course, even if it hadn't, the existence of the St. Mary's Canasta Tournament and the Hawaiian Shaved Ice stand would definitely have confirmed it. I got blue raspberry.
I did a lot of key learning this past weekend that, in the spirit of public service, I feel I ought to share with you all. First of all, I discovered that eating approximately sixteen pounds of gravy does not exactly mix well with sitting in a darkened movie theater for two hours. About halfway through X-3 I really felt my stomach might perform a little mutation of its own all over the mullet of the theatergoing patron in front of me. And I'm pretty sure that wasn't just because of Halle Berry's impressively robotic line readings, although they couldn't have helped. I'm not one of those people who thinks they should start revoking people's Oscars for bad performances, though; I don't see why we can't just skip straight to ritualistic beatings. It's a cleansing blood.
Secondly, I learned that 94-year-olds are surprisingly opinionated on matters of style and fashion. My grandmother not only vetoed my wearing of shorts to Ruby Tuesday's, but also reprimanded me for "touching my beautiful hair." It still wasn't as awkward as when she told my sister that she had "a nice little body," and that all her "girlfriends down at the beauty parlor thought so, too," but it was damned close. And frankly, I'm just not sold on getting a makeover from a woman in a pair of knee-highs and a housedress.
Finally, I found that many strange things pass for entertainment in a small town. After taking a celebratory trip to the new Old Navy with my mother and being filled in on the exciting news that our local high school is doing Les Miserables (I don't know about you, but I'm thrilling at the vision of a pubescent Jean Valjean), it became crystal clear to me. Of course, even if it hadn't, the existence of the St. Mary's Canasta Tournament and the Hawaiian Shaved Ice stand would definitely have confirmed it. I got blue raspberry.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
My New Best Friend
I'm in Quincy for the weekend, and as I do every time I visit, I'm spending a good amount of my time running thrilling errands like buying socks and getting my oil changed. As a result, I was at the LubePro (not making the name up) today, and managed to make an amazing new friend while I was there.
"Man, I tell you, I had to clean so much stuff up off my floor just so they can vacuum in there," she declared.
Because I was clearly reading an article about Rush Hour director Brett Ratner's various artistic triumphs, and because there was also a clerk in the room who might actually care about this lady's floors, I thought this comment might not be meant for me. But then she went in for eye contact, and I knew I was doomed.
"I had CDs in there, stuff for my church, DVD cassettes," she said, making me wonder whether there was actually such a thing as DVD cassettes. "I mean, with my job, it's like I live in my car, you know? I mean, I don't actually literally live in my car, but it feels like it, you know?"
I muttered something that could be taken for neither assent nor a death threat and tried to refocus my attention on finding a delicious anecdote about working with Chris Tucker.
"I mean, I worked all day yesterday, then I went out to the races last night," she explained, as though I surely understood what this meant, "and then I worked again today, barely had time to get out here for an oil change."
"Well, you made it, though," I said. "Good work."
There was a blissful pause.
"So you going to the basketball tournament?"
And so it continued for the next ten minutes. Fortunately, my new friend got her car back before I got mine, or she might well have found herself explaining her busy schedule to my front bumper.
I'm in Quincy for the weekend, and as I do every time I visit, I'm spending a good amount of my time running thrilling errands like buying socks and getting my oil changed. As a result, I was at the LubePro (not making the name up) today, and managed to make an amazing new friend while I was there.
"Man, I tell you, I had to clean so much stuff up off my floor just so they can vacuum in there," she declared.
Because I was clearly reading an article about Rush Hour director Brett Ratner's various artistic triumphs, and because there was also a clerk in the room who might actually care about this lady's floors, I thought this comment might not be meant for me. But then she went in for eye contact, and I knew I was doomed.
"I had CDs in there, stuff for my church, DVD cassettes," she said, making me wonder whether there was actually such a thing as DVD cassettes. "I mean, with my job, it's like I live in my car, you know? I mean, I don't actually literally live in my car, but it feels like it, you know?"
I muttered something that could be taken for neither assent nor a death threat and tried to refocus my attention on finding a delicious anecdote about working with Chris Tucker.
"I mean, I worked all day yesterday, then I went out to the races last night," she explained, as though I surely understood what this meant, "and then I worked again today, barely had time to get out here for an oil change."
"Well, you made it, though," I said. "Good work."
There was a blissful pause.
"So you going to the basketball tournament?"
And so it continued for the next ten minutes. Fortunately, my new friend got her car back before I got mine, or she might well have found herself explaining her busy schedule to my front bumper.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Face Time
Did anyone see that thing on TV last night about the woman who had the face transplant? No, I'm not talking about Faye Dunaway at Cannes, although that's a good guess. This woman is French and had to wear a surgical mask all Michael-Jackson-style before she had her surgery, because essentially her face was peeling off. I sort of understand what she was going through, because of that time I mixed my dermatological projects inappropriately and ended up giving myself a low-cost chemical peel. I felt like the Phantom of the Opera, except I didn't drop a chandelier on anyone or sing a bombastic ballad while rowing a gondola.
Anyway, I'm no fan of surgical stuff on TV, mainly because I so seldom need to induce vomiting. I figure that's one of the reasons they knock you out when they do surgery, because no one wants to actually see that stuff. That's why I was so happy when TLC began transitioning out of showing operations all the time into doing controversial things to strangers' homes. Having a designer staple bamboo to your bedroom wall may be ugly, but at least there are no bodily fluids involved.
But this face thing was pretty cool. They actually like sawed half of one person's face off and sewed it on to someone else. I ended up leaving before the show was over, but I have a good feeling that everything turned out okay. I mean, it's not like the body is going to reject the new face, right? Unless it's Hilary Swank's.
And I fully admit I have no idea why I'm bringing this up. It's a Friday before a long weekend, okay?
Did anyone see that thing on TV last night about the woman who had the face transplant? No, I'm not talking about Faye Dunaway at Cannes, although that's a good guess. This woman is French and had to wear a surgical mask all Michael-Jackson-style before she had her surgery, because essentially her face was peeling off. I sort of understand what she was going through, because of that time I mixed my dermatological projects inappropriately and ended up giving myself a low-cost chemical peel. I felt like the Phantom of the Opera, except I didn't drop a chandelier on anyone or sing a bombastic ballad while rowing a gondola.
Anyway, I'm no fan of surgical stuff on TV, mainly because I so seldom need to induce vomiting. I figure that's one of the reasons they knock you out when they do surgery, because no one wants to actually see that stuff. That's why I was so happy when TLC began transitioning out of showing operations all the time into doing controversial things to strangers' homes. Having a designer staple bamboo to your bedroom wall may be ugly, but at least there are no bodily fluids involved.
But this face thing was pretty cool. They actually like sawed half of one person's face off and sewed it on to someone else. I ended up leaving before the show was over, but I have a good feeling that everything turned out okay. I mean, it's not like the body is going to reject the new face, right? Unless it's Hilary Swank's.
And I fully admit I have no idea why I'm bringing this up. It's a Friday before a long weekend, okay?
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Sweeps Watch
As ridiculous-stunt-laden periods of television go, this May has so far been a little bit of a disappointment. Sure, turning The OC into the Mischa Barton snuff film America's been dreaming of was a stroke of genius, and Teri Hatcher's horribly permed flashback on Desperate Housewives has to be worth something, but there have been no real cliffhangers on a Who Shot JFK? level. So here are my suggestions for big finales for some of TV's hottest shows:
The Ghost Whisperer -- Jennifer Love Hewitt takes a very long shower.
CSI -- The mysteries of Marg Helgenberger's craggy face revealed!
According to Jim -- Someone at ABC realizes this show is still on and issues an apology.
Law & Order -- After years of continually having things ripped from them, the headlines strike back.
My Super Sweet Sixteen -- We suddenly understand why school shootings happen.
ER -- Heather Locklear checks into the hospital, with predictably sexy results.
Two and a Half Men -- Charlie Sheen remains inexplicably employed.
LOST -- The writers admit they're just making it all up as they go along.
American Idol -- This year, they just decide to call it a tie.
Why, leaving the house may never be necessary again!
As ridiculous-stunt-laden periods of television go, this May has so far been a little bit of a disappointment. Sure, turning The OC into the Mischa Barton snuff film America's been dreaming of was a stroke of genius, and Teri Hatcher's horribly permed flashback on Desperate Housewives has to be worth something, but there have been no real cliffhangers on a Who Shot JFK? level. So here are my suggestions for big finales for some of TV's hottest shows:
The Ghost Whisperer -- Jennifer Love Hewitt takes a very long shower.
CSI -- The mysteries of Marg Helgenberger's craggy face revealed!
According to Jim -- Someone at ABC realizes this show is still on and issues an apology.
Law & Order -- After years of continually having things ripped from them, the headlines strike back.
My Super Sweet Sixteen -- We suddenly understand why school shootings happen.
ER -- Heather Locklear checks into the hospital, with predictably sexy results.
Two and a Half Men -- Charlie Sheen remains inexplicably employed.
LOST -- The writers admit they're just making it all up as they go along.
American Idol -- This year, they just decide to call it a tie.
Why, leaving the house may never be necessary again!
Sunday, May 21, 2006
You Say It's Your Birthday...
Last night Friend Amy had her 30th birthday party. It was a gala affair, held in the party room (read: basement) of a Wicker Park bar. There were beers from countries other than the United States and the possibility of both nachos and potato boats. And the waitress was someone I know but haven't spoken to in over a year, which is always delightfully awkward. It's definitely fun to get filled in on an acquaintance's various health scares and romantic woes between rounds of long islands. On the other hand, my married friends Addie and Paul were there, but already knew all of my many hilarious stories from reading the blog. I tried to explain that recycling material that isn't all that interesting in the first place is The American Way (I mean, Brokeback Mountain was really just Die Hard with cowboys and gay sex, for God's sake), but they didn't seem too convinced.
Another entertainment was that my friend Katie came with me and was already slightly drunk when I picked her up. (She had a prior engagement; we're not quite to the drinking alone stage yet.) This led to her being extremely outgoing and using the word "cunt" a lot. Oh, and deciding that she could only drink wine because she had to be classy. Pretty much my definition of a perfect date.
I honestly can't tell you how I'll be when I turn thirty. I mean, I stopped totally loving birthdays after my 23rd, when I was in my first year of law school and people were too busy stabbing me in the back and hiding the Con Law hornbooks to observe the occasion with anything more than a gift bag of M&Ms. But I've certainly never dreaded them, either, except for that time my parents forced me to invite Mark Reiss, who smelled bad and tried to break my Gobots, to my third grade roller skating party. I think as long as there's cake I'll be fine.
Last night Friend Amy had her 30th birthday party. It was a gala affair, held in the party room (read: basement) of a Wicker Park bar. There were beers from countries other than the United States and the possibility of both nachos and potato boats. And the waitress was someone I know but haven't spoken to in over a year, which is always delightfully awkward. It's definitely fun to get filled in on an acquaintance's various health scares and romantic woes between rounds of long islands. On the other hand, my married friends Addie and Paul were there, but already knew all of my many hilarious stories from reading the blog. I tried to explain that recycling material that isn't all that interesting in the first place is The American Way (I mean, Brokeback Mountain was really just Die Hard with cowboys and gay sex, for God's sake), but they didn't seem too convinced.
Another entertainment was that my friend Katie came with me and was already slightly drunk when I picked her up. (She had a prior engagement; we're not quite to the drinking alone stage yet.) This led to her being extremely outgoing and using the word "cunt" a lot. Oh, and deciding that she could only drink wine because she had to be classy. Pretty much my definition of a perfect date.
I honestly can't tell you how I'll be when I turn thirty. I mean, I stopped totally loving birthdays after my 23rd, when I was in my first year of law school and people were too busy stabbing me in the back and hiding the Con Law hornbooks to observe the occasion with anything more than a gift bag of M&Ms. But I've certainly never dreaded them, either, except for that time my parents forced me to invite Mark Reiss, who smelled bad and tried to break my Gobots, to my third grade roller skating party. I think as long as there's cake I'll be fine.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
In Which I am a Helper
Yesterday I volunteered at a secondhand store run by a women's shelter. I decided to do this for several reasons. First of all, I think hitting women is totally not cool, with the possible exceptions of Ann Coulter and maybe Sharon Stone. Secondly, I enjoy skipping out of my actual job, because although I pay someone to dust and vacuum my own home, I still enjoy those tasks more than document review and conference calls. And finally, it kind of seemed like all the cool kids were doing it, which, as we all know, is the best reason to do anything from pounding shots of Jager to spreading the rumor that Staci Palmer is doing it with Dr. Jackson, your disabled physics instructor. So anyway, I drove to the suburbs and helped stock gently used household items for an afternoon.
I have to say, it is amazing to me some of the things that people see fit to donate to goodwill. Apparently, some people think that broken salad shooters and tupperware containers with hardened macaroni and cheese stuck in them are prizes beyond compare. Then there's the swimwear and underwear -- I guess that's one way to really become intimate with those less fortunate then you. Since I personally give my old clothes to a couple that hangs out by my dumpster, however, I guess I really shouldn't judge. They've turned up their noses at my cast off Old Navy on more than one occasion.
So anyway, I helped people, and I'm pretty awesome for doing it. Now I don't feel at all bad about sleeping on a huge pile of money each night and bathing in only the finest champagne.
Yesterday I volunteered at a secondhand store run by a women's shelter. I decided to do this for several reasons. First of all, I think hitting women is totally not cool, with the possible exceptions of Ann Coulter and maybe Sharon Stone. Secondly, I enjoy skipping out of my actual job, because although I pay someone to dust and vacuum my own home, I still enjoy those tasks more than document review and conference calls. And finally, it kind of seemed like all the cool kids were doing it, which, as we all know, is the best reason to do anything from pounding shots of Jager to spreading the rumor that Staci Palmer is doing it with Dr. Jackson, your disabled physics instructor. So anyway, I drove to the suburbs and helped stock gently used household items for an afternoon.
I have to say, it is amazing to me some of the things that people see fit to donate to goodwill. Apparently, some people think that broken salad shooters and tupperware containers with hardened macaroni and cheese stuck in them are prizes beyond compare. Then there's the swimwear and underwear -- I guess that's one way to really become intimate with those less fortunate then you. Since I personally give my old clothes to a couple that hangs out by my dumpster, however, I guess I really shouldn't judge. They've turned up their noses at my cast off Old Navy on more than one occasion.
So anyway, I helped people, and I'm pretty awesome for doing it. Now I don't feel at all bad about sleeping on a huge pile of money each night and bathing in only the finest champagne.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Parental Control
So I saw Spamalot the other night. It was definitely a really enjoyable show -- pretty much every song involved jazz hands at some point and they covered the stage in shiny, flashing stuff for a good portion of the evening. The characters were somewhat interchangeable and the plot was not so exceedingly plotty, but who really cares when there's confetti? Plus when I got up the next morning the cast was on WGN, which made me feel like I was way ahead of the curve on this one, even though it opened, what, a couple of years ago? I'm such a trendsetter.
I have to say I was surprised by how much I actually remembered of the movie on which Spamalot is based. When I was a kid my parents made us watch all kinds of Monty Python, in keeping with their general strategy of exposing their children to wholly inappropriate things. For instance, they thought it was a fine idea to take a five-year-old to a Woody Allen film festival, assuming, I guess, that Manhattan and The Muppets Take Manhattan were more or less the same thing. To this day I still have an inappropriate tendency towards psychiatrist jokes and underaged Asians. They also thought Eddie Murphy's Raw made fine family viewing, which led to some interesting conversations with my grandmother. But some programming was barred, based solely on its perceived lack of quality. Deeming Saved By the Bell juvenile and A Different World preachy, my parents (unsuccessfully) shut these sitcoms out of our home.
And yet I still ended up sleeping in my parents' room for a week because Young Sherlock Holmes freaked me out so bad. Egyptians WERE going to kidnap me and turn me into a mummy, I swear!
So I saw Spamalot the other night. It was definitely a really enjoyable show -- pretty much every song involved jazz hands at some point and they covered the stage in shiny, flashing stuff for a good portion of the evening. The characters were somewhat interchangeable and the plot was not so exceedingly plotty, but who really cares when there's confetti? Plus when I got up the next morning the cast was on WGN, which made me feel like I was way ahead of the curve on this one, even though it opened, what, a couple of years ago? I'm such a trendsetter.
I have to say I was surprised by how much I actually remembered of the movie on which Spamalot is based. When I was a kid my parents made us watch all kinds of Monty Python, in keeping with their general strategy of exposing their children to wholly inappropriate things. For instance, they thought it was a fine idea to take a five-year-old to a Woody Allen film festival, assuming, I guess, that Manhattan and The Muppets Take Manhattan were more or less the same thing. To this day I still have an inappropriate tendency towards psychiatrist jokes and underaged Asians. They also thought Eddie Murphy's Raw made fine family viewing, which led to some interesting conversations with my grandmother. But some programming was barred, based solely on its perceived lack of quality. Deeming Saved By the Bell juvenile and A Different World preachy, my parents (unsuccessfully) shut these sitcoms out of our home.
And yet I still ended up sleeping in my parents' room for a week because Young Sherlock Holmes freaked me out so bad. Egyptians WERE going to kidnap me and turn me into a mummy, I swear!
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Our Nation's Future
Sunday I had the opportunity to help babysit for eight children, and let me just say that if you have ever thought about having eight children, it is a bad idea. Unless you eat your young, in which case, hey, it's a taste sensation. But children, much like gang members in a Michael Jackson video, are adorable but dangerous when traveling in packs. They will flash a mischievous smile while pinching you until you bleed, or have contests to see who can destroy the most of your belongings. (Sorry, guys, my ex-landlord already took the prize in that one.) They will place foreign substances, likely of the organic variety, all over you and everything you've ever cared about. Plus they watch the Disney channel completely unironically. I mean, come on, there's no way that That's So Raven can be meant literally!
It's not that I don't like children. To the contrary, I think they're kind of awesome. Frankly, I wish society would allow ME to live completely off my parents and not particularly care whether I'm wearing pants. And children are the only people who can honestly claim no culpability for, for instance, the popularity of Paris Hilton or the political ascendancy of Rick Santorum. But I am just not a fan of mob action, whether it's carried out by the klan, the tri-delts, or a pack of 2- through 12-year-olds.
Although I did get to hold a baby for ten minutes or so, which sort of made the whole thing worthwhile. They're so warm and scrunchy! I seriously thought about bolting for the door with it, but then I figured the House of Fleas and Truck-Related Clothing is no place for a child.
Sunday I had the opportunity to help babysit for eight children, and let me just say that if you have ever thought about having eight children, it is a bad idea. Unless you eat your young, in which case, hey, it's a taste sensation. But children, much like gang members in a Michael Jackson video, are adorable but dangerous when traveling in packs. They will flash a mischievous smile while pinching you until you bleed, or have contests to see who can destroy the most of your belongings. (Sorry, guys, my ex-landlord already took the prize in that one.) They will place foreign substances, likely of the organic variety, all over you and everything you've ever cared about. Plus they watch the Disney channel completely unironically. I mean, come on, there's no way that That's So Raven can be meant literally!
It's not that I don't like children. To the contrary, I think they're kind of awesome. Frankly, I wish society would allow ME to live completely off my parents and not particularly care whether I'm wearing pants. And children are the only people who can honestly claim no culpability for, for instance, the popularity of Paris Hilton or the political ascendancy of Rick Santorum. But I am just not a fan of mob action, whether it's carried out by the klan, the tri-delts, or a pack of 2- through 12-year-olds.
Although I did get to hold a baby for ten minutes or so, which sort of made the whole thing worthwhile. They're so warm and scrunchy! I seriously thought about bolting for the door with it, but then I figured the House of Fleas and Truck-Related Clothing is no place for a child.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Things We're Grateful to Mom For 2006
-- All those jaunty hats during infancy.
-- Providing alibi for double homicide.
-- Not only serving as prom date, but being crowned queen.
-- Introduction to wonderful world of passive aggression.
-- Pretending all those macaroni collages and finger paintings didn't suck.
-- Freely admitting that no one ever uses calculus in their daily lives.
-- Weekly updates on status of weather and people's lawns back at home.
-- Creating revenue-generating stream of leftover dinner entrees.
-- Delivering disturbing glimpse into marital sex lives.
-- All those jaunty hats during infancy.
-- Providing alibi for double homicide.
-- Not only serving as prom date, but being crowned queen.
-- Introduction to wonderful world of passive aggression.
-- Pretending all those macaroni collages and finger paintings didn't suck.
-- Freely admitting that no one ever uses calculus in their daily lives.
-- Weekly updates on status of weather and people's lawns back at home.
-- Creating revenue-generating stream of leftover dinner entrees.
-- Delivering disturbing glimpse into marital sex lives.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Idol Worship
My friend Angel was on the local FOX affiliate yesterday for their "Chicago Idol" competition. It was a pretty amusing event, and not just because their anchor had crazy hair and made Angel do a Macy Gray (how timely!) impression. They had three judges, including Chicago's "most popular overnight DJ," and at least two of them appeared to wish that they were anywhere else in the world. The judges gave amazing feedback like "Girl, you da bomb, okay?" and "You really brought it right to the cameras, you know? You just put it out there." And one of them said the word "sensual" so often I seriously feared he might not be wearing pants. (Luckily, there was a substantial news crawler strategically covering the naughty areas.) It quite possibly the greatest event in the history of pre-8 AM television since Tom Cruise explained the history of psychology to Matt Lauer.
On another musical note, today my gym was honest to God playing the theme from Baywatch while I worked out. It was a remix, so I was kind of jamming to it for a minute before I realized what it was, but then I had definite visions of Hasselhoff. If anything is going to inspire you to get in shape, it's the thought of a brillo-headed Yeti in high-waisted trunks.
And while I'm talking about Baywatch, did anyone see that show (I think it was on E!, but it might have been VH1, since they're essentially the same now) about how the kid who played Hobie got all fucked up on drugs and grew a mullet and stuff? Yeah, I don't really have anything funny to say about it, I just hope someone else saw it, because it had a lot of important things to say about the price of fame and bad haircuts.
God, I hope that doesn't happen to Angel, now that she's famous and all. Maybe I should hide all the scissors, just in case.
My friend Angel was on the local FOX affiliate yesterday for their "Chicago Idol" competition. It was a pretty amusing event, and not just because their anchor had crazy hair and made Angel do a Macy Gray (how timely!) impression. They had three judges, including Chicago's "most popular overnight DJ," and at least two of them appeared to wish that they were anywhere else in the world. The judges gave amazing feedback like "Girl, you da bomb, okay?" and "You really brought it right to the cameras, you know? You just put it out there." And one of them said the word "sensual" so often I seriously feared he might not be wearing pants. (Luckily, there was a substantial news crawler strategically covering the naughty areas.) It quite possibly the greatest event in the history of pre-8 AM television since Tom Cruise explained the history of psychology to Matt Lauer.
On another musical note, today my gym was honest to God playing the theme from Baywatch while I worked out. It was a remix, so I was kind of jamming to it for a minute before I realized what it was, but then I had definite visions of Hasselhoff. If anything is going to inspire you to get in shape, it's the thought of a brillo-headed Yeti in high-waisted trunks.
And while I'm talking about Baywatch, did anyone see that show (I think it was on E!, but it might have been VH1, since they're essentially the same now) about how the kid who played Hobie got all fucked up on drugs and grew a mullet and stuff? Yeah, I don't really have anything funny to say about it, I just hope someone else saw it, because it had a lot of important things to say about the price of fame and bad haircuts.
God, I hope that doesn't happen to Angel, now that she's famous and all. Maybe I should hide all the scissors, just in case.
Monday, May 08, 2006
God Talk
This weekend was Buddha's birthday. Did you know that? Also Bob Seger's and George Clooney's, but I'm guessing you didn't get any of them presents. Of course, Buddha accepts the fact that you once again failed to buy him aqua socks, but I'm pretty sure Clooney's going to kick your ass. He did it to Teri Hatcher. And she's 95% plastic.
Anyway, the point is that I got to go to a celebration of Buddha's birthday this weekend! And rather than a sheet cake from Jewel and a rousing round of pin the tail on the donkey (although there were some pointy hats involved), it was a somewhat meaningful event. There was a vegan dinner, where I learned that tofu just tastes soggy to me but that chocolate doesn't harm any animals, a bunch of meditation (I only thought about Tiara Girls part of the time), and a full program of music and readings by people who probably think of themselves as very postmodern when in fact they are just unwashed and irritating. Plus, I learned that they have Christian rock in Buddhism, too! Apparently something about religion just attracts the Creed chord patterns.
I have to admit that I've been thinking about shopping around on religions lately. This is not to say that I'm through with Jesus; I like his sandals a lot and it's fun that he turns water into wine, and not vice versa. But lately I've realized that I've devoted more analysis to Jessica Simpson's plastic surgeries than to the little matter of what exactly it is that I believe. Because even though I'm pretty sure that I don't believe the business about birth control sending you straight to hell and that I do believe that some benevolent force created Comedy Central and Hot Pockets, there's a lot of gray area in between I'd kind of like to fill in.
I should be able to iron everything out in a couple of hours, right?
This weekend was Buddha's birthday. Did you know that? Also Bob Seger's and George Clooney's, but I'm guessing you didn't get any of them presents. Of course, Buddha accepts the fact that you once again failed to buy him aqua socks, but I'm pretty sure Clooney's going to kick your ass. He did it to Teri Hatcher. And she's 95% plastic.
Anyway, the point is that I got to go to a celebration of Buddha's birthday this weekend! And rather than a sheet cake from Jewel and a rousing round of pin the tail on the donkey (although there were some pointy hats involved), it was a somewhat meaningful event. There was a vegan dinner, where I learned that tofu just tastes soggy to me but that chocolate doesn't harm any animals, a bunch of meditation (I only thought about Tiara Girls part of the time), and a full program of music and readings by people who probably think of themselves as very postmodern when in fact they are just unwashed and irritating. Plus, I learned that they have Christian rock in Buddhism, too! Apparently something about religion just attracts the Creed chord patterns.
I have to admit that I've been thinking about shopping around on religions lately. This is not to say that I'm through with Jesus; I like his sandals a lot and it's fun that he turns water into wine, and not vice versa. But lately I've realized that I've devoted more analysis to Jessica Simpson's plastic surgeries than to the little matter of what exactly it is that I believe. Because even though I'm pretty sure that I don't believe the business about birth control sending you straight to hell and that I do believe that some benevolent force created Comedy Central and Hot Pockets, there's a lot of gray area in between I'd kind of like to fill in.
I should be able to iron everything out in a couple of hours, right?
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Truckin'
After the smashing success of last Friday's Bug Bomb Bash 2000, Roommate Liz and I decided to spend this Friday night like most typical twentysomethings, renting a run-down U-Haul to pick up couches from her parents' house in the suburbs. The good news was it gave us the excuse to bust out the coverals and flannels.
Roommate Liz with our fine rig, who we nicknamed "Betsy." I can't quite make out the graffiti on the side, but I'm betting your mother doesn't fare well.
As a three-time concussion survivor, Roommate Liz seemed the natural choice to head up our convoy. Tragically, there was a bring your own CB radio policy.
The truck was full of stern stick-on warnings. Here, we learn that you should not attempt to balance the truck on your head. I'm looking at you, David Blaine.
Don't I look dangerous unloading our cargo? The cap has a picture of Snoopy on it.
Is there anything U-Haul can't teach us? I'm going to let them raise my children, too.
After the smashing success of last Friday's Bug Bomb Bash 2000, Roommate Liz and I decided to spend this Friday night like most typical twentysomethings, renting a run-down U-Haul to pick up couches from her parents' house in the suburbs. The good news was it gave us the excuse to bust out the coverals and flannels.
Roommate Liz with our fine rig, who we nicknamed "Betsy." I can't quite make out the graffiti on the side, but I'm betting your mother doesn't fare well.
As a three-time concussion survivor, Roommate Liz seemed the natural choice to head up our convoy. Tragically, there was a bring your own CB radio policy.
The truck was full of stern stick-on warnings. Here, we learn that you should not attempt to balance the truck on your head. I'm looking at you, David Blaine.
Don't I look dangerous unloading our cargo? The cap has a picture of Snoopy on it.
Is there anything U-Haul can't teach us? I'm going to let them raise my children, too.Thursday, May 04, 2006
The Running Man
Going to my gym can be a strange experience for many reasons. First of all, it's right by my office, so my workout can at any moment be interrupted by the sight of Carl the Angry Partner taking out some aggression on the stairmaster or Lisa the Pear-Shaped Secretary doing squat thrusts. Then, this gym has for some reason chosen to hire only personal trainers who appear to be in serious need of life support, so there's always the thrill of wondering if you're just a stomach crunch away from a paramedics visit. And of course there are all the Elderly Nude Man Locker Room Hijinks I've had occasion to comment on before. Suffice it to say that I see no reason one must go full frontal to perform one's gentle stretches.
But today I had one of the stranger experiences I have ever had at my gym. While huffing away on the elevated running track, I encountered a dazed-looking gentleman wandering the wrong direction. And when I say "encountered" I mean "nearly plowed into." Being the fitness fanatic that I am, however, I continued on my way undeterred, only to encounter him on my next lap doing push ups and toes touches right in the middle of the track. This required some Jackie-Joyner-Kersee-caliber hurdling on my part in order to avoid disaster on a Meredith Baxter-Burney level, but I pulled it off. Only to find him sprawled on his back, apparently napping, on my third trip around.
And yes, I did check to see if he was okay, and no, there was nothing physically wrong with him. Actually, he got a little bit sassy with me for checking. He resented the implication, I think, that there was anything less than 100% standard about his behavior.
If this turns into the hot new workout craze I'm moving to Guatemala.
Going to my gym can be a strange experience for many reasons. First of all, it's right by my office, so my workout can at any moment be interrupted by the sight of Carl the Angry Partner taking out some aggression on the stairmaster or Lisa the Pear-Shaped Secretary doing squat thrusts. Then, this gym has for some reason chosen to hire only personal trainers who appear to be in serious need of life support, so there's always the thrill of wondering if you're just a stomach crunch away from a paramedics visit. And of course there are all the Elderly Nude Man Locker Room Hijinks I've had occasion to comment on before. Suffice it to say that I see no reason one must go full frontal to perform one's gentle stretches.
But today I had one of the stranger experiences I have ever had at my gym. While huffing away on the elevated running track, I encountered a dazed-looking gentleman wandering the wrong direction. And when I say "encountered" I mean "nearly plowed into." Being the fitness fanatic that I am, however, I continued on my way undeterred, only to encounter him on my next lap doing push ups and toes touches right in the middle of the track. This required some Jackie-Joyner-Kersee-caliber hurdling on my part in order to avoid disaster on a Meredith Baxter-Burney level, but I pulled it off. Only to find him sprawled on his back, apparently napping, on my third trip around.
And yes, I did check to see if he was okay, and no, there was nothing physically wrong with him. Actually, he got a little bit sassy with me for checking. He resented the implication, I think, that there was anything less than 100% standard about his behavior.
If this turns into the hot new workout craze I'm moving to Guatemala.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Postcards from the Edge
Sometimes I like to think I'm being edgy when really I'm just not funny.
For instance, I'm working on a very secret case at work that I'm not allowed to tell people about. So when people ask what it's about I say something weird, like "Well, I can't really tell you, but I'll give you a hint: Oprah raped someone."
Invariably, people just stare at me or turn around and walk away.
Or I'll fixate on something that cracks me and only me up, like the fact that my mortgage broker sent me a popcorn tub as a housewarming gift with the message "Congrats on your new hom!" The fact that there is a person out there in the world who does not know how to spell "home" is hilarious to me. And no one else. But I refer to it as my "hom" all the time now, and to the lovely gift as my "homcorn." What are people supposed to do with that?
Plus I watched most of Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit not once but twice this weekend. It started out as ironic enjoyment of a pre-rage Lauryn Hill, but then I found myself humming along. And learning a little bit of the choreography. Damn it, those inner city teens are just so adorable!
Sometimes I like to think I'm being edgy when really I'm just not funny.
For instance, I'm working on a very secret case at work that I'm not allowed to tell people about. So when people ask what it's about I say something weird, like "Well, I can't really tell you, but I'll give you a hint: Oprah raped someone."
Invariably, people just stare at me or turn around and walk away.
Or I'll fixate on something that cracks me and only me up, like the fact that my mortgage broker sent me a popcorn tub as a housewarming gift with the message "Congrats on your new hom!" The fact that there is a person out there in the world who does not know how to spell "home" is hilarious to me. And no one else. But I refer to it as my "hom" all the time now, and to the lovely gift as my "homcorn." What are people supposed to do with that?
Plus I watched most of Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit not once but twice this weekend. It started out as ironic enjoyment of a pre-rage Lauryn Hill, but then I found myself humming along. And learning a little bit of the choreography. Damn it, those inner city teens are just so adorable!
