Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Us & Them
Call me crazy, but I feel like Us Weekly is getting a little bit insecure. It used to be America's go-to place for weight loss tips from fat celebrities and unfunny quips about whatever Cher was wearing, but now it's got a lot of competition. The In Touch Weeklies and Life & Styles of the world are driving up the bidding for snapshots of the Olsens being "just like us" and Jennifer Aniston living a life of quiet desperation, and they're charging a dollar less at the checkout counter. Bored housewives now have more choices than ever about what magazine to impulse buy along with a pack of Chiclets at the Super Wal Mart, and the strain is starting to show.
For evidence, one need look no farther than the January 4, 2010 issue (like most magazines, Us Weekly is always published in the future), where the editors take a break from breathlessly telling us about "Elin's Revenge" to spend two pages badmouthing their competitors for making up "fake news" (because yes, the latest on Brangelina definitely qualifies as "news"). Reproducing the covers from no fewer than a dozen issues of OK!, In Touch, Star, and the like, People matches each with a quote from an enraged publicist denying the substance of the stories. Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart are NOT getting married, OK! magazine. How dare you even suggest such a thing?!?!
On the plus side, they still have room for hard hitting stories like Rachel McAdams sporting a new braided hairdo and Nicole Kidman's makeup looking weird at the Nine premiere. As long as celebrities are leaving their homes, there will never be rest for these intrepid journalists, I fear.
Call me crazy, but I feel like Us Weekly is getting a little bit insecure. It used to be America's go-to place for weight loss tips from fat celebrities and unfunny quips about whatever Cher was wearing, but now it's got a lot of competition. The In Touch Weeklies and Life & Styles of the world are driving up the bidding for snapshots of the Olsens being "just like us" and Jennifer Aniston living a life of quiet desperation, and they're charging a dollar less at the checkout counter. Bored housewives now have more choices than ever about what magazine to impulse buy along with a pack of Chiclets at the Super Wal Mart, and the strain is starting to show.
For evidence, one need look no farther than the January 4, 2010 issue (like most magazines, Us Weekly is always published in the future), where the editors take a break from breathlessly telling us about "Elin's Revenge" to spend two pages badmouthing their competitors for making up "fake news" (because yes, the latest on Brangelina definitely qualifies as "news"). Reproducing the covers from no fewer than a dozen issues of OK!, In Touch, Star, and the like, People matches each with a quote from an enraged publicist denying the substance of the stories. Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart are NOT getting married, OK! magazine. How dare you even suggest such a thing?!?!
On the plus side, they still have room for hard hitting stories like Rachel McAdams sporting a new braided hairdo and Nicole Kidman's makeup looking weird at the Nine premiere. As long as celebrities are leaving their homes, there will never be rest for these intrepid journalists, I fear.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Luminaries
So every year Quincy has this holiday light display for people to drive through in one of our local parks. There are various tableau of elves playing sports and reindeer baking cookies and Christ just kind of hanging out, all done up in hundreds of great fashion colors. They even play holiday music over a radio station with about a two-block radius. It is fun for children of all ages.
My parents like for us to go every year. We used to take the dogs, until there was a throwing up incident. I think we took my grandmother a couple of times, too, but since the fateful Christmas when I accidentally dropped her on the front lawn, she has been shockingly less interested in getting out and about. Go figure.
There is one small hitch, as indeed there would almost invariably be. They ask all cars coming in to turn off their headlights, presumably to preserve the artistic integrity of the display sponsored by Tim's Hunting Hut. But the headlights on my Corolla, we have found, do not in fact ever turn off. Ever. Unless you turn the car off, but that would sort of hurt your progress through the display. So we had to cruise through the entire exhibit with every other car we encountered flashing its lights at us and waving at us to turn off our lights. Which of course we could not do. In the true Christmas spirit, we managed to not only ruin it for everyone else but also for ourselves as well.
So every year Quincy has this holiday light display for people to drive through in one of our local parks. There are various tableau of elves playing sports and reindeer baking cookies and Christ just kind of hanging out, all done up in hundreds of great fashion colors. They even play holiday music over a radio station with about a two-block radius. It is fun for children of all ages.
My parents like for us to go every year. We used to take the dogs, until there was a throwing up incident. I think we took my grandmother a couple of times, too, but since the fateful Christmas when I accidentally dropped her on the front lawn, she has been shockingly less interested in getting out and about. Go figure.
There is one small hitch, as indeed there would almost invariably be. They ask all cars coming in to turn off their headlights, presumably to preserve the artistic integrity of the display sponsored by Tim's Hunting Hut. But the headlights on my Corolla, we have found, do not in fact ever turn off. Ever. Unless you turn the car off, but that would sort of hurt your progress through the display. So we had to cruise through the entire exhibit with every other car we encountered flashing its lights at us and waving at us to turn off our lights. Which of course we could not do. In the true Christmas spirit, we managed to not only ruin it for everyone else but also for ourselves as well.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Happy Holidays
I have come to a shocking conclusion, and no, it’s not that thing about Lady Gaga having a penis. It’s that the holidays are a lot less fun in your thirties. Instead of running down the stairs to see if Santa brought you Knots Landing colorforms, you’re running down the hallway to try to stop your secretary from accidentally reformatting your appellate brief into Wingdings. Instead of plopping down in front of the TV for hours of holiday specials hosted by everyone from Martina Navritalova to the cranky old lady from 227 (but I repeat myself), you’re wondering who filled up all your DVR space with episodes of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. And instead of loading up on candy canes and cookies, you’re stuck with the Raisin Bran you impulse bought in bulk at Sam’s Club and the fish oil pills your doctor prescribes for your cholesterol. Getting older is a lot like Dakota Fanning; it’s not like anybody really cares for it, but we’re going to have to learn to deal with it, because it seems like it’s here to stay.
Of course, there are some things that do get better with age, foremost among them access to alcohol. In retrospect, I do think playing a snowflake in my third grade Christmas program might have gone better if I’d been packing a flask. I also appreciate the fact that, at 31, it is unlikely that anyone is going to stuff me into a snowsuit and force me to sing carols to my elderly neighbors, many of whom have guns. It’s nice to have the financial wherewithal to give gifts that aren’t construction paper- or macaroni-based, and the bond you feel with family and friends is that much stronger when you know that they’ve stayed by your side through your two unfortunate attempts at being a deejay and that summer you decided for some reason that you would be blond. After all these years, I’ve come to the conclusion that my friends are either too loyal or too stupid to consider blackmail, and as there are several former Mathletes among them, I’m leaning towards the former.
And above all there is the delightful wisdom that comes with age. This year, for instance, I have learned that I had better eat before I go through security at LaGuardia, lest my choices be reduced to a sandwich apparently excavated somewhere in Peru or the fleshy underside of my own arm. I have learned that people will have very little sympathy for me when I describe the wounds I sustained tripping over my coffee table while playing Wii tennis as a "sports injury." I have learned that the landscaping of a strip of land barely large enough to park a Chevy Malibu can be the subject of a condo association debate that spans some thirty e-mails and includes comparisons to both Apartheid and the Holocaust. And I have learned that it is a bad idea to make a court appearance while passing a kidney stone. All of these are lessons you just can’t get from the University of Phoenix Online.
So in the end I guess that getting older doesn’t totally ruin the holidays; that’s your meth addict cousin Trevor’s job. As long as there are families to embarrass us with puffy painted poinsettia sweatshirts and seminude childhood photos, as long as there are friends to gift us with Mariah Carey’s Christmas album while barely suppressing their sarcastic laughter, as long as there are retailers looking to clear out their overstocked merchandise by slapping a coat of red and green lead paint on it and marking the price up six dollars, there will always be Christmas. It will always be wonderful to be home for the holidays, if only because it is so much harder for the process servers to find us there.
I have come to a shocking conclusion, and no, it’s not that thing about Lady Gaga having a penis. It’s that the holidays are a lot less fun in your thirties. Instead of running down the stairs to see if Santa brought you Knots Landing colorforms, you’re running down the hallway to try to stop your secretary from accidentally reformatting your appellate brief into Wingdings. Instead of plopping down in front of the TV for hours of holiday specials hosted by everyone from Martina Navritalova to the cranky old lady from 227 (but I repeat myself), you’re wondering who filled up all your DVR space with episodes of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. And instead of loading up on candy canes and cookies, you’re stuck with the Raisin Bran you impulse bought in bulk at Sam’s Club and the fish oil pills your doctor prescribes for your cholesterol. Getting older is a lot like Dakota Fanning; it’s not like anybody really cares for it, but we’re going to have to learn to deal with it, because it seems like it’s here to stay.
Of course, there are some things that do get better with age, foremost among them access to alcohol. In retrospect, I do think playing a snowflake in my third grade Christmas program might have gone better if I’d been packing a flask. I also appreciate the fact that, at 31, it is unlikely that anyone is going to stuff me into a snowsuit and force me to sing carols to my elderly neighbors, many of whom have guns. It’s nice to have the financial wherewithal to give gifts that aren’t construction paper- or macaroni-based, and the bond you feel with family and friends is that much stronger when you know that they’ve stayed by your side through your two unfortunate attempts at being a deejay and that summer you decided for some reason that you would be blond. After all these years, I’ve come to the conclusion that my friends are either too loyal or too stupid to consider blackmail, and as there are several former Mathletes among them, I’m leaning towards the former.
And above all there is the delightful wisdom that comes with age. This year, for instance, I have learned that I had better eat before I go through security at LaGuardia, lest my choices be reduced to a sandwich apparently excavated somewhere in Peru or the fleshy underside of my own arm. I have learned that people will have very little sympathy for me when I describe the wounds I sustained tripping over my coffee table while playing Wii tennis as a "sports injury." I have learned that the landscaping of a strip of land barely large enough to park a Chevy Malibu can be the subject of a condo association debate that spans some thirty e-mails and includes comparisons to both Apartheid and the Holocaust. And I have learned that it is a bad idea to make a court appearance while passing a kidney stone. All of these are lessons you just can’t get from the University of Phoenix Online.
So in the end I guess that getting older doesn’t totally ruin the holidays; that’s your meth addict cousin Trevor’s job. As long as there are families to embarrass us with puffy painted poinsettia sweatshirts and seminude childhood photos, as long as there are friends to gift us with Mariah Carey’s Christmas album while barely suppressing their sarcastic laughter, as long as there are retailers looking to clear out their overstocked merchandise by slapping a coat of red and green lead paint on it and marking the price up six dollars, there will always be Christmas. It will always be wonderful to be home for the holidays, if only because it is so much harder for the process servers to find us there.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Dialogues of the Quincyites
The interesting thing about being at my parents' house (and by interesting, I mean frightening) is that nothing there is ever a small deal. For instance, where for most people running out of milk would be a minor annoyance soon remedied through a trip to the grocery store, for us it is a Tennessee Williams play.
Me: We're out of milk.
Mother: That can't be right. I just got milk. John, did you drink all the milk?
Father: I don't drink milk.
Mother: Well, someone drank it all. I just bought it.
Me: Oh, it's no big deal, I'll just pick some up later.
Mother: Oh sure, it's no big deal to you, because you already got milk. Your sister's going to want milk. John, we should go to the store. Let's go to the store.
Father: I just put the car in the garage. I don't want to have to move it again. Why do we need milk? Can't she just have juice?
Mother: She's going to want milk. She needs milk. Calcium is important. She'll get Osteoporosis.
Me: Mom, she's 28.
Mother: It's never too soon.
Deciding what to eat for Christmas dinner, meanwhile, is like choosing which child will live and which will die.
Father: Your mother and I were going to get some mini sirloins for Christmas dinner, if that's all right.
Mother: We thought it would be fun.
Me: Sure, that's fine, I'm fine with whatever.
Father: If you don't like it we don't have to do it. We can do anything you want. We can go out if you want. We could go out for Mexican.
Mother: But we thought mini sirloins would be fun. And scalloped potatoes.
Me: That sounds great, sure.
Father: If you don't want it, you can just say so. We could get a ham. Do you want a ham?
Mother: We just thought it would be fun.
Me: No problems here. Sounds good.
Mother: Do you think it will be fun?
Ah, the sounds of the holidays.
The interesting thing about being at my parents' house (and by interesting, I mean frightening) is that nothing there is ever a small deal. For instance, where for most people running out of milk would be a minor annoyance soon remedied through a trip to the grocery store, for us it is a Tennessee Williams play.
Me: We're out of milk.
Mother: That can't be right. I just got milk. John, did you drink all the milk?
Father: I don't drink milk.
Mother: Well, someone drank it all. I just bought it.
Me: Oh, it's no big deal, I'll just pick some up later.
Mother: Oh sure, it's no big deal to you, because you already got milk. Your sister's going to want milk. John, we should go to the store. Let's go to the store.
Father: I just put the car in the garage. I don't want to have to move it again. Why do we need milk? Can't she just have juice?
Mother: She's going to want milk. She needs milk. Calcium is important. She'll get Osteoporosis.
Me: Mom, she's 28.
Mother: It's never too soon.
Deciding what to eat for Christmas dinner, meanwhile, is like choosing which child will live and which will die.
Father: Your mother and I were going to get some mini sirloins for Christmas dinner, if that's all right.
Mother: We thought it would be fun.
Me: Sure, that's fine, I'm fine with whatever.
Father: If you don't like it we don't have to do it. We can do anything you want. We can go out if you want. We could go out for Mexican.
Mother: But we thought mini sirloins would be fun. And scalloped potatoes.
Me: That sounds great, sure.
Father: If you don't want it, you can just say so. We could get a ham. Do you want a ham?
Mother: We just thought it would be fun.
Me: No problems here. Sounds good.
Mother: Do you think it will be fun?
Ah, the sounds of the holidays.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Snow Job
Back in Quincy for the week. It was a bit of a difficult trip, thanks to the halfhearted efforts of our state's road crews. I'm guessing that road salt was one of the casualties of Illinois' recent rounds of budget cuts, because there were cars off the road every ten miles or so. One or two you can chalk up to careless cell phone usage or vigorous road head, but once you hit the double digits you have to admit that the traction might not be as solid as, say, the Holmes/Cruise union. So I spent a good portion of the trip driving at thirty-five miles per hour and saying Hail, Marys. I thought about a chorus of "One Bread, One Body," but it seemed like overkill.
Anyway, I am here, although I'm sort of not, because I'm still "telecommuting" to Chicago each day for work. It's kind of fun, since I get to wake up at 8:30 and work in my pajamas. Also I watched Days of Our Lives during my lunch break. Did you know they brought back the character who got buried alive in the '90s? I'm hoping for a live cremation this time around.
I also got to seem my 98-year-old grandmother today. She must be feeling a lot better, because she had lots of strong opinions to share today. Many of which involved nurses who were standing not ten feet away.
Back in Quincy for the week. It was a bit of a difficult trip, thanks to the halfhearted efforts of our state's road crews. I'm guessing that road salt was one of the casualties of Illinois' recent rounds of budget cuts, because there were cars off the road every ten miles or so. One or two you can chalk up to careless cell phone usage or vigorous road head, but once you hit the double digits you have to admit that the traction might not be as solid as, say, the Holmes/Cruise union. So I spent a good portion of the trip driving at thirty-five miles per hour and saying Hail, Marys. I thought about a chorus of "One Bread, One Body," but it seemed like overkill.
Anyway, I am here, although I'm sort of not, because I'm still "telecommuting" to Chicago each day for work. It's kind of fun, since I get to wake up at 8:30 and work in my pajamas. Also I watched Days of Our Lives during my lunch break. Did you know they brought back the character who got buried alive in the '90s? I'm hoping for a live cremation this time around.
I also got to seem my 98-year-old grandmother today. She must be feeling a lot better, because she had lots of strong opinions to share today. Many of which involved nurses who were standing not ten feet away.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Capitalism
I spent about eight hours in DC for work this Thursday. It was another one of those trips where I find out I'm going about 48 hours before I actually go. As a result, I'm pretty sure my ticket cost several million dollars and the only seats left on the way back were directly adjacent to the bathroom in the last row. On the way out I was in better shape as it turns out the 6:05 AM flight isn't too heavily populated. Not that it would have mattered, as I fell asleep about ten minutes in. I had a beautiful dream where I wasn't on a place at 6:05 in the morning.
Anyway, it was a pretty surreal trip. The office was only about fifteen minutes from the airport, and I saw practically nothing of the city in between. They had sandwiches brought in for lunch, so I didn't even see what the local Wendy's looks like. I passed a lot of official-looking buildings on the way in, though, which I decided were probably various embassies belonging to countries I like. I think I may also have seen Mitch McConnell's house, just judging by the cloud of evil rising off of it.
The partner I was traveling with did take me to the United Red Carpet Club, which was sort of interesting. They had free bags of chips and cheese and crackers just lying out! And you could have as much Diet Coke as you wanted. I was so busy loading up on free snacks we almost missed our flight.
I spent about eight hours in DC for work this Thursday. It was another one of those trips where I find out I'm going about 48 hours before I actually go. As a result, I'm pretty sure my ticket cost several million dollars and the only seats left on the way back were directly adjacent to the bathroom in the last row. On the way out I was in better shape as it turns out the 6:05 AM flight isn't too heavily populated. Not that it would have mattered, as I fell asleep about ten minutes in. I had a beautiful dream where I wasn't on a place at 6:05 in the morning.
Anyway, it was a pretty surreal trip. The office was only about fifteen minutes from the airport, and I saw practically nothing of the city in between. They had sandwiches brought in for lunch, so I didn't even see what the local Wendy's looks like. I passed a lot of official-looking buildings on the way in, though, which I decided were probably various embassies belonging to countries I like. I think I may also have seen Mitch McConnell's house, just judging by the cloud of evil rising off of it.
The partner I was traveling with did take me to the United Red Carpet Club, which was sort of interesting. They had free bags of chips and cheese and crackers just lying out! And you could have as much Diet Coke as you wanted. I was so busy loading up on free snacks we almost missed our flight.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Sound of Music
Today I discovered that I get a TV network known as Fuse, which actually shows music videos. And not the way that TRL used to show music videos, with text messages streaming across the bottom and preteens screaming awkward greetings to their friends in the corner. No, Fuse appears to actually show music videos in their entirety, something I've not seen since approximately 1992. And I am learning a great deal.
First of all, I saw Gwen Stefani's video for Hollaback Girl, which I had never seen before, having apparently been in Africa for all of 2005. At first I thought it was awful, but then I decided that it was meant ironically and therefore awesome. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with Gwen's use of Asians, but as I am not aware of any EEOC complaints against her, I suppose I will let it stand.
Then I saw Kelly Clarkson's video for Since You Been Gone, which reminded me that she used to have human proportions, such that they didn't need to shoot her videos through three layers of gauze. You have to choose between love and sandwiches, Kelly.
There was also a Pussycat Dolls video, through which I learned that I have no idea how many members of the Pussycat Dolls there are. And I still wonder what all of them are there to do. Especially since the computer clearly does most of the singing.
(All the videos were for females today, obviously. It's a theme day.)
Christina Aguilera's "Ain't No Other Man" video was perfectly fine. It was nice that she managed to find assless chaps with a 1940s vibe.
And apparently there is a person named Ciara. Who knew?
Today I discovered that I get a TV network known as Fuse, which actually shows music videos. And not the way that TRL used to show music videos, with text messages streaming across the bottom and preteens screaming awkward greetings to their friends in the corner. No, Fuse appears to actually show music videos in their entirety, something I've not seen since approximately 1992. And I am learning a great deal.
First of all, I saw Gwen Stefani's video for Hollaback Girl, which I had never seen before, having apparently been in Africa for all of 2005. At first I thought it was awful, but then I decided that it was meant ironically and therefore awesome. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with Gwen's use of Asians, but as I am not aware of any EEOC complaints against her, I suppose I will let it stand.
Then I saw Kelly Clarkson's video for Since You Been Gone, which reminded me that she used to have human proportions, such that they didn't need to shoot her videos through three layers of gauze. You have to choose between love and sandwiches, Kelly.
There was also a Pussycat Dolls video, through which I learned that I have no idea how many members of the Pussycat Dolls there are. And I still wonder what all of them are there to do. Especially since the computer clearly does most of the singing.
(All the videos were for females today, obviously. It's a theme day.)
Christina Aguilera's "Ain't No Other Man" video was perfectly fine. It was nice that she managed to find assless chaps with a 1940s vibe.
And apparently there is a person named Ciara. Who knew?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
A Nice Chat
With my new office building has come a new gym. Which is not very crowded right now, since the building hasn't really been open that long. Which is for the most part great, since I really appreciate not having to fight with fifty year olds in compression shorts for an elliptical machine. The only problem, really, is that the manager of the gym is bored and has apparently decided to take that out on me. Every day she comes over and starts a conversation with me while I'm on the treadmill. I have heard all about every aspect of her daily life, from when she gets up in the morning to what she likes to do for a workout to how stressed she is about getting the cable hooked up. The process of hiring a spin teacher alone has served as the basis for four different monologues. And her speeches are not short; I know this because I have a clock on the damn treadmill. Her story about how she accidentally got on the train going the wrong way clocked in at a full twelve minutes.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that she's just trying to be nice, and I appreciate that. But she seems not to understand that I am trying to work out, and it doesn't make me much of a conversationalist. It is very difficult to appropriately respond to her anecdote about choosing soap for the locker rooms when I am on the verge of cardiac arrest. My fake laugh is not nearly as compelling when I am running out of breath. Plus, I kind of want to strangle her, since I'm kind of in pain.
I'm actually at the point where I'm about to recruit all my friends and neighbors to join just so she'll have someone else to talk to. I'm sure I'll miss her when she's gone.
With my new office building has come a new gym. Which is not very crowded right now, since the building hasn't really been open that long. Which is for the most part great, since I really appreciate not having to fight with fifty year olds in compression shorts for an elliptical machine. The only problem, really, is that the manager of the gym is bored and has apparently decided to take that out on me. Every day she comes over and starts a conversation with me while I'm on the treadmill. I have heard all about every aspect of her daily life, from when she gets up in the morning to what she likes to do for a workout to how stressed she is about getting the cable hooked up. The process of hiring a spin teacher alone has served as the basis for four different monologues. And her speeches are not short; I know this because I have a clock on the damn treadmill. Her story about how she accidentally got on the train going the wrong way clocked in at a full twelve minutes.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that she's just trying to be nice, and I appreciate that. But she seems not to understand that I am trying to work out, and it doesn't make me much of a conversationalist. It is very difficult to appropriately respond to her anecdote about choosing soap for the locker rooms when I am on the verge of cardiac arrest. My fake laugh is not nearly as compelling when I am running out of breath. Plus, I kind of want to strangle her, since I'm kind of in pain.
I'm actually at the point where I'm about to recruit all my friends and neighbors to join just so she'll have someone else to talk to. I'm sure I'll miss her when she's gone.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Glitterati
I have to say, I hope there is a special place in hell for whatever genius decided that Christmas cards should have glitter on them. The holiday season has only just begun and I have glitter all over my dining room table, across the front of my pants, up and down the full length of my arms, and, perhaps most memorably, in my eyes. Yes, I just spent ten minutes trying to wash glitter out of my eyes so I could stop crying. No, I don't think that the emotional impact of HBO's replaying of Jurassic Park is partially responsible for the crying. Although it is a powerful piece.
So now I can't get the glitter to wash off of me and I have to go into work tomorrow looking like I spent my evening in a drag show as opposed to sitting on my couch trying desperately to catch up on old New Yorkers. I suppose that's not all bad. It's nice to have an exciting personal life, even if it's only just in someone else's imagination.
I have to say, I hope there is a special place in hell for whatever genius decided that Christmas cards should have glitter on them. The holiday season has only just begun and I have glitter all over my dining room table, across the front of my pants, up and down the full length of my arms, and, perhaps most memorably, in my eyes. Yes, I just spent ten minutes trying to wash glitter out of my eyes so I could stop crying. No, I don't think that the emotional impact of HBO's replaying of Jurassic Park is partially responsible for the crying. Although it is a powerful piece.
So now I can't get the glitter to wash off of me and I have to go into work tomorrow looking like I spent my evening in a drag show as opposed to sitting on my couch trying desperately to catch up on old New Yorkers. I suppose that's not all bad. It's nice to have an exciting personal life, even if it's only just in someone else's imagination.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Additional Shocking Tiger Woods Revelations
-- Not actually a giant cat.
-- Briefly married to Liza Minnelli in the '70s.
-- Autobiography largely plagiarized from Nancy Grace.
-- No editorial control over Tiger Beat magazine.
-- Has neglected coursework for B.A. from University of Phoenix Online.
-- Generally an excellent driver.
-- Freely admits that golf is "really fucking boring."
-- Has actually never seen David Boreanaz act.
-- Failed to screw at least two skanks with bad highlights.
-- Actually kind of liked Indiana Jones 4.
-- Dirty text messages actually a failed attempt to obtain his bank balance.
-- Terrible with names, but good with faces.
-- Not actually a giant cat.
-- Briefly married to Liza Minnelli in the '70s.
-- Autobiography largely plagiarized from Nancy Grace.
-- No editorial control over Tiger Beat magazine.
-- Has neglected coursework for B.A. from University of Phoenix Online.
-- Generally an excellent driver.
-- Freely admits that golf is "really fucking boring."
-- Has actually never seen David Boreanaz act.
-- Failed to screw at least two skanks with bad highlights.
-- Actually kind of liked Indiana Jones 4.
-- Dirty text messages actually a failed attempt to obtain his bank balance.
-- Terrible with names, but good with faces.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
That Holiday Spirit
I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything I have to do before Christmas. This is sort of strange because, frankly, I don't even really have to do that much. I only buy presents for roughly three people, and though I generally do have a lot of trouble with things that require me to be thoughtful and/or think about other people, I have a fairly decent start on that project. It helps that I always know I can buy something for my mother that involves dogs and something for my father that involves the Cubs. As much as I find it implausible that these gifts would be enjoyed, I find it still more implausible that my parents would be that good at faking it. So I've got that going for me.
On the home front, I haven't really decorated for the holidays since my ornament-making career petered out in about third grade. I'm not having a party this year since all the December weekends are falling strangely, and I don't like people touching my stuff that much anyway. Plus people look at you so harshly when you cover your couches with blankets before they sit on them. And it should come as no surprise to anyone that I don't exactly bake up a storm for Christmas. I've got an adorable little gal who handles the sweet treats for me and her name is Little Debbie.
So I guess it's mainly just the holiday cards that are stressing me. Mine are of course elaborate and I haven't written a single word. I've managed to winnow my friend list down to about a hundred, mainly by being an asshole, but that's still going to take some serious time. Plus I'm lazy. And I just bought Super Mario Brothers Wii. What's a fella to do?
I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything I have to do before Christmas. This is sort of strange because, frankly, I don't even really have to do that much. I only buy presents for roughly three people, and though I generally do have a lot of trouble with things that require me to be thoughtful and/or think about other people, I have a fairly decent start on that project. It helps that I always know I can buy something for my mother that involves dogs and something for my father that involves the Cubs. As much as I find it implausible that these gifts would be enjoyed, I find it still more implausible that my parents would be that good at faking it. So I've got that going for me.
On the home front, I haven't really decorated for the holidays since my ornament-making career petered out in about third grade. I'm not having a party this year since all the December weekends are falling strangely, and I don't like people touching my stuff that much anyway. Plus people look at you so harshly when you cover your couches with blankets before they sit on them. And it should come as no surprise to anyone that I don't exactly bake up a storm for Christmas. I've got an adorable little gal who handles the sweet treats for me and her name is Little Debbie.
So I guess it's mainly just the holiday cards that are stressing me. Mine are of course elaborate and I haven't written a single word. I've managed to winnow my friend list down to about a hundred, mainly by being an asshole, but that's still going to take some serious time. Plus I'm lazy. And I just bought Super Mario Brothers Wii. What's a fella to do?
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Overtaken
Let me preface everything I am about to say with a disclaimer that I do not, in fact, watch Tabatha's Salon Takeover. There is no season pass for it on my DVR, nor do collections of the Takeover on DVD adorn my shelves. I have no idea who Tabatha is apart from the obvious facts that she has some sort of involvement in the greater hair industry and that she has what is in my view a dearth of eyebrows. I just happen to have seen the show every now and then when there is nothing else on.
(One might wonder why exactly it is that a man who has in the past freely admitted to a certain level of viewership of the Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency would balk at an association with even the least socially acceptable of Bravo reality shows, but that is a separate question.)
But from even the terribly casual viewing I have given the show I can tell you that it is pretty much always the same. Some tragically overwhelmed salon owner or other entrusts his facilities and stable of wacky hairdressers to a severe and frightening lady and much crying and screaming ensues before an eventual outbreak of hugging and learning. Oh, and they give the salon a makeover, which they commence by dramatically (yet generally ineffectively) swinging a sledgehammer around.
This makes me think very much that I would very much like Tabatha to take over my place of business. No, she's not to my knowledge a licensed attorney, but I still think her talents for identifying bad dye jobs and making acid remarks about people's bad attitudes would come in handy. She could sit my secretary down and explain to her that answering the phone is in fact part of the job description. She could even padlock the break room to make an important point about constant snacking in the workplace, if she wanted.
Why I am not yet a high level network executive I will never know.
Let me preface everything I am about to say with a disclaimer that I do not, in fact, watch Tabatha's Salon Takeover. There is no season pass for it on my DVR, nor do collections of the Takeover on DVD adorn my shelves. I have no idea who Tabatha is apart from the obvious facts that she has some sort of involvement in the greater hair industry and that she has what is in my view a dearth of eyebrows. I just happen to have seen the show every now and then when there is nothing else on.
(One might wonder why exactly it is that a man who has in the past freely admitted to a certain level of viewership of the Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency would balk at an association with even the least socially acceptable of Bravo reality shows, but that is a separate question.)
But from even the terribly casual viewing I have given the show I can tell you that it is pretty much always the same. Some tragically overwhelmed salon owner or other entrusts his facilities and stable of wacky hairdressers to a severe and frightening lady and much crying and screaming ensues before an eventual outbreak of hugging and learning. Oh, and they give the salon a makeover, which they commence by dramatically (yet generally ineffectively) swinging a sledgehammer around.
This makes me think very much that I would very much like Tabatha to take over my place of business. No, she's not to my knowledge a licensed attorney, but I still think her talents for identifying bad dye jobs and making acid remarks about people's bad attitudes would come in handy. She could sit my secretary down and explain to her that answering the phone is in fact part of the job description. She could even padlock the break room to make an important point about constant snacking in the workplace, if she wanted.
Why I am not yet a high level network executive I will never know.
