I was all set to make a joke about this little tidbit I read on Gawker.com the other day about a prospective art reality show (for serious?!) starring Sarah Jessica Parker (for serious again?!) as the host. And the joke I was going to make, with more appropriate phrasing (naturally) was about the title of the show. This is as far as my inner monologue got:
"An art show? Who the hell would watch that? What will they call that show, 'Watching Paint Dry'? Oh my Zod, that's funny! I should totally bloggerize about th-... uh oh, the phone is ringing. I hope this isn't A-Rod again. Oh, great. It's from 561 area code. It is A-Rod. Again."
Seriously, who the hell wants to watch a painter paint or a sculptor sculpt? Most of the time, I'm not interested in the finished product, let alone the process involved in making it. I like my art like I like my women: simple, clean, mostly white, squarish, and mounted on a wooden easel in the corner where she/it can be easily ignored. I mean, maybe, maybe, if we were talking some kind of medieval reality show where the challenge was to paint a cathedral ceiling every week, and the losers got pushed off their scaffoldings... maybe then I'd be tempted to watch. MAYBE.
As if television isn't stupid enough for having reality shows about cooking. Hello? Cooking? On television? Last time I checked, none of the audience can taste or smell the food - experiences which, I am told, are intrinsic to judging whether or not said cooking is actually any good - through their television, no matter how high-definition you make it. I find the whole concept of the Food Network almost utterly baffling as I find the odd, mannish charm of Fred Flinstone.
Anyway, sadly for me, Gawker beat me to the punchline.
I blame Alex Rodriguez, or, as I have recently taken to calling him, "I've been working on the railroad all the livelong day-Rod."
You would not BELIEVE the hysterical phone calls I've been getting from this "guy" lately. The 561 area code is somewhere in Florida, where Mr. Rod is supposed to be getting ready for February minicamps, and for a season full of high jinks both on the basepaths in the Bronx and in the streets of midtown Manhattan. Except that, instead of focusing on planning his wacky 2008 pranks, all Alex can talk (or rather, cry and squeal) about this entire month is fucking Britney fucking Spears fuck. What the hell do I care if she got carted off to UCLA for a mental evaluation? She never returns my calls anyway! Important bloggerizing is falling by the wayside here!!
I'm beginning to suspect that Britney is on the Boston Red Sox payroll for an undisclosed sum. I mean, think about it. That whole Taco Bell stolen base promotion during the World Series last year were Jacoby Ellsbury won free tacos for the nation? Tell me that doesn't have Britney's inimitable, cheese-and-hot-sauce-from-a-packet-covered paw prints all over it.
And now she's ruining my jokes too, thanks to San Tropez-Rod. It may seem like she doesn't have a clue about the impact of her lifestyle on her fans (I'm talking to you, Chris Crocker), but deep down, you can tell she knows. She knows.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
A fateful trip uptown...
It's a solid 45-minute trip from my midtown office to the 207th Street subway station on the 8th Avenue subway line. I took that trip yesterday with Sarah to get to a 7:00 PM appointment on the corner of 204th and Cooper Street to look at an apartment that was solidly in our price range. That's OUR price range, as in mine and Sarah's, not mine and yours, or mine and Barack Obama's, or mine and the monster from Cloverfield's. Yes, that's right, I decided - in spite of my recent experience losing money, chopsticks, Betta fish, and heaps of my dignity and self-worth - to consider moving in with another woman.
Now, if you're a clear-minded thinker, and if you've ever read the tales of heartbreak of my moving out last year, you might suspect that I prepared for this appointment with a quick trip to the edge of the roof of the Dole factory and a long, slow contemplation of my own mortality. Chuckle, chuckle, I say. Because although the Dole factory is 22 levels tall, only two of those levels are above ground, and the factory is surrounded by a very pillowy layer of soil and grass. The 25-foot fall from the roof would barely be enough to break an ankle. You could take a nap on the way down and not wake up from the impact, assuming you could fall asleep that fast, which I can't - not in these troubled political times of ours, not while a black man and a woman are establishing viable candidacies for President. What's next, a GAY president? NO WAY.
So, speaking of gay, how DID I prepare for this apartment appointment last night? Why, by listening to "Rainbow Tour" from the 1996 original soundtrack recording of Evita (nullus), starring Madonna, Jonathan Pryce, and Antonio Banderas from back when he was still sexy (nullus x2) on my way to meet up with Sarah outside Grand Central Station for the first leg of the aforementioned 45-minute trip. I was calm, I was relaxed, I was even a little bit excited. I was also slightly gassy, but that had more to do with the muenster cheese I fed my lactose-intolerant insides for lunch yesterday, and was obviously not an omen of any kind.
The ride up was uneventful, and we walked over to the southwest corner of 204th and Cooper, where a man named Zeke was supposed to meet us at 7pm. We were three minutes early, and standing out in the cold for a minute or two already before Sarah noticed a voicemail from Zeke indicating that he would be late, but by no more than 10 or 15 minutes. Unfazed by this, we walked to a deli on the corner and bought Peanut Butter M&Ms and a Superfood health drink, in a sort of perfect nutritional yin-yang that demonstrates just how well Sarah and I complement each other. "Mmm," I said after a sip of the Superfood, "you can really taste the wheat grass." Sarah responded by offering me an orange M&M.
7:15 passed without a whisper from Zeke, whom we did not know except for his voice. It was roughly at this point that the chill started to seep into my cheeks and knuckles, and I started to lump all the passersby into two neatly segmented categories: "Zeke" and "not Zeke." Each person who did not introduce himself or herself, who was walking a dog or carrying groceries, or who eyeballed us suspiciously for standing outdoors on a street corner in a residential neighborhood in near-freezing temperatures, fit easily into the "not Zeke" category. As the minutes wore on, I caught myself giving the hairy eyeball to passing cars, certain that Zeke was pulling the old drive-by-to-check-you-out-and-ruin-your-feeble-attempt-to-neatly-categorize-people routine. I hate that routine. The categories themselves seemed to be breaking down. The Superfood was turning slowly into Super Ice. Sarah kept feeding me M&Ms and hugging me so she could leech the small store of warmth I had accumulated within the snuggly confines of my pea coat, and I let her get away with it. What the hay, I thought. What's 40 minutes in 30-degree weather between soon-to-be-cohabitors?
Just as I was asking no one in particular where he was, Zeke finally showed up. I was entirely unprepared to see a man step out of the shadows and headlong into my question. If it had been a comic book, Zeke would have walked right into the bubble coming out of my mouth with the words "where the hell is Zeke?" in it. Zeke headed right toward us with a bag full of papers and a heart full of love. Thankfully, Zeke was deaf, or at least, hard enough of hearing that he didn't hear me asking, somewhat angrily, where he was. That was the good news. The bad news was that, in order to give us the apartment, Zeke was going to want money.
Now, it wasn't just because Zeke was black that I thought at this point of Barack Obama and his viable candidacy for President. I think Barack's sudden appearance at the vanguard of my thoughts had more - much more - to do with the fact that last night was the State of the Union. Frankly, I didn't even know he was black. I thought "Barack O'bama" was Irish, right up until I saw the video of him sitting next to Ted Kennedy last night.
But since I don't have an apartment, much less a DVR set up inside that apartment, I was going to miss the State of the Union, all in the name of getting an apartment. I was going to miss my last chance to watch George Dubya try his hand at public speaking again. All the Superfood and peanut butter M&Ms in the world can't make up for that, or for having to miss a rousing game of State of the Union Bingo. I remember in aught-three, my card had "Osama bin Laden," "nukyulur," "terror," "freedom," and "Iraq" running in a diagonal from the top left to the bottom right. I think I had BINGO inside of four minutes that year.
Anyway, skipping ahead to the part of the night where I was missing GWB spouting his endless platitudes, instead opting to pay a very dark-skinned, not-Irish-at-all man five hundred of my favorite dollars as a deposit against OUR new place, there is now reason to be optimistic that my address will be changing relatively shortly, and that the next time I listen to "Rainbow Tour," it will be on the fully-powered sound system of my HP desktop computer in the middle of MY NEW APARTMENT. And Sarah's too. I sincerely hope she likes Evita. And Barack Obama. I think maybe I should have asked her first. Oh well. At least this time, there are no fish involved.
Now, if you're a clear-minded thinker, and if you've ever read the tales of heartbreak of my moving out last year, you might suspect that I prepared for this appointment with a quick trip to the edge of the roof of the Dole factory and a long, slow contemplation of my own mortality. Chuckle, chuckle, I say. Because although the Dole factory is 22 levels tall, only two of those levels are above ground, and the factory is surrounded by a very pillowy layer of soil and grass. The 25-foot fall from the roof would barely be enough to break an ankle. You could take a nap on the way down and not wake up from the impact, assuming you could fall asleep that fast, which I can't - not in these troubled political times of ours, not while a black man and a woman are establishing viable candidacies for President. What's next, a GAY president? NO WAY.
So, speaking of gay, how DID I prepare for this apartment appointment last night? Why, by listening to "Rainbow Tour" from the 1996 original soundtrack recording of Evita (nullus), starring Madonna, Jonathan Pryce, and Antonio Banderas from back when he was still sexy (nullus x2) on my way to meet up with Sarah outside Grand Central Station for the first leg of the aforementioned 45-minute trip. I was calm, I was relaxed, I was even a little bit excited. I was also slightly gassy, but that had more to do with the muenster cheese I fed my lactose-intolerant insides for lunch yesterday, and was obviously not an omen of any kind.
The ride up was uneventful, and we walked over to the southwest corner of 204th and Cooper, where a man named Zeke was supposed to meet us at 7pm. We were three minutes early, and standing out in the cold for a minute or two already before Sarah noticed a voicemail from Zeke indicating that he would be late, but by no more than 10 or 15 minutes. Unfazed by this, we walked to a deli on the corner and bought Peanut Butter M&Ms and a Superfood health drink, in a sort of perfect nutritional yin-yang that demonstrates just how well Sarah and I complement each other. "Mmm," I said after a sip of the Superfood, "you can really taste the wheat grass." Sarah responded by offering me an orange M&M.
7:15 passed without a whisper from Zeke, whom we did not know except for his voice. It was roughly at this point that the chill started to seep into my cheeks and knuckles, and I started to lump all the passersby into two neatly segmented categories: "Zeke" and "not Zeke." Each person who did not introduce himself or herself, who was walking a dog or carrying groceries, or who eyeballed us suspiciously for standing outdoors on a street corner in a residential neighborhood in near-freezing temperatures, fit easily into the "not Zeke" category. As the minutes wore on, I caught myself giving the hairy eyeball to passing cars, certain that Zeke was pulling the old drive-by-to-check-you-out-and-ruin-your-feeble-attempt-to-neatly-categorize-people routine. I hate that routine. The categories themselves seemed to be breaking down. The Superfood was turning slowly into Super Ice. Sarah kept feeding me M&Ms and hugging me so she could leech the small store of warmth I had accumulated within the snuggly confines of my pea coat, and I let her get away with it. What the hay, I thought. What's 40 minutes in 30-degree weather between soon-to-be-cohabitors?
Just as I was asking no one in particular where he was, Zeke finally showed up. I was entirely unprepared to see a man step out of the shadows and headlong into my question. If it had been a comic book, Zeke would have walked right into the bubble coming out of my mouth with the words "where the hell is Zeke?" in it. Zeke headed right toward us with a bag full of papers and a heart full of love. Thankfully, Zeke was deaf, or at least, hard enough of hearing that he didn't hear me asking, somewhat angrily, where he was. That was the good news. The bad news was that, in order to give us the apartment, Zeke was going to want money.
Now, it wasn't just because Zeke was black that I thought at this point of Barack Obama and his viable candidacy for President. I think Barack's sudden appearance at the vanguard of my thoughts had more - much more - to do with the fact that last night was the State of the Union. Frankly, I didn't even know he was black. I thought "Barack O'bama" was Irish, right up until I saw the video of him sitting next to Ted Kennedy last night.
But since I don't have an apartment, much less a DVR set up inside that apartment, I was going to miss the State of the Union, all in the name of getting an apartment. I was going to miss my last chance to watch George Dubya try his hand at public speaking again. All the Superfood and peanut butter M&Ms in the world can't make up for that, or for having to miss a rousing game of State of the Union Bingo. I remember in aught-three, my card had "Osama bin Laden," "nukyulur," "terror," "freedom," and "Iraq" running in a diagonal from the top left to the bottom right. I think I had BINGO inside of four minutes that year.
Anyway, skipping ahead to the part of the night where I was missing GWB spouting his endless platitudes, instead opting to pay a very dark-skinned, not-Irish-at-all man five hundred of my favorite dollars as a deposit against OUR new place, there is now reason to be optimistic that my address will be changing relatively shortly, and that the next time I listen to "Rainbow Tour," it will be on the fully-powered sound system of my HP desktop computer in the middle of MY NEW APARTMENT. And Sarah's too. I sincerely hope she likes Evita. And Barack Obama. I think maybe I should have asked her first. Oh well. At least this time, there are no fish involved.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Spotlight on my junk mail...again
From: Madewell 1937 [madewell1937@click.madewell1937.com]
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Jan 25, 2008 10:33 AM
Subject: The dress you'll wear all spring.
From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Madewell 1937 [madewell1937@click.madewell1937.com]
Date: Jan 25, 2008 11:15 AM
Subject: Re: The dress you'll wear all spring.
Oh my god, I will TOTALLY wear this dress ALL SPRING. Bravo, Madewell 1937, bravo. You have struck gold again, you magnificent beast or beasts. I feel as if you have reached a finger up through my vagina and touched my very soul.
Love and kisses,
Smokey R.
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Jan 25, 2008 10:33 AM
Subject: The dress you'll wear all spring.
***
From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Madewell 1937 [madewell1937@click.madewell1937.com]
Date: Jan 25, 2008 11:15 AM
Subject: Re: The dress you'll wear all spring.
Oh my god, I will TOTALLY wear this dress ALL SPRING. Bravo, Madewell 1937, bravo. You have struck gold again, you magnificent beast or beasts. I feel as if you have reached a finger up through my vagina and touched my very soul.
Love and kisses,
Smokey R.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Me, getting invited to like, the hottest party of 2008, and having to say no...
FROM: Beingirl.in [beingirl.in@zapak.com]
TO: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
DATE: Jan 23, 2008 12:39 PM
SUBJECT: Party Party!! First Ever All Girls Party - Come & Join the Fun
***
TO: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
DATE: Jan 23, 2008 12:39 PM
SUBJECT: Party Party!! First Ever All Girls Party - Come & Join the Fun
FROM: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
TO: Beingirl.in [beingirl.in@zapak.com]
DATE: Jan 23, 2008 4:29 PM
SUBJECT: RE: Party Party!! First Ever All Girls Party - Come & Join the Fun
Dear BeingGirl.in,
This was really sweet of you to invite me to the party and all, and especially because although I am a (mostly) white, (mostly) male (mostly) American, I am, at heart, an Indian girl. This makes me feel so special, and so recognized for who I truly am. And also, the manner in which you have managed to market to my demographic, with the clever use of catchy colors, bubbles, speaker-like graphics, and the silhouetted image of a girl jumping (to say nothing of the hot Indian rockerz F4, who I absolutely LOVE!!!!!), also makes me feel special.
Sadly, I won't be in the Mumbai area on the 25th, since I have to go to a boring American bar mitzvah that day for my boss's nephew. But all I will be thinking about is the Music, the Masti, and the Rocking performance that I could totally be at instead, if not for the fact that I live thousands of miles away, which I'm sure you must have known even before you sent me this invitation.
But I really did want to take a minute to thank you, and to let you know how truly touched I was to know that you thought of me. Please keep me in mind for next time, even if I can't make it. Sometimes it's nice just to feel included, right?
Thanks a ton,
Smokey
TO: Beingirl.in [beingirl.in@zapak.com]
DATE: Jan 23, 2008 4:29 PM
SUBJECT: RE: Party Party!! First Ever All Girls Party - Come & Join the Fun
Dear BeingGirl.in,
This was really sweet of you to invite me to the party and all, and especially because although I am a (mostly) white, (mostly) male (mostly) American, I am, at heart, an Indian girl. This makes me feel so special, and so recognized for who I truly am. And also, the manner in which you have managed to market to my demographic, with the clever use of catchy colors, bubbles, speaker-like graphics, and the silhouetted image of a girl jumping (to say nothing of the hot Indian rockerz F4, who I absolutely LOVE!!!!!), also makes me feel special.
Sadly, I won't be in the Mumbai area on the 25th, since I have to go to a boring American bar mitzvah that day for my boss's nephew. But all I will be thinking about is the Music, the Masti, and the Rocking performance that I could totally be at instead, if not for the fact that I live thousands of miles away, which I'm sure you must have known even before you sent me this invitation.
But I really did want to take a minute to thank you, and to let you know how truly touched I was to know that you thought of me. Please keep me in mind for next time, even if I can't make it. Sometimes it's nice just to feel included, right?
Thanks a ton,
Smokey
Reese Witherspoon's Sensible Stand, or How Fred Thompson Could Have Rocketed to the Presidency
Three stories about Hollywood Actors from yesterday's news:
Story 1:
Hollywood Actor #2 is, or rather was, Heath Ledger, who got famous after he made out with Jake Gyllenhaal in the movie Brokeback Mountain, and who died yesterday in New York, naked and (I'm guessing) unashamed of it.
Almost swept away by that story was the principled stand of Hollywood Actor #3, Reese Witherspoon who, oddly enough, got famous before she made out with Jake Gyllenhaal, disproving the graduate thesis I wrote at the London School of Economics two years ago. Perhaps, and I'm going out on a limb here, Ms. Witherspoon's march against the forces that would disrobe all of Hollywood would have been better served if, instead of being interviewed for a piece in Us Weekly, she had died a suspicious and untimely death in a Manhattan apartment, clothed only in the nudity that she is apparently too shy to expose.
Of course, she's right, you know. Appearing nude or scantily clad would undermine the integrity of her body of film, which includes such inestimable bastions of taste and decorum as Twilight (where she appeared nude in a sex scene, but in a totally dignified and businesslike way), Cruel Intentions (where she showed up in a bathing suit, but totally didn't mean for that to be sexy), and the incomparable Legally Blonde, in which her character, a ditzy blonde (duh?), buys her way into Harvard Law School so she can chase after a man, and then wins the big case because of her knowledge of the Prada shoe catalog and the fashion senses of the gays. Nudity would TOTALLY have degraded all of those movies - except Twilight, because she already was nude in that one.
Is there a certain irony to the fact that Ms. Witherspoon's not-at-all-trite-or-meaningless crusade got upstaged by Heath Ledger, who died in the nude? Not at all! But there are the makings of a joke lesson in this for Fred Thompson, who probably thought he was SO SMART for picking an almost incomprehensibly slow Tuesday in the middle of January when no albums were coming out, and no special edition DVDs were being released, and only a handful of Major League Baseball players were being subpoenaed by Congress, to compete with his announcement. And the lesson is this: {Insert corny joke making references to being young, nude, and/or dead in order to get headlines here.} You're welcome, Fred Thompson. Better luck four years from now when you'll probably be dead and naked yourself.
Oscar '08 For The Win!
Story 1:
Hollywood Actor #1 withdrew from the race for President yesterday after failing to win - or finish higher than fourth - in a single Republican primary. No word yet on whether or not he will return to his role on NBC's Law & Order.Story 2:
Hollywood Actor #2 was found dead in his apartment at 421 Broome Street in Manhattan on Tuesday afternoon. He was reported to be naked and surrounded by pills.Story 3:
Hollywood Actor #3 won't pose for sexy photo shoots to promote her films.Hollywood Actor #1 is Fred Thompson, whose not-so-surprising move to bow out of the Republican race is only helping to pave the way for my Oscar the Grouch '08 campaign. With Thompson out of the race, Oscar can capitalize on the crotchety old man demographic, which he sorely, sorely needs if he's going to stand any sort of chance at all.
"If [actresses] take their clothes off, they objectify themselves," she tells the UK edition of Glamour. "I am flabbergasted by how many legitimate actresses do it."
Hollywood Actor #3, 31 – who shares custody of Ava, 8, and Deacon, 4, with ex-husband Ryan Phillippe – adds that she tries to avoid the pitfalls of a Hollywood lifestyle. "I am a role model for my children," she says.
"Hollywood is one of those endless competitions," she says. "It's a race towards nothing. I just want to be the best version of myself that I can be."
Hollywood Actor #3 credits her 2005 Best Actress Oscar win for Walk the Line with opening up a range of film roles. "I would never have been offered these kind of roles," she says. "There was also a lot of pressure after [winning an Oscar]. People wanted me to do a really big movie and I just wanted to do something more sort of personal and real."
Yesterday, Hollywood Actor #3 denied being engaged to boyfriend Jake Gyllenhaal.
Hollywood Actor #2 is, or rather was, Heath Ledger, who got famous after he made out with Jake Gyllenhaal in the movie Brokeback Mountain, and who died yesterday in New York, naked and (I'm guessing) unashamed of it.
Almost swept away by that story was the principled stand of Hollywood Actor #3, Reese Witherspoon who, oddly enough, got famous before she made out with Jake Gyllenhaal, disproving the graduate thesis I wrote at the London School of Economics two years ago. Perhaps, and I'm going out on a limb here, Ms. Witherspoon's march against the forces that would disrobe all of Hollywood would have been better served if, instead of being interviewed for a piece in Us Weekly, she had died a suspicious and untimely death in a Manhattan apartment, clothed only in the nudity that she is apparently too shy to expose.
Of course, she's right, you know. Appearing nude or scantily clad would undermine the integrity of her body of film, which includes such inestimable bastions of taste and decorum as Twilight (where she appeared nude in a sex scene, but in a totally dignified and businesslike way), Cruel Intentions (where she showed up in a bathing suit, but totally didn't mean for that to be sexy), and the incomparable Legally Blonde, in which her character, a ditzy blonde (duh?), buys her way into Harvard Law School so she can chase after a man, and then wins the big case because of her knowledge of the Prada shoe catalog and the fashion senses of the gays. Nudity would TOTALLY have degraded all of those movies - except Twilight, because she already was nude in that one.
Is there a certain irony to the fact that Ms. Witherspoon's not-at-all-trite-or-meaningless crusade got upstaged by Heath Ledger, who died in the nude? Not at all! But there are the makings of a joke lesson in this for Fred Thompson, who probably thought he was SO SMART for picking an almost incomprehensibly slow Tuesday in the middle of January when no albums were coming out, and no special edition DVDs were being released, and only a handful of Major League Baseball players were being subpoenaed by Congress, to compete with his announcement. And the lesson is this: {Insert corny joke making references to being young, nude, and/or dead in order to get headlines here.} You're welcome, Fred Thompson. Better luck four years from now when you'll probably be dead and naked yourself.
Oscar '08 For The Win!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
My recommendation for a Groundhog Day Resolution #1
Oh hi! I has returned from the AMC Loews theater on Broadway and 19th Street Saturday night, where Karyn and I saw Cloverfield, and where the bottled water may or may not be very high priced - I really wouldn't know. Cloverfield is not the kind of movie you where you want to bring water with you because of the pants-shitting fear the movie induces. Trust me, you will either spill the water all over yourself, or, if you are dumb enough to actually drink the water, you will pee it out into your already poop-laden pants - it is THAT scary. I spent much of my MLK Day performing an elaborate re-enactment of the movie's destruction of Manhattan on my 19-foot scale-model Lego replica of New York City for Sarah who, inexplicably, has no desire to have the crap scared out of her.
I don't do movie reviews, as I've said before. I also don't make New Year's resolutions. I recommend making Groundhog Day resolutions, actually, because at that point, you've had some time to see how the new year is working out for you, and also because the crowds at the New York Sports Club have thinned out by then. Personally, I won't be making any Groundhog Day resolutions either, since I made a New Year's resolution not to.
But I do make life decisions based on broad, fictional portrayals of massive destruction at the hands of a terrifying CGI monster, because terrifying CGI monsters, if nothing else, certainly make you think about what's important. And what I discovered was important after watching Cloverfield was this: I NEED TO BUY A VIDEO CAMERA! Not only because something crazy like a monster attack could happen, and much like in the words of tries-so-hard-to-be-funny-but-mostly-you're-rooting-for-him-to-bite-it character "Hud" from the movie, "people are gonna wanna know... how it went down," but also because it took me like eight years to build Lego New York, which has now been laid waste. I guess I just went a little overboard with the Goldschlager, like I do almost every year on Martin Luther King Day. I really should have thought it through first. Or at least, I should have taped it. Idiot!
Anyway, make a Groundhog Day resolution to SEE THIS MOVIE! Unless you live in New York, are afraid of monsters, or have a mild coronary condition, in which case, make a Groundhog Day resolution to NOT SEE THIS MOVIE! Whichever way you go, though, make sure you make a Groundhog Day resolution to WEAR A DIAPER! And also, please BUY ME A VIDEO CAMERA BEFORE MLK DAY 2009! The video highlights will ROCK YOUR WORLD!
I have to go BACK TO WORK NOW! Cans are FALLING OFF THE CONVEYOR BELTS! All because I AM NOT PAYING ATTENTION! It's just too bad I DON'T HAVE A VIDEO CAMERA SO I COULD SHOW YOU! Hey - there's ANOTHER REASON TO BUY ME ONE!
I don't do movie reviews, as I've said before. I also don't make New Year's resolutions. I recommend making Groundhog Day resolutions, actually, because at that point, you've had some time to see how the new year is working out for you, and also because the crowds at the New York Sports Club have thinned out by then. Personally, I won't be making any Groundhog Day resolutions either, since I made a New Year's resolution not to.
But I do make life decisions based on broad, fictional portrayals of massive destruction at the hands of a terrifying CGI monster, because terrifying CGI monsters, if nothing else, certainly make you think about what's important. And what I discovered was important after watching Cloverfield was this: I NEED TO BUY A VIDEO CAMERA! Not only because something crazy like a monster attack could happen, and much like in the words of tries-so-hard-to-be-funny-but-mostly-you're-rooting-for-him-to-bite-it character "Hud" from the movie, "people are gonna wanna know... how it went down," but also because it took me like eight years to build Lego New York, which has now been laid waste. I guess I just went a little overboard with the Goldschlager, like I do almost every year on Martin Luther King Day. I really should have thought it through first. Or at least, I should have taped it. Idiot!
Anyway, make a Groundhog Day resolution to SEE THIS MOVIE! Unless you live in New York, are afraid of monsters, or have a mild coronary condition, in which case, make a Groundhog Day resolution to NOT SEE THIS MOVIE! Whichever way you go, though, make sure you make a Groundhog Day resolution to WEAR A DIAPER! And also, please BUY ME A VIDEO CAMERA BEFORE MLK DAY 2009! The video highlights will ROCK YOUR WORLD!
I have to go BACK TO WORK NOW! Cans are FALLING OFF THE CONVEYOR BELTS! All because I AM NOT PAYING ATTENTION! It's just too bad I DON'T HAVE A VIDEO CAMERA SO I COULD SHOW YOU! Hey - there's ANOTHER REASON TO BUY ME ONE!
Friday, January 18, 2008
Call off the search...
Eccentric chess genius and rabid anti-Semite Bobby Fischer? He dead now. No word yet on weather his death was orchestrated by Jews, the US Government, or a bad batch of the souvenir color-coded yogurt that Boris Spassky's team used to signal which opening gambit Fischer was using during the 1972 world chess championship which was held, appropriately enough, in 1972.
Either way, this cat has gone horizontal.
I saw Searching for Bobby Fischer in a theater in Paramus, New Jersey in the summer of 1993 with two friends from high school, one of whom is now an ascendant New York actor and the other of whom is, or ought to be, a striking writer. (Since he always was pretty striking, even when he WASN'T writing! Ba-dum-bum!) And the kid who played Bobby Fischer was adorable! Who would have thought he would grow into this dead 64-year-old nut job in the matter of less than 15 years?
No word yet on whether death itself is a conspiracy engineered by the Jews, or any of the other hate organizations whose machinations were responsible for Fischer's brilliance or its later version, total paranoid insanity. I still miss him though. SEXIEST NERD EVER.
Bye bye, Bobby.
But where will I turn for answers now?...
***
January 17, 2007VIA OVERNIGHT MAIL
The Astrological Magazine
13 1/2 Condict Street
New Brunswick, New Jersey 08901
Re: Adequate notice of termination of service
Dear The Ass-trological Magazine (tee hee):
I write to you today in response to your letter of December 22, 2007, wherein you assert that we have, in some fashion, been negligent in our responsibility to provide you adequate notice of the termination of our services, in accordance with our contract dated May 4, 1936, as revised and amended December 22, 1998.
We respectfully point out that we fail to see an actionable issue under any common or natural law, up to and including the US Constitution which, as you may or may not be aware, has no actual jurisdiction in this matter. (Frankly, citing the First and Fourth Amendments left our legal department scratching their magnetic north poles.)
We would also like to refer you the following phenomena:
- Pluto conjunct with the rotational center of the Galaxy (December 2006)
- The full moon at 20 degrees in Sagittarius (June 2006)
- The moon in Taurus, Saturn conjunct Mars in Leo, and Jupiter in Scorpio, all less than 2 degrees of exactness from each other (Summer Solstice, 2006)
As you well know, the aforementioned events are harbingers of change and indicators of rigidity and difficulty with respect to negotiations, particularly in the field of astrological publishing (not to mention clear signs that Carol Channing needed a diaper change). However, when it seemed that you were resolute in your refusal to acknowledge said events, we arranged for Mercury to be in retrograde for an extended period of time during mid-2007. And, as if we hadn't been generous enough already, we even sent comet 17P (Holmes) into major outburst only months before your service was canceled!
There was also this item, as foretold by Ray Setti at AstrologerWeekly.com during Mercury's extended stay in retrograde:
"Watch carefully how the stationing of Mercury at these degrees influences your natal chart in order to understand the personalized impact on your life. Also, if you are affiliated with The Astrological Magazine, this would be a good time to jump ship, as the publication will cease abruptly in December of this year."Therefore, while we respect your position and understand your grief, we feel that the points above are ample illustration of the baselessness of your claim against us, and we reject your reference to "unforeseen circumstances beyond [y]our control" as you have indicated on your website. (Yes, we have Internet access up here.) Better luck next time, I guess.
The foregoing is without prejudice to all rights, remedies, and defenses, all of which are expressly preserved.
Respectfully,
The Stars and Planets Whose Various Gravitational Forces and Orbital Eccentricities Govern the Lives of People Down There on Puny, Egocentric Earth
cc: Milky Way Galaxy Legal Affairs office
Alan Dershowitz, Esq.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
World, meet Lex Dabrowski
From Scotsman.com:
I don't need to know how a 14-year-old boy managed to amass enough technical know-how to monkey with a city transit system. I'm not curious what his parents do that he apparently had enough spare parts lying around the house to build his device into a remote control. I kind of wonder which buttons he pressed for which specific functions though, but that's only because I'm kind of a geek about electronics.
No, what worries me about this story is this:
Um, hello? Doesn't anyone in Poland read comic books? [Insert clever Polish comic book joke that is mutually insulting to both comic books and Poland, but that I am too lazy to come up with, here.] This is like the origin story of every bad seed that goes on to antagonize Batman or Spiderman, or any of the other various Jewish superheroes in the world. But since I don't read comic books either, my question is this:
What will Adam Dabrowski change his name to when he becomes an arch-criminal? Button Man? The Remote-ster? Control Freak? The Whizzinator?
Suggestions welcome. Anything worthwhile, I will take credit for on my application to become one of his henchmen, which I plan on filing any day now.
I don't need to know how a 14-year-old boy managed to amass enough technical know-how to monkey with a city transit system. I'm not curious what his parents do that he apparently had enough spare parts lying around the house to build his device into a remote control. I kind of wonder which buttons he pressed for which specific functions though, but that's only because I'm kind of a geek about electronics.
No, what worries me about this story is this:
"Dabrowski is to face charges of endangering public safety in a special juvenile court."
Um, hello? Doesn't anyone in Poland read comic books? [Insert clever Polish comic book joke that is mutually insulting to both comic books and Poland, but that I am too lazy to come up with, here.] This is like the origin story of every bad seed that goes on to antagonize Batman or Spiderman, or any of the other various Jewish superheroes in the world. But since I don't read comic books either, my question is this:
What will Adam Dabrowski change his name to when he becomes an arch-criminal? Button Man? The Remote-ster? Control Freak? The Whizzinator?
Suggestions welcome. Anything worthwhile, I will take credit for on my application to become one of his henchmen, which I plan on filing any day now.
Friday, January 11, 2008
If Oscar were President, we'd all be saying 'heaveno' to the men drilling for candy on our ranches...
I hate reacting to news headlines, especially when I have loads of very important playing with my Lollipop the Bear plush action figure to do. (Plus all that canning!) But I just read this, and I'm so outraged that I could interrupt my very important "playing with my Lollipop the Bear plush action figure" time and write a blog piece to express my outrage - that's how outraged I am.
It's from the New York Times, also commonly referred to as the New York Bad News Every Second of the Livelong Day - an organization so poorly run that they recently hired Bill Kristol to write a weekly column instead of Billy Crystal, which is obviously who they really wanted. Check out this article, which totally should have been run under the headline, "For God's Sake, Montana, Think of the CANDY!!!!!"
The article goes on to quote Lonnie Wright, Mr. Mars Jr.'s son-in-law, who "said he had no choice but to let the company in. 'I don’t contemplate any other action,' Mr. Wright said. 'I got lots I could add but nothing that would help the situation.'"
I'm not a betting man (for purposes of this piece, anyway), but I would lay all the money in my pocket right now PLUS all the money on my Dole Fruit Can-Cash Card against all the money in your collateralized debt obligation that there is a candy army hidden on the Mars ranch much like the one featured in the post-Candyland nightmares that kept me in diapers until I was well into college. I'll bet that's what Lonnie Wright meant when mentioned the lots he got to add to the situation. Mark my words, statewide judicial system of Montana: the Mars family is not someone you want to fuck with! Remember what happened to the Reeses after they stole the E.T. product placement spot out from underneath M&Ms in '82? Where do you think they got the dye for the red M&Ms that suddenly appeared a handful of years later?
And the Marses are right too, you know. Time after time, Big Oil and Big Gas (ew...) have filed injunctions to stop M&M-Mars from drilling for caramel on their private ranches, or from strip mining our national parks for nougat. So just remember that when the clenched fist of Mars's Candy Army comes thundering down on Texas and the Gulf of Mexico, smiting everything in its path with chocolate, candy-coated fury.
For the record, America (or BLAMErica, because I am blaming YOU for this), none of this was inevitable. It was all very evitable, if anyone besides me had kept their eye on the ball in the last two elections. Forget Bush-Gore or Bush-Kerry, forget Republicans-Democrats; there were much better choices to be made in 2000 and 2004, and in my typically timely fashion, I'm going to tell you who they were.
2004: Kenny Crandle (Keith Coogan's character from Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead)
Total national votes: 3,152 (approx. 0.0000000001%)
Say what you want about Keith Coogan's acting - we all saw his memorable turn alongside Elisabeth Shue and Anthony Rapp in Adventures in Babysitting too, we can handle it - but he still managed to play the hell out of this part. And anyway, we're not talking about Keith here, we're talking about KENNY. This is a man who knew how to get things done! And by things, I mean "the dishes!"
I wasn't even the only one who thought so. 3,151 other right-thinking Americans joined me in voting Crandle in '04 - that's more votes than Daffy Duck, Donald Duck, Daisy Duck, Daisy Duke, Bo Duke, Luke Duke, Marmaduke, and David Duke combined!
Think about that, the 100 million of you who voted for Bush and Kerry. Think about that when a man made of licorice is standing above you asking, "where's your Jesus now?" You could have pointed to the sky to distract him, kicked him in the groin, and been rescued by Kenny Crandle. But now, no. Not so much, no.
2000: Leo Canales
Total national votes: 1 (approx. 0.0000000000004%)
I wrote in Leo Canales in 2000 out of my sincere respect for his late-1990s campaign to reform the way people greeted each other answered their telephones. Instead of using the word "hello," he wanted us all to start saying "heaveno," and he got his hometown of Kingsville, Texas to go along with the idea. Kingsville even passed a resolution and made a proclamation, and someone wrote an article, and someone else made an extreeeeemely Web 1.0 website!
Yes, the idea bears eerie similarity to this this Kids In The Hall sketch from 1991, yet somehow, it is totally different. But even if it is a little bit derivative, my point is that it's this kind of grass roots thinking that could have saved civilization - that's all I'm saying.
Of course, it doesn't help that even Leo Canales, who posted his address for all the world to see, didn't agree with me. I was his only supporter, or "stalker," as he and the Kingsville Sherriff's office prefer to call it. This is the thanks I get for picking him over Baby Spice.
Luckily, this year there's still time, BLAMErica! Do yourselves, and everyone else a favor, and together, we can make a difference. Together, we can save mankind from the candy menace. Vote the Grouch in '08, and let's keep M&Ms melting in our mouths, not orchestrating massive offensives along the Gulf Coast.
It's from the New York Times, also commonly referred to as the New York Bad News Every Second of the Livelong Day - an organization so poorly run that they recently hired Bill Kristol to write a weekly column instead of Billy Crystal, which is obviously who they really wanted. Check out this article, which totally should have been run under the headline, "For God's Sake, Montana, Think of the CANDY!!!!!"
from the New York Times (if that is its real name...)
You can read the rest of this sad miscarriage of justice here...
I'm not a betting man (for purposes of this piece, anyway), but I would lay all the money in my pocket right now PLUS all the money on my Dole Fruit Can-Cash Card against all the money in your collateralized debt obligation that there is a candy army hidden on the Mars ranch much like the one featured in the post-Candyland nightmares that kept me in diapers until I was well into college. I'll bet that's what Lonnie Wright meant when mentioned the lots he got to add to the situation. Mark my words, statewide judicial system of Montana: the Mars family is not someone you want to fuck with! Remember what happened to the Reeses after they stole the E.T. product placement spot out from underneath M&Ms in '82? Where do you think they got the dye for the red M&Ms that suddenly appeared a handful of years later?
And the Marses are right too, you know. Time after time, Big Oil and Big Gas (ew...) have filed injunctions to stop M&M-Mars from drilling for caramel on their private ranches, or from strip mining our national parks for nougat. So just remember that when the clenched fist of Mars's Candy Army comes thundering down on Texas and the Gulf of Mexico, smiting everything in its path with chocolate, candy-coated fury.
For the record, America (or BLAMErica, because I am blaming YOU for this), none of this was inevitable. It was all very evitable, if anyone besides me had kept their eye on the ball in the last two elections. Forget Bush-Gore or Bush-Kerry, forget Republicans-Democrats; there were much better choices to be made in 2000 and 2004, and in my typically timely fashion, I'm going to tell you who they were.
2004: Kenny Crandle (Keith Coogan's character from Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead)
Total national votes: 3,152 (approx. 0.0000000001%)
Say what you want about Keith Coogan's acting - we all saw his memorable turn alongside Elisabeth Shue and Anthony Rapp in Adventures in Babysitting too, we can handle it - but he still managed to play the hell out of this part. And anyway, we're not talking about Keith here, we're talking about KENNY. This is a man who knew how to get things done! And by things, I mean "the dishes!"
I wasn't even the only one who thought so. 3,151 other right-thinking Americans joined me in voting Crandle in '04 - that's more votes than Daffy Duck, Donald Duck, Daisy Duck, Daisy Duke, Bo Duke, Luke Duke, Marmaduke, and David Duke combined!
Think about that, the 100 million of you who voted for Bush and Kerry. Think about that when a man made of licorice is standing above you asking, "where's your Jesus now?" You could have pointed to the sky to distract him, kicked him in the groin, and been rescued by Kenny Crandle. But now, no. Not so much, no.
2000: Leo Canales
Total national votes: 1 (approx. 0.0000000000004%)
I wrote in Leo Canales in 2000 out of my sincere respect for his late-1990s campaign to reform the way people greeted each other answered their telephones. Instead of using the word "hello," he wanted us all to start saying "heaveno," and he got his hometown of Kingsville, Texas to go along with the idea. Kingsville even passed a resolution and made a proclamation, and someone wrote an article, and someone else made an extreeeeemely Web 1.0 website!
Yes, the idea bears eerie similarity to this this Kids In The Hall sketch from 1991, yet somehow, it is totally different. But even if it is a little bit derivative, my point is that it's this kind of grass roots thinking that could have saved civilization - that's all I'm saying.
Of course, it doesn't help that even Leo Canales, who posted his address for all the world to see, didn't agree with me. I was his only supporter, or "stalker," as he and the Kingsville Sherriff's office prefer to call it. This is the thanks I get for picking him over Baby Spice.
Luckily, this year there's still time, BLAMErica! Do yourselves, and everyone else a favor, and together, we can make a difference. Together, we can save mankind from the candy menace. Vote the Grouch in '08, and let's keep M&Ms melting in our mouths, not orchestrating massive offensives along the Gulf Coast.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Vote the Grouch in '08!
I know that as a bloggerist, I am unqualified to give anyone in the world advice on how they should vote. Like most bloggerists, I don't really know anything. I can't even read for crying out loud, and the only language I speak fluently is parakeet, which can't truly be considered a language since most of the words, or "awful squawking sounds," that comprise the language are verbs. In fact, the only three nouns in the entire parakeet language are "food," "poison," and "Barack Obama," who they just CANNOT stop awfully squawking about.
Anyway, as you probably know already, I only take my political advice from winner-pickers like Judge Reinhold, and let's just say that "da Judge," as I refuse to call him, has left me in a bit of a pickle. Not literally, of course, since I am physically much larger than a pickle, and would most likely split it in twain if I were left in one. But in the metaphorical and existential sense, I am very much inside that pickle, and it stinks in here. Because "da Judge" told the world that Bill Richardson was the horse he was backing in the 2008 presidential race. And by horse, I think he meant the candidate who barely bears even a passing resemblance to a horse, but is from a state that is absolutely filled with horses.
Sadly, Bill has withdrawn his Richardson from consideration, which is sort of like taking turkey off the table at Thanksgiving dinner, leaving us with nothing other than more boring Thanksgiving staples like stuffing (John Edwards), cranberry sauce (Barack Obama), and a crying woman (Hillary Clinton/Dennis Kucinich) among the Democrats. (I won't even get into food analogies for the Republicans, because Mike "I used to be a fat man" Huckabee would probably eat them. Seriously, can't you just picture the Huckster getting bribed into signing really bad treaties in exchange for an extra slice of Heavenly Ham at a state dinner in Israel? If not, it's probably because you're not even trying really.)
This is a crisis. Help. Please. Someone. Help. Help me, Judge Reinhold. Yawn. Help.
Okay, since no one is answering my cries for help, and since "da Judge" has basically left me to my own devices, I'm going back to the tried and true tactic of a national write-in campaign, which is how I have always voted in the past. Instead of letting myself be limited to only the candidates who WANT to be President, I will choose the person or being I think is best and write his/her/its name in instead - only this time, I'll actually publicize it in this here blog here, in a manner that does not constitute advice at all!
Please note that I have very strict standards. My candidate will be subject to the following rules:
1. He/she/it may not be gay.
I think this year's candidate is a no-brainer. You've seen him on television, you've seen him on a few flicks that went straight to video, and you can see him right now if you look deep within your hearts, or perhaps the trash can outside your apartment building. I'm speaking, of course, of Oscar the Grouch.
I think his credentials and leadership experience speak for themselves. Frankly, it's hard to imagine anyone whose record would stand up to close scrutiny better than Mr. the Grouch's. Just look at Grouchland which, under Oscar's capable guidance, has blossomed from a total dump into an ecologically friendly utopia with a progressively democratic government that is among the most popular in the world among its citizens. A recent United Nations study ranked Grouchland as having the third-smallest carbon footprint per capita among member states. And despite a languishing tourism economy, Oscar's administration oversaw a Grouchland GDP that expanded to $1.066 trillion in 2006 (roughly the same size as Brazil!), fronted by a balanced federal budget and a working social security program.
Oscar knows how to handle a campaign too. Who can forget his memorable run against longtime incumbent Kermit the Frog, headlined by the slogan "you think it's not easy being green? Try LIVING IN A TRASH CAN!"
All this, and doesn't even have any legs! Kind of makes you regret some of your life choices, doesn't it? Those legs have been holding you back long enough.
Anyway, as I said, I'm not qualified to give political advice. But if you want to know whose name will be on my ballot this year, I'll give you a hint: it starts with "Oscar the Gr" and ends with "ouch," which is what all the other candidates are going to be saying when Oscar puts the smackdown on their silly asses in November.
Anyway, as you probably know already, I only take my political advice from winner-pickers like Judge Reinhold, and let's just say that "da Judge," as I refuse to call him, has left me in a bit of a pickle. Not literally, of course, since I am physically much larger than a pickle, and would most likely split it in twain if I were left in one. But in the metaphorical and existential sense, I am very much inside that pickle, and it stinks in here. Because "da Judge" told the world that Bill Richardson was the horse he was backing in the 2008 presidential race. And by horse, I think he meant the candidate who barely bears even a passing resemblance to a horse, but is from a state that is absolutely filled with horses.
Sadly, Bill has withdrawn his Richardson from consideration, which is sort of like taking turkey off the table at Thanksgiving dinner, leaving us with nothing other than more boring Thanksgiving staples like stuffing (John Edwards), cranberry sauce (Barack Obama), and a crying woman (Hillary Clinton/Dennis Kucinich) among the Democrats. (I won't even get into food analogies for the Republicans, because Mike "I used to be a fat man" Huckabee would probably eat them. Seriously, can't you just picture the Huckster getting bribed into signing really bad treaties in exchange for an extra slice of Heavenly Ham at a state dinner in Israel? If not, it's probably because you're not even trying really.)
This is a crisis. Help. Please. Someone. Help. Help me, Judge Reinhold. Yawn. Help.
Okay, since no one is answering my cries for help, and since "da Judge" has basically left me to my own devices, I'm going back to the tried and true tactic of a national write-in campaign, which is how I have always voted in the past. Instead of letting myself be limited to only the candidates who WANT to be President, I will choose the person or being I think is best and write his/her/its name in instead - only this time, I'll actually publicize it in this here blog here, in a manner that does not constitute advice at all!
Please note that I have very strict standards. My candidate will be subject to the following rules:
1. He/she/it may not be gay.
I think this year's candidate is a no-brainer. You've seen him on television, you've seen him on a few flicks that went straight to video, and you can see him right now if you look deep within your hearts, or perhaps the trash can outside your apartment building. I'm speaking, of course, of Oscar the Grouch.
I think his credentials and leadership experience speak for themselves. Frankly, it's hard to imagine anyone whose record would stand up to close scrutiny better than Mr. the Grouch's. Just look at Grouchland which, under Oscar's capable guidance, has blossomed from a total dump into an ecologically friendly utopia with a progressively democratic government that is among the most popular in the world among its citizens. A recent United Nations study ranked Grouchland as having the third-smallest carbon footprint per capita among member states. And despite a languishing tourism economy, Oscar's administration oversaw a Grouchland GDP that expanded to $1.066 trillion in 2006 (roughly the same size as Brazil!), fronted by a balanced federal budget and a working social security program.
Oscar knows how to handle a campaign too. Who can forget his memorable run against longtime incumbent Kermit the Frog, headlined by the slogan "you think it's not easy being green? Try LIVING IN A TRASH CAN!"
All this, and doesn't even have any legs! Kind of makes you regret some of your life choices, doesn't it? Those legs have been holding you back long enough.
Anyway, as I said, I'm not qualified to give political advice. But if you want to know whose name will be on my ballot this year, I'll give you a hint: it starts with "Oscar the Gr" and ends with "ouch," which is what all the other candidates are going to be saying when Oscar puts the smackdown on their silly asses in November.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
A slice of my yesterday life, while people in New Hampshire were deciding the fate of the world...
Me: sitting in Bryant Park, eating a Caesar salad from Mrs. Lovett's (tastes like real Caesar!), watching t-shirt clad ice skaters navigate the melty ice in 63-degree January heat (thank you again, Al Gore, for inventing global warming!), singing the Peter part of Peter, Paul, and Mary's "Lemon Tree," and rubbing a small, plush Lollipop the Bear action figure (yeah, I said plush action figure, what) complete with eco-friendly mini-machine gun and its own Vespa Scooter with a skull and crossbones emblazoned on the side.
You: A potato.
I love you, potato. Don't play hard-to-get. Don't play your starchy tuber games with my heart. Come, and let's dance in the afternoon drizzle and eat bonbons and go see your apartment on the Upper West Side. And damn you for making this into a missed connection from craigslist.
-Smokey Robinson
P.S. I bet you thought I was going to comment on Hillary beating down the black man in New Iowa yesternight, didn't you? Nope. I ain't got nothing to say on the subject. This is like the early goings of a game of Hollywood Squares, when the contestants are still feeling each other out, and when Whoopi Goldberg in the center square is still totally up-for-grabs.
P.P.S. Speaking of which, Whoopi = black AND a woman!! Is that not the dream hybrid Democratic candidate!?!? CLINTOBAMA! CLINTOBAMA! REPUBLICANS SHALL WILT BEFORE THEE! HALLELUJAH! QUICK, someone get me some Tylenol - my brain hurts from all the good ideas. And get me a potato too, because I'm lonely.
P.P.P.S. Whoever did it, by the way, thanks for the shoutout in the 181st Street subway station yesterday.
I assume "BAB" is short for "BABE" or "BABY," or that perhaps that's as far as you got before the cops got there with their cold, hard anti-expressive handcuffs. I'll take Graffiti FOR THE WIN! And a potato, to keep me company during the lonely nights!
You: A potato.
I love you, potato. Don't play hard-to-get. Don't play your starchy tuber games with my heart. Come, and let's dance in the afternoon drizzle and eat bonbons and go see your apartment on the Upper West Side. And damn you for making this into a missed connection from craigslist.
-Smokey Robinson
P.S. I bet you thought I was going to comment on Hillary beating down the black man in New Iowa yesternight, didn't you? Nope. I ain't got nothing to say on the subject. This is like the early goings of a game of Hollywood Squares, when the contestants are still feeling each other out, and when Whoopi Goldberg in the center square is still totally up-for-grabs.
P.P.S. Speaking of which, Whoopi = black AND a woman!! Is that not the dream hybrid Democratic candidate!?!? CLINTOBAMA! CLINTOBAMA! REPUBLICANS SHALL WILT BEFORE THEE! HALLELUJAH! QUICK, someone get me some Tylenol - my brain hurts from all the good ideas. And get me a potato too, because I'm lonely.
P.P.P.S. Whoever did it, by the way, thanks for the shoutout in the 181st Street subway station yesterday.
I assume "BAB" is short for "BABE" or "BABY," or that perhaps that's as far as you got before the cops got there with their cold, hard anti-expressive handcuffs. I'll take Graffiti FOR THE WIN! And a potato, to keep me company during the lonely nights!
Monday, January 07, 2008
Aquanews from the Ziegfeld
Oh hi! I has returned from the Ziegfeld Theatre Saturday night, where Karyn and I saw Edward Scissorhands 2, also known as Sweeney Todd, starring Johnny Depp as Edward "Sweeney Todd" Scissorhands, and Helena Bonham Carter as Winona Ryder. I don't do movie reviews - sorry - but I DO do food reviews, and you should really hit up Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies next time you're on Fleet Street in London. Try the Shepherd's Pie, which they say is peppered with a secret blend of herbs, although for some reason, they capitalize the word "Herbs" on the menu. Weird. They also sell Girl Scout cookies, which I think are knockoffs - first of all, the real ones are called Samoas, not Samoans. And second of all, I don't think they're supposed to taste like chicken. But whatever.
Of more concern to me was what I discovered at the Ziegfeld itself when I went hunting for water of the non-fountain variety - the kind packaged into individual servings for easy transport back to your seat, and handy storage in the conveniently placed drink holders on the back of the seat in front of me.
Allow me, if you will, to rundown the water pricing system for bottles of Poland Spring at the Ziegfeld, but let me warn you first. It might make your eyes pop out of your head and your eye sockets subsequently fart with shock, all after knocking the socks and shoes clean off of your ass. I'm not kidding.
Without further ado, the prices of water on the Ziegfeld Theatre drink menu:
1. Large (23.7 oz.): $4.95
2. Small (16.9 oz.): $3.95
Astoundingly high for water, right? Considering that you can still get a gallon of gas for a little over $3.00 even at New York City prices? I got to the counter and asked, just out of curiosity, if those were the only water options available to me, the customer, who is supposed to always be right.
The cashier leaned softly over the counter and beckoned me to do the same. "I'm not supposed to tell you this," she whispered, half-conspiratorially, "but, uh... there is a third option."
I desperately wanted to know what the third option was, but I also wanted to play it cool. After all, it's not like I get offered insider information like that every day. I was walking a fine line between hope and despair, between danger and deceit, between water priced at a level that compared with date rape and water that was slightly more expensive, and I knew it. And so did she. The tension mounted, like a dog mounting another dog. My hair stood on end, like trees growing out of a very nervous forest. I licked my lips. I combed my hair. I played my kazoo, but only briefly. Totally failing to play it cool at all, I said in a loud, foppish voice, "a THIRD option? What, pray tell, could it BE?"
The erstwhile cashier, without dignifying my cartoonishly loud response, pointed the counter-mounted mini-fridge behind her, where there lurked the aforementioned third option, about which she was not supposed to tell me, even though it was clearly on display for God and all of his private parts to see. "That," she said. "That's the micro-size."
Rays of fluorescent light gleamed on the row of 11-ounce bottles inside their glass enclosure. An oddly coincidental choir of young boys sang an angelic F-major chord behind me. "Wow," I said, breathless. "The micro-size. How much is it?"
"A dollar-fifty."
"A dollar fifty?"
She nodded. "Mm hmm."
Now, I'm no mathemagician, but I am smart enough to notice that two 11-ounce bottles for $3.00 compares pretty favorably with ONE 23.7-ounce bottle for $4.95. I mean, I know that last 1.7 ounces is a pretty important part of the water-drinking experience, but is it really worth the additional $1.95? Especially considering that I could get a THIRD 11-ounce "micro-size" bottle, and still have enough left over to give away nine nickels to homeless people?
I suppose it would have been a tougher quandary if I were in the market for EXACTLY 23.7 ounces of water. Lucky for me, I was really only looking for about 8 ounces, maybe 9. But I pride myself on flexibility. So I ordered one "micro-size," eliciting a wink from the cashier.
This is what she gave me:
Behold...the AQUAPOD!
Leave it to the geniuses at Poland Spring, right? What a brilliant piece of marketing! Think about it - this capitalizes on the three things that all modern Americans are fascinated with:
1. Water
2. all things "Pod", and
3. The sexy, but entirely unnecessary, bulbous repackaging of everything, starting with the Ford Taurus in the 1990s.
I just WISH I had been the one to devise this little bit of inspired creativity. I really do. I think I owe it to myself to sit down and brainstorm and see if I can't come up with some kind of FruitPod idea to pitch to the marketing department at Dole.
Wait a second... FruitPods!! It's DYNAMITE!! It could totally revolutionize the way people eat fruit!
And I bet it would taste a hell of a lot better than the Fruit Salad at Mrs. Lovett's, too! Yuck!
Of more concern to me was what I discovered at the Ziegfeld itself when I went hunting for water of the non-fountain variety - the kind packaged into individual servings for easy transport back to your seat, and handy storage in the conveniently placed drink holders on the back of the seat in front of me.
Allow me, if you will, to rundown the water pricing system for bottles of Poland Spring at the Ziegfeld, but let me warn you first. It might make your eyes pop out of your head and your eye sockets subsequently fart with shock, all after knocking the socks and shoes clean off of your ass. I'm not kidding.
Without further ado, the prices of water on the Ziegfeld Theatre drink menu:
1. Large (23.7 oz.): $4.95
2. Small (16.9 oz.): $3.95
Astoundingly high for water, right? Considering that you can still get a gallon of gas for a little over $3.00 even at New York City prices? I got to the counter and asked, just out of curiosity, if those were the only water options available to me, the customer, who is supposed to always be right.
The cashier leaned softly over the counter and beckoned me to do the same. "I'm not supposed to tell you this," she whispered, half-conspiratorially, "but, uh... there is a third option."
I desperately wanted to know what the third option was, but I also wanted to play it cool. After all, it's not like I get offered insider information like that every day. I was walking a fine line between hope and despair, between danger and deceit, between water priced at a level that compared with date rape and water that was slightly more expensive, and I knew it. And so did she. The tension mounted, like a dog mounting another dog. My hair stood on end, like trees growing out of a very nervous forest. I licked my lips. I combed my hair. I played my kazoo, but only briefly. Totally failing to play it cool at all, I said in a loud, foppish voice, "a THIRD option? What, pray tell, could it BE?"
The erstwhile cashier, without dignifying my cartoonishly loud response, pointed the counter-mounted mini-fridge behind her, where there lurked the aforementioned third option, about which she was not supposed to tell me, even though it was clearly on display for God and all of his private parts to see. "That," she said. "That's the micro-size."
Rays of fluorescent light gleamed on the row of 11-ounce bottles inside their glass enclosure. An oddly coincidental choir of young boys sang an angelic F-major chord behind me. "Wow," I said, breathless. "The micro-size. How much is it?"
"A dollar-fifty."
"A dollar fifty?"
She nodded. "Mm hmm."
Now, I'm no mathemagician, but I am smart enough to notice that two 11-ounce bottles for $3.00 compares pretty favorably with ONE 23.7-ounce bottle for $4.95. I mean, I know that last 1.7 ounces is a pretty important part of the water-drinking experience, but is it really worth the additional $1.95? Especially considering that I could get a THIRD 11-ounce "micro-size" bottle, and still have enough left over to give away nine nickels to homeless people?
I suppose it would have been a tougher quandary if I were in the market for EXACTLY 23.7 ounces of water. Lucky for me, I was really only looking for about 8 ounces, maybe 9. But I pride myself on flexibility. So I ordered one "micro-size," eliciting a wink from the cashier.
This is what she gave me:
Behold...the AQUAPOD!
Leave it to the geniuses at Poland Spring, right? What a brilliant piece of marketing! Think about it - this capitalizes on the three things that all modern Americans are fascinated with:
1. Water
2. all things "Pod", and
3. The sexy, but entirely unnecessary, bulbous repackaging of everything, starting with the Ford Taurus in the 1990s.
I just WISH I had been the one to devise this little bit of inspired creativity. I really do. I think I owe it to myself to sit down and brainstorm and see if I can't come up with some kind of FruitPod idea to pitch to the marketing department at Dole.
Wait a second... FruitPods!! It's DYNAMITE!! It could totally revolutionize the way people eat fruit!
And I bet it would taste a hell of a lot better than the Fruit Salad at Mrs. Lovett's, too! Yuck!
Friday, January 04, 2008
Why you shouldn't make New Year's resolutions that you will blog every day of 2008...
I don't know if it was just me, but the whole dream of having Hillary Clinton as President made me long for the heady days of the James Buchanan administration, when the House of Representatives was like four votes shy of enacting legislation that would have banned any estrogen-bearing beings from White House jobs higher than "cook" and "laundress." You can bet that the Bachelor (read: gay) President most certainly would have signed that bill into law, believe me. And then, poof, no Civil War, because banning women from the Casa Blanca (hey, I just got that!) is an idea that EVERYONE, North or South, slaveholders or do-it-yourselfers, could get behind. Stupid James Buchanan, ruining everything for everyone. I mean, I know it's 2008 and all, but does anyone in America really want the White House at the whim of a woman's delicate hormonal cycle, and I don't care if she IS post-menopausal?
No, said America, according to Iowa, the Greatest State. No, we do not. Emphatically. Even if you are married to the sexiest former President since Matty Van Buren.
Sorry, Hill. I hope your holidays were nice anyway.
Mine were. Except for a bad case of Wii arm which I got from playing 21 consecutive, extremely irate innings of Wii Sports baseball during which I managed roughly 5 hits - including the errors when little exclamation points (which I assume are stand-ins for actual swearing) appeared above the heads of the fielders on the other team, or as I like to call them, "the bad guys." Seriously, the lesson here is not to make New Year's resolutions that you will blog every day because you will only set yourself up for failure a mere one days later - or at least, don't make those kind of resolutions if you have a Nintendo Wii in the basement of your suburban home in the suburbs with a baseball game that is just BEGGING to be made an example of.
I'm tired now, so I need to get back to drinking my scary colored Passion tea from Starbucks which I got as a Secret Satan gift at the Copse's annual holiday bash and pineapple-upside-down cake party. We're not like you. We don't have a plain old holiday party - not since Dole decided to eliminate cash bonuses in favor of CANNED bonuses, anyway. We all bake pineapple-upside-down cake (sometimes with rum) and get totally sick eating it all in one sitting. And we give Secret Satan gifts. I got tea from Starbucks because caffeine is as precious around here as a gold-plated rooster statue.
Seriously, this tea is BLOOD PURPLE.
You may not think of blood as purple, but cut yourself open and you'll see it is exactly the same color as my cup of tea. And also, you just got an infection. You totally should have sterilized that knife before you gouged into your own flesh, dummy.
I'm pretty sure making the tea this color was someone's idea of a funny, funny joke, like having a woman president. I strongly suspect my good buddy Alex "Dashing through the snow in a one-horse-open sleigh-Rod" Rodriguez, though his pranks usually involve wheels of smoked Gouda cheese and his genitalia hanging in the breeze for all of New York to see.
Happy fucking whatever.
No, said America, according to Iowa, the Greatest State. No, we do not. Emphatically. Even if you are married to the sexiest former President since Matty Van Buren.
Sorry, Hill. I hope your holidays were nice anyway.
Mine were. Except for a bad case of Wii arm which I got from playing 21 consecutive, extremely irate innings of Wii Sports baseball during which I managed roughly 5 hits - including the errors when little exclamation points (which I assume are stand-ins for actual swearing) appeared above the heads of the fielders on the other team, or as I like to call them, "the bad guys." Seriously, the lesson here is not to make New Year's resolutions that you will blog every day because you will only set yourself up for failure a mere one days later - or at least, don't make those kind of resolutions if you have a Nintendo Wii in the basement of your suburban home in the suburbs with a baseball game that is just BEGGING to be made an example of.
I'm tired now, so I need to get back to drinking my scary colored Passion tea from Starbucks which I got as a Secret Satan gift at the Copse's annual holiday bash and pineapple-upside-down cake party. We're not like you. We don't have a plain old holiday party - not since Dole decided to eliminate cash bonuses in favor of CANNED bonuses, anyway. We all bake pineapple-upside-down cake (sometimes with rum) and get totally sick eating it all in one sitting. And we give Secret Satan gifts. I got tea from Starbucks because caffeine is as precious around here as a gold-plated rooster statue.
Seriously, this tea is BLOOD PURPLE.
You may not think of blood as purple, but cut yourself open and you'll see it is exactly the same color as my cup of tea. And also, you just got an infection. You totally should have sterilized that knife before you gouged into your own flesh, dummy.
I'm pretty sure making the tea this color was someone's idea of a funny, funny joke, like having a woman president. I strongly suspect my good buddy Alex "Dashing through the snow in a one-horse-open sleigh-Rod" Rodriguez, though his pranks usually involve wheels of smoked Gouda cheese and his genitalia hanging in the breeze for all of New York to see.
Happy fucking whatever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)