"no seriously, you have the worst taste in hip hop EVER." - The N.

So, Rock the Bells. Who's going? Anyone? Weather dot com is saying 89 degrees w/ scattered t-storms. Obviously I will be wearing a white teeshirt if my most lovely ticket wench (K.) comes through for me.

Drunk Meryl Streep! PURNS DOWN BIERCE PRASNAN!

I don’t go in for musicals for the same reason I don’t go to hockey games or the condo association board meetings. I’m sure they’re fun and people dance in the aisles and many parking issues get resolved but they are not my thing. I’m not against them and certainly wouldn’t bust anyone’s chops after his girlfriend makes him go see the Man From La Mancha with his probable future mother-in-law.

As a result, I know nothing about staged musicals. If the category on Jeopardy is "Broadway Musicals" I’ll guess Jean Valjean for every question because it’s always the answer to one of them. (The same goes for Trivia Pursuit. David Mamet is the answer to any question about playwrights.)

For example, I know Rent takes place in New York. And I know that I look like one of the guys from the movie version. And I think someone has or gets AIDS. (Probbaly my character.) But beyond that my only frame of reference is from a brief Simpson’s spoof and the commercials that were on WTOP the last time it came to town. Based on the song that played repeatedly for several weeks, I’m guessing the play is about math. Or at least counting how many minutes make up some longer amount of time.

The same with Sweeney Todd. I didn’t see the movie. But I know it’s bloody and yesterday’s NY Times crossword puzzle* has a clue about a song from the play and the answer is “The Worst Pies in London.” The worst pie I ever had in London was made out of eels. Eel pie. Now that's a play I'm willing to see.

Mama Mia is another one. I assumed it was about ABBA and ABBA only. The drama amongst the group’s members didn’t reach Fleetwood Mac levels but I’m sure in the hands of a clever writer and a catalogue of dance hits you could draw together a pretty fun show. But the reviews in the papers today shatter that illusion. It’s about a woman who’s so promiscuous, with so many sexy English sex partners that she doesn’t know who the father of her daughter is. And it’s in Greece.

Now I’m all for loose woman with looser morals. But it gets dangerously close to the poor standards set by Grease, for my tastes. The moral of Grease is that if you want to be popular you should change who you are and put out. And then you get to fly away in a magic car. Even as a child I knew that the ending of that movie was setting a bad example. I don’t want to have to someday explain to my potential daughter that to be popular you need to sleep with Colin Firth. Although she will have my permission to eff
Stellan Skarsgård.

Did you see him catch that coffee mug in Ronin? Dude’s the shit.


*In today’s puzzle -

Clue: Inclusive, as in some resorts
Answer: gay friendly

Inclusive = Gay friendly?

Drunk Bruce Wayne! MURNS DOWN BANSHION!

Oh, guess who forgot to get tickets until the only ones left were at like, 1145 pm? ARGG. I remain unconvinced about Aaron Eckhart. I really want to see this at IMAX, so maybe it's not that big of a deal that I didn't get tickets.

In summary: My spouse is busy drinking beers tonight, I have no Batman tickets, and all I really want is to eat pizza. Is GHuts pizza any good? Can I go on a Friday night and eat one all by myself? That's weird, right? Right.

Oh! Since I never blog anymore because I have nothing to talk about, remind me to tell you all about yoga next week and how hilarious it is.

Kablooey

I read a great book called The Curse of Narrows last year. It’s about the horrific munitions explosion in Halifax Harbor prior the US’s involvement in World War I. It’s still one of the largest non-nuclear explosions ever experienced. Several thousand people were killed and nearly 10,000 injured.

Some of the most amazing parts of the event were the stories of people who were standing near the shore when the ship blew up and got thrown hundreds of yards into the air by the concussion. Most of these folks were killed. But a few landed without injury atop the steep hills that surround the harbor. All the energy from the blast was expended pushing them off the ground and up into the air. By the time they started to fall back toward the earth, the earth had literally risen to meet them. The only outward sign of this assault was that all their clothes had been blown off.

I assume the same thing will be at work here. You will amazingly find yourself at the top of the theoretical hill. But it will require the destruction of a crucial wartime shipping center and you’re gonna be naked.

At the same time, my grandfather wanted to know why I wanted electrical hardware like transformers for my birthday.

Unlike a certain unnamed brother-in-law I have, when the Cabbage Patch Kid craze infected this nation’s Christmases, I resisted the urge to ask for one. Actually, I didn’t even know little boys were even allowed to own one and I was astounded by the few male friends who tried to hide their yarny-haired friends when I came over to play with real toys like action figures and fire and rocks. Sure, stuffed animals are cool but CPKs were dolls. And not molded plastic dolls with tiny plastic crossbows, but real girly dolls.

I took a poll of the ten closest or most IM-able people* near me and here are their responses:

1. Ariel Alla
2. Ashley Ollivet
3. Andy
4. Glen Allen
5. Lillian
6. My own name
7. I can't remember. I can tell you though that I had a 10 minute dance routine choreographed to the Cabbage Patch doll record then my brother threw the record up in the air and it shattered on the ground and we could never find another one, and I tried all manner of toy soundtracks for a new dance, but it was never the same.
8. I never had one. I loathed them and found them creepy.
9. My mom couldn’t find a girl one so she bought a boy, put a dress on it and said it was girl with short hair. I believed her too even though it was named Curtis.
10. My regular Cabbage Patch Kid was Addie Chrissy and my premie was Cara Faith.

That last response is what got me thinking about Cabbage Patch Kids again. I don’t hang out in neonatal intensive care units so I hadn’t heard the term “premie” since the mid-80s. And its definition was only framed by that exposure. The Cabbage Patch Premies, as far I could remember, were balder, cuter and much more in demand than the normal toddler versions. People were crazy about them. Literally crazy. People got trampled to death at Montgomery Wards or Zayre’s or Best when those stores would open at 9am on Sundays.

I have a good friend whose pregnancy developed complications and the baby had to be delivered by C-section 3 months early. Her daughter has a host of complications and the doctors initially estimated her survival rate at around 10%. It’s been a week and she weighs 2 pounds. Her chances of making it to next week have only been raised minimally. She can’t breathe on her own and her nervous system is so maladjusted that she can’t stand to be touched.

The tiny infant is considered a premie. So are the other dozen children in her NICU and they are all in bad shape. So why was it, 20 some years ago, that Premie dolls were so desired? Why were they even made? The initial run of Cabbage Patch Kids were just that, kids. If they wanted a second version, why not make Cabbage Patch Toddlers or Newborns? Why jump all the way down the age ladder to children that, according to their own definition, should not even be born yet?

I know this question is decades late. But my mom’s typewriter couldn’t access the internet back then.


*includes one dude. Guess who.

secret ingredient: pork

Hi womanfriends, if anyone ever wants to come to the OBX with me for a random long weekend, be forewarned that apparently my idea of beach "good times" includes marathon sessions of "Intervention" on A&E and talks about how migraine headaches are caused! Also, Hellboy.

The sunburn extends in long stripes and splotches, including my armpits, but nothing too serious since I am a gramma who likes to languish in the shade of an umbrella most of the time.

My parents/aunts/uncle overlapped our Ladies Weekend 08 in the beachhaus by a day or so. We played a lot of dominoes, watched "Steel Magnolias", and I brought home an entire pork roast (?) my mother left behind for the three of us, afraid we aren't getting enough iron in our diets. And we ate barbeque. It was delicious.

Also, my aunts were on a teasing tear towards my poor momma, taunting her that she's apparently a prude for not taking tequila shots with them before going to the beach in the mornings. Ladies, ladies. It was 10:30 AM.

The joke where you ask to make a withdrawal never get old. Never.

I had the complete opposite outcome when I went to the blood bank yesterday. Not only did they gladly take it, they discovered its properties are so desired that they pretty much asked me if it would be okay if they harvest a few more pints to top off some of their tanks. It was like going to Jiffy Lube if the Lube were to take the oil out it out your healthy car and give it to one that had been in an accident. Actually, it's nothing like Jiffy Lube.

I can’t ever remember what it is about my blood that so good but they always want moar and they call the house hours after the 56 day waiting period is over asking if they can get another taste. I assume it’s because I have too much. The other donors were given a box of juice and some cookies. They gave me, and this is all true, three bags of cookies, orange juice, a Boost protein shake, one of those towels with the hooks for your golf bag, a canvas satchel with the name of the hospital on it and two stress relief balls shaped like Finding Nemo. They want my blood that much.

Also unlike C, the nurses had no qualms about talking about menstruation. I was inquiring about iron deficiencies and what someone could eat to raise their levels. The winners:

1. Oysters
2. Clams
3. Liver
4. Blackstrap molasses, for some reason.

Oyster-Liver-Molasses puree. It’s what’s for anemic dinner.

Anyblah, I also asked the nurse why women are more likely to have a low iron count and she said, with no sense of bashfulness, IT’S BECAUSE WOMEN ARE ALWAYS LOSING BLOOD ALWAYS BECAUSE THEIR PERIODS ARE ALWAYS ALL THE TIME!!1! And that most women are wanting for molasses.

So give blood, eat plenty of clams and have nice weekend.

a warning

"Radiance Ribbons" = motherfucking BODY GLITTER.

Spring Break Daytona '08 Wooooooot!

You have many question, Mr. S. I send you premium answer question, hundred percent!

Typical for a man who owns Hong Kong’s most popular New York-themed pool hall, my normal source for translation has gone missing. So I’m turning it over to the internets. Can anyone decipher this sign that another friend found in Hokkaido?



I'm hoping it isn't too offensive since it's about to be embossed on a t-shirt.

don't stop

I'm ashamed of kind of liking the new Girl Talk. It's pretty much listening to Jock Jams on repeat, no?

get free access when you register today!

Sorry for not giving more blog.

An update: we've been painting our house (obnoxious alien puke green!); a guy who looks like the entire world's little brother was caught jacking it at a Mickey D's drive-thru near our neighborhood, ewww; my crazy relatives descend on the East Coast for an ENTIRE WEEK starting Independence Day, so go stock up on tinfoil hats and register for handguns today, everyone; the dog is wearing a red bandana these days as part of his summer style and it looks kind of awesome, like he might hold up a bank at any moment; the new Beck is pretty okay; I went to yoga last night and got in touch with some chakras (particularly my third eye) or whatevs, also I am the least flexible person to ever participate in any kind of yoga class ever; I've been mostly living off of ice cream sandwiches; and Moonstruck is free to watch on Hulu dot com.

also, question: i have a credit for $125 for an airline who shall not be named (NORTHWESTNORTHWESTNORTHWEST). It says "non-transferrable" on my email. I assume this means I can't use it to buy a ticket for my bro to use since he's a giant fucking crybaby, or use it to send anyone into outer space or anything?

The fireworks were always better last year

When I was ten, the East Coast family took a trip out to Iowa to see the grandparents and old farming homestead. I don’t remember much from that specific trip. But I do recall that my 13-year-old second cousin had an enormous crate of the most magnificent fireworks ever smuggled across the Minnesota border, his dad’s lighter and a copy of License To Ill on cassette. Zombie Mark Twain could not have dreamed up a more carefree summer scenario.

The very first bottle rocket we launched traveled about 10 feet in the air, turned abruptly and flew directly into the enormous 1500 gallon propane tank that all farmers in Iowa seem to have on their property, for some farming reason.

My cousin took off running. I stood there with my arms splayed, like Kent* in Real Genius, ready to be enveloped in God’s soul-cleansing firestorm of rusty tractor parts and dead hog carcasses. Either that or the corn-filled silo could have gone up and I’d be covered in popcorn, also like Real Genius.

Nothing happened, of course. The tiny bottle rocket harmlessly bounced off the giant, reinforced tank and popped delicately in the cool summer grass. But for a split second, it was almost like this.




Next time I'll tell you about my second cousin's bitchin car stereo system and how the only vaguely hip-hop song he had was "Set Adrift On Memory Bliss" so he had to cruise around Iowa blasting PM Dawn.

Actually, that's the whole story.



*Remember in Michael Clayton when Tilda Swinton hired the hit men to kill the crazy, naked lawyer and then George Clooney? One of those hit men was Kent! I know!

Hypnotoads

Probably because I heard about this on the radio right after I read about this in the paper, I imagined that the same defense mechanism was used by both.

A punch from the former seems like it would inflict an injury on par with getting hit in the chest with a Nerf dart. But I can easily picture her bones coming out of her hands and delivering at least the same number of hit points as any other animated skeleton. I’m thinking a Jason and the Argonauts level here.

I learned two things yesterday at my government-mandated 2 hour lunch.

Both involved a time wasting trip to the Natural History Museum.

1. A chop block is

“a high-low, low-high or low-low combination block by any two offensive players with or without a delay between contacts when the initial contact clearly occurs beyond the neutral zone.”

It became illegal in the NFL and NCAA after a dramatic increase in the number ankle and knee injuries sustained by defensive lineman since the second block is often engaged outside the player’s field of vision.



The sports-loving taxidermists at the Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum have included an example of the chop block in their newest exhibit Mammals! (We’re just like the stuffed dinosaurs you came to see but we have fur. And milk!) Their re-enactment of last year’s Lions-Bills preseason classic features not only the Detroit player attacking the knees of a previously engaged Buffalo player but the first Lion is also employing an equally illegal crackback block.

This play would result in a 15 yard penalty.



2. This can’t be right.



Also at the Mammals! (Did we mention the milk bit?) exhibit, I saw two kids run up screaming “Bambi!” and then slowly back away after the deer-with-fangs thing registered.

If this was a skeleton and not a stuffed animal, I would have assumed that some tired paleobiologist stuck the horns in the mouth and called it a day. Like the guy who invented the triceratops, but in reverse.

Vampire deer are the new vampire vikings.

this is what happens when you google "souvenir" because you can't remember how to spell it correctly.

I was unaware that to be a true OMD fan, it is required that you had some sort of sexy teenage death drama in the late 80's. Thanks, youtube!


okay, wait, I just lied. I might have been aware.

For good measure, mix in some of the anti-Turkish/immigrant sentiment in Germany right now

Imagine if the NFC championship game was between the Giants and the Bears. Now pretend that Chicago, down by seven, score a touchdown with 2 minutes left in the fourth quarter. But then miraculously, New York airs one out and connects on the very last play as time expires.

Now picture the chaos that would ensue if the national television feed for the game went down and no one in New York or Chicago or anywhere saw the results.

That’s basically what just happened in the Turkey-Germany Euro Cup game. There were 2 goals in the 86th and 89th minutes and no one saw them because the international signal went dead. ESPN was guessing the outcome the game based on the team’s fans reactions outside the stadium.

it's a big store that sells things to store other things in! also, closet systems!

until last night, the N and I had forgotten what else we tried to explain to British people (see "Three Stooges" post below) and failed at. It was the Container Store.


Totally flummoxed.

Right. Sorry for the strobiness. That's our toaster.

The G doesn’t believe in natural lighting and insists on turning on every bulb in every room and then not turning them off ever. I prefer using whatever light the sun is providing. In the winter, I’ll operate in complete darkness.

So I’m not sure how I’ve managed to miss that our toaster looks like, well, a Toaster.



Say hello to your frakking Cylon master. It never made sense to me that the skin jobs were the first to infiltrate our society.

I wish he had far less didactic lecturing and far more armored bears, which are exceptionally cool.

While psychologists may argue the opposite, I’ve taken to seeing movies by myself on days when I’m sick/fake sick in the name of mental health. Usually, they’re matinees of the type of films that the G would normally avoid like Frankenstein avoiding Dracula because the vampire intends to use the monster’s re-animated body to give enliven his poorly CGI-ed horde of demonic progeny. She has notoriously poor taste.

My latest solo adventure was Prince Caspian. And because she said was unaware it was even out in theatres, I didn’t feel too bad about leaving her out.

The film’s about what you’d expect if from a book you last read 20 years ago. A bunch of bearded yet unspecific Mediterranean-types invade a magical realm and it’s up to the beardless yet handsome Prince Caspian to take it back. He’s aided by various pagan creatures, a rat that they try to pass off as big mouse, and the gaggle of gap toothed British kids from the first one. Also, the lion is Jesus.

My recollection of all the books is pretty spotty with all seven running together in my memory. I was pretty sure this wasn’t the one where they go on a boat but it may be the one where a lady turns into a green snake. But what I did know was that this wasn’t the last book where almost everyone gets goes to heaven. And that’s what made viewing this one interesting.

You see, as the books progress, the older characters from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe get written out. While the second one features all four of the British children, the third one only has the two youngest. The fourth one doesn’t have any of them. I’m not sure how they plan to address this as the movies progress – especially the sixth one which is actually a prequel to the first movie – but I’m guessing by the time they get around to making them they’ll be straight-to-video anyways. Or the Disney Channel will just air them directly after High School Musical 10: Reunion! (It’s the one where a faded Zach Efron hooks up with one of the unpopular girls after she drunkenly admits she always had a crush on him. She gives him the clap.)

What I found interesting was the way they handled the maturity of the oldest girl, Susan. It’s obvious that the actress playing Susan has developed into adolescence since the first film and they treat her budding womanhood accordingly. She preserves some of the innocence that allows her sister to maintain her belief in talking lions but still makes googly-eyes at the devilishly handsome/Eurotrash Prince Caspian. They even share a kiss at the end.

In the context of the film, this doesn’t seem that notable. But it is interesting in the context of the whole series. In the final book, all the characters that have visited Narnia from Earth are led into Heaven by the Jesus-lion Aslan. All the characters except Susan. The reason given:

“She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up.”

In a book filled with allegory and symbolism, it’s hard not to criticize Lewis for this passage. Many a reader has inferred that Susan doesn’t get the elevator pass to the afterlife for having become a sexualized woman. Defenders of Lewis claim that this passage, taken in context with the rest of the book, merely shows that she has actively purged the childhood memory of Narnia from life and therefore has squandered her shot at the ever-after. I lean toward the former. So do many others. And some folks will even write a whole new series of books about it.

This familiarity is what makes watching Narnia more curious. Susan’s reaction to the boys in her life, either Caspian or another one she meets in a tube station early in the film*, was either a conscious effort at foreshadowing or a short-sighted bit of story advancement. Movie Seven won’t be out for at least another decade (if ever) but its going to be intriguing to see how they deal with Susan’s unholy interest in pantyhose.


PS – This entry’s title is a quote from an fabulous book-on-tape called Rings, Swords, and Monsters: Exploring Fantasy Literature. Its author, Michael Drout, has an equally awesome blog. At least for those who like their LOL mixed with Beowulf.


*This setting is noteworthy too since the reason everyone’s going to heaven is they’ve all died in a train accident.

"Song that comes out on the dances?"

So school's out, I guess. I know this only because my inlaw's (we're squatting for the week) neighbors had a most kickass graduation party for their... middle schooler... in their backyard. Which included a wacky DJ/emcee. Who played the world's worst music over loudspeakers for three straight hours and kept demanding LADIES it's LADIES CHOICE PICK A PARTNER. Who sways with a partner to DJ Casper? I tried to peer over the fence once or twice to see what I assumed would be typical gender-segregated awkwardness (boys punching each other in the crotch by the soda table, girls huddled in giggling/whispering/crying small groups) but I couldn't tell. Besides, kids these days. Maybe they were all getting busy in the potting shed by 9:15 and I am just old and lame.

Also, oh jesus god.

Oh! Also also! We were recently in a room with Brit friends trying to explain "The Three Stooges". Harder than you'd think?