OK, so it's Friday and we're playing Show and Tell. Badger picked the topic, and today, we're supposed to be showing off our porches.
What do you think? I know it's not actually a porch per se, but it serves a porch-like function, because it's where we hang out and drink a glass of something cool and refreshing, and say hey to the neighbors and get in some necking when we think they're not looking . The usual stuff.
--P.
p.s. OK, I lied. I actually took pictures of my porch, but we're away for the weekend and my husband forgot to pack the cable to attach the camera to my laptop. He realizes it's his fault I look like a goober* and he'd like me to convey his deepest apologies.**
* This time, anyway.
** He also feels bad that he hasn't provided me with anyplace nearly this nice to hang out on a summer evening. I'M KIDDING.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
What I'm drinking this summer.
This wasn't really supposed to be a meme, but I stole this from Kiki, so now I guess it is one:
1. Mojitos. For a while I was using those cute little Key Limes, but regular will do fine. Delicious, cheap, and powerful.
2. When in suitably chilly air-conditioned environs, a Perfect Manhattan Straight Up.
3. When I can get one, a Mai Tai.
4. Vermouth Cassis, with lots of soda and a wedge of lemon in a tall glass.
4. Cuvée Harmonie Muscadet Sevre et Maine Appelation Controlée blah blah blah 2003. Lightly fruity but crisp and refreshing.
5. Once in a while, some beer. Sam Adams or Harp or maybe Amstel Light.
6. PG Tips tea with 2 percent milk and Splenda.
7. The same tea iced with lemon and/or mint and Splenda.
8. When on the road, Diet Coke, preferably fountain, with tons of ice.
--P.
1. Mojitos. For a while I was using those cute little Key Limes, but regular will do fine. Delicious, cheap, and powerful.
2. When in suitably chilly air-conditioned environs, a Perfect Manhattan Straight Up.
3. When I can get one, a Mai Tai.
4. Vermouth Cassis, with lots of soda and a wedge of lemon in a tall glass.
4. Cuvée Harmonie Muscadet Sevre et Maine Appelation Controlée blah blah blah 2003. Lightly fruity but crisp and refreshing.
5. Once in a while, some beer. Sam Adams or Harp or maybe Amstel Light.
6. PG Tips tea with 2 percent milk and Splenda.
7. The same tea iced with lemon and/or mint and Splenda.
8. When on the road, Diet Coke, preferably fountain, with tons of ice.
--P.
I feel a lot better, now, thanks.
Hey, I'm already feeling better. When I finish my current therapy session, I'm even going to go take a shower or something.
What's this miracle cure? Well, it's something I found on Mimi Smartypants's blog. Japanese smoking etiquette signs.
You know that thing you do with the fortunes in Chinese fortune cookies? Where whatever it says, you add "between the sheets" and it becomes hilarious? Like the cooky says "You will have a hard time of it" and all of a sudden it's funny?
Well, all I did was look at each of these signs in turn, and every time the sign used the word "smoke," or "cigarette," I substituted the word "fart." And it worked great! I feel so much happier now!
--P.
What's this miracle cure? Well, it's something I found on Mimi Smartypants's blog. Japanese smoking etiquette signs.
You know that thing you do with the fortunes in Chinese fortune cookies? Where whatever it says, you add "between the sheets" and it becomes hilarious? Like the cooky says "You will have a hard time of it" and all of a sudden it's funny?
Well, all I did was look at each of these signs in turn, and every time the sign used the word "smoke," or "cigarette," I substituted the word "fart." And it worked great! I feel so much happier now!
--P.
The horror; the horror
If you're wondering why I'm sitting here in the t-shirt I slept in and some pair of random shorts and haven't showered or brushed my teeth or washed my face yet--I'm paralysed.
See, we're heading to our vacation house next week. And I should be getting ready. But I keep thinking about the unhappy fact ("Oh cruel gods of Family so-called 'Vacations!' Why do you mock me?") that my mother and That Stud Muffin I Married's mother will be visiting us at the same time.
If this were a game show, they would be two contestants. Let's call them Contestant A and Contestant B.
Contestant A is a 82-year-old graduate of Wellesley College. She grew up in the country in Virginia, married, and raised five children in a lovely suburb in Massachusetts while doing volunteer work for various non-profit organizations. Her politics are Republican, her religion is Episcopalian, and her outlook is both self-righteous and crabby.
Contestant B is a 60-year-old NYU drop-out. She grew up in Manhattan, married, bore two children when incredibly young, then left her family to become a hippy in the Lower East Side. She then became a Hare Krishna and lived in a commune in West Virginia for 10 years. At that point she escaped with a fellow Krishna-ite, but not before bearing a different man another child out of wedlock. She is no longer a Hare Krishna, but is still a vegetarian and a Hindu. Her outlook is also self-righteous, and she pretends to be "mellow" but actually isn't.
I understand that fireworks are illegal in New Hampshire, but I'm sure I'm going to see plenty.
Hence the total inability to get on with my day.
Carry on, people.
--P.
See, we're heading to our vacation house next week. And I should be getting ready. But I keep thinking about the unhappy fact ("Oh cruel gods of Family so-called 'Vacations!' Why do you mock me?") that my mother and That Stud Muffin I Married's mother will be visiting us at the same time.
If this were a game show, they would be two contestants. Let's call them Contestant A and Contestant B.
Contestant A is a 82-year-old graduate of Wellesley College. She grew up in the country in Virginia, married, and raised five children in a lovely suburb in Massachusetts while doing volunteer work for various non-profit organizations. Her politics are Republican, her religion is Episcopalian, and her outlook is both self-righteous and crabby.
Contestant B is a 60-year-old NYU drop-out. She grew up in Manhattan, married, bore two children when incredibly young, then left her family to become a hippy in the Lower East Side. She then became a Hare Krishna and lived in a commune in West Virginia for 10 years. At that point she escaped with a fellow Krishna-ite, but not before bearing a different man another child out of wedlock. She is no longer a Hare Krishna, but is still a vegetarian and a Hindu. Her outlook is also self-righteous, and she pretends to be "mellow" but actually isn't.
I understand that fireworks are illegal in New Hampshire, but I'm sure I'm going to see plenty.
Hence the total inability to get on with my day.
Carry on, people.
--P.
Does this picture make me look gay?
Because I'm sorry, but if you pose for pictures like that in a magazine that only men read, you're going to end up the subject of a lot of male masturbatory fantasies.
Now, if you're comfortable with that, that's fine. But news flash, Tom--this is no way to fight rumors that you're gay.
--P.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
I knew it ALL ALONG
Apparently scientists have discovered that having an orgasm blows a woman's mind.
Yo, scientists! One word: duh.
--P.
Yo, scientists! One word: duh.
--P.
P.P.S. to Tom Cruise, or, Whipping a Dead Horse II
More Tom Cruise bashing? Well, WHY NOT.
Click here to see him electrocute Oprah.
If it doesn't make you laugh right away, let it play for a few minutes.
--P.
Click here to see him electrocute Oprah.
If it doesn't make you laugh right away, let it play for a few minutes.
--P.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I got a root canal, and all I got was these lousy Advils
Boy, here I was thinking I was going to score some really amazing drugs. Drugs that I actually wouldn't need or want to do, because the tooth in question was already dead. But you know--A ROOT CANAL--big stuff, right? Even an endodontist who does them all day must realize that a ROOT CANAL is a pretty serious matter.
And after reading Badger's post about her medicine cabinet, I figured I needed to bump up the contents of my own, with maybe some Vicodin or at least some Tylenol 3. (Do they still make that? Nobody talks about it anymore. I've certainly never gotten any email offers about it. God, this is so embarrassing. I'm such a dork. How did I get so out of it? I don't know about the cool new drugs.)
Something clearly needs to be done about this. See, I have a ten-year-old, and it's time I started worrying about his possible drug use. If I don't do something about my medicine cabinet inventory, there won't be anything in there to sneak, and in ten years' time, he'll be complaining that I robbed him of his adolescence.
I just checked, and aside from some birth control pills, which wouldn't tempt even the most rebellious of male teenagers, I have a bottle of Indomethacin. I got it when I developed tendonitis in my right wrist. Probably from blogging. (I hereby command my readers to feel guilty. All three of you.)
Now the label on the Indomethacin says something about it causing drowsiness or dizziness, which is pretty good, I guess. But it doesn't say anything about not operating heavy machinery, or not combining with alcohol, so it's probably lame.
Honestly. Why on earth did I even bother with the stupid root canal?
Something tells me I need to be much much whinier when I'm at the dentist. Or how will I ever score any drugs?
--P.
And after reading Badger's post about her medicine cabinet, I figured I needed to bump up the contents of my own, with maybe some Vicodin or at least some Tylenol 3. (Do they still make that? Nobody talks about it anymore. I've certainly never gotten any email offers about it. God, this is so embarrassing. I'm such a dork. How did I get so out of it? I don't know about the cool new drugs.)
Something clearly needs to be done about this. See, I have a ten-year-old, and it's time I started worrying about his possible drug use. If I don't do something about my medicine cabinet inventory, there won't be anything in there to sneak, and in ten years' time, he'll be complaining that I robbed him of his adolescence.
I just checked, and aside from some birth control pills, which wouldn't tempt even the most rebellious of male teenagers, I have a bottle of Indomethacin. I got it when I developed tendonitis in my right wrist. Probably from blogging. (I hereby command my readers to feel guilty. All three of you.)
Now the label on the Indomethacin says something about it causing drowsiness or dizziness, which is pretty good, I guess. But it doesn't say anything about not operating heavy machinery, or not combining with alcohol, so it's probably lame.
Honestly. Why on earth did I even bother with the stupid root canal?
Something tells me I need to be much much whinier when I'm at the dentist. Or how will I ever score any drugs?
--P.
Friday, July 22, 2005
The fascination continues
This is The Interactive Internet Question Game. I got it from Joke.
This is how it's played:
1. If you want to play, leave a comment below saying so.
2. I'll post five unique questions to the comments section of this post.
3. You answer them in your blog.
4. In your post, you include this explanation and an offer to interview others.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Here are the questions that Joke asked me.
1- From now on you must slaughter and harvest your own food, what, if anything, do you give up?
Carbs. They're wicked labor-intensive, and my yard isn't big enough to grow enough. I'd get a week of eating bagels for breakfast, and then I'd be gazing sadly at an empty field while my stomach growled.
2- You get a time machine, but the battery is low and you only get to do over one thing in your life, what do you do over again?
I can't think of a single thing I'd do over. I would like the chance to kick my first boyfriend in the nuts FOR CHEATING ON ME WITH SOME HARVARD BITCH, but doing it now would be just as good as doing it back then.
3- You have the power to rewrite any film. What film and how?
I would severely edit the end of Stripes to get rid of the lame trip-to-Germany stuff.
Either that, or I would get rid of most of the plot of Caddyshack, especially the romantic viccisitudes of Danny the Caddy. Like that stuff about his girlfriend thinking she's pregnant. I would make it all about Rodney, Chevy, and of course, Bill Murray.
Speaking of Bill Murray, I'd re-cast Groundhog Day and play Andie McDowall's part myself. Rowwwwwwwr.
If you're looking for intellectual--I'd change The Birth of a Nation so Henry B. Walthall, a/k/a Ben Cameron, a/k/a "The Little Colonel" would not invent the Ku Klux Klan. Or at least, he'd realize that the Klan was a really, really bad idea.
4- You are booked on NPR and, at the moment of airtime, you go utterly mental. What do you do on-air?
I start answering the questions in dead-on impressions of famous NPR personalities. I say "Fuh-resh Air" like Terri Gross; I talk all breathy like Garrison Keillor, I lose my ability to pronounce the letters "r" and "l" like Ira Glass ("Iwa Gwass,") I pontificate like those dweebs on All Things Considered, and for a finale, I do a brilliant Cah Tahk bit.
5- You can have the couture wardrobe of your dreams but raging insomnia OR restful sleep for the rest of your life but nothing except dowdy, frumpy raiments.
I'd have to go for the first choice, because I already sleep like an 8-year-old, and I tend to look like a Glamour Don't most of the time.
-P.
This is how it's played:
1. If you want to play, leave a comment below saying so.
2. I'll post five unique questions to the comments section of this post.
3. You answer them in your blog.
4. In your post, you include this explanation and an offer to interview others.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Here are the questions that Joke asked me.
1- From now on you must slaughter and harvest your own food, what, if anything, do you give up?
Carbs. They're wicked labor-intensive, and my yard isn't big enough to grow enough. I'd get a week of eating bagels for breakfast, and then I'd be gazing sadly at an empty field while my stomach growled.
2- You get a time machine, but the battery is low and you only get to do over one thing in your life, what do you do over again?
I can't think of a single thing I'd do over. I would like the chance to kick my first boyfriend in the nuts FOR CHEATING ON ME WITH SOME HARVARD BITCH, but doing it now would be just as good as doing it back then.
3- You have the power to rewrite any film. What film and how?
I would severely edit the end of Stripes to get rid of the lame trip-to-Germany stuff.
Either that, or I would get rid of most of the plot of Caddyshack, especially the romantic viccisitudes of Danny the Caddy. Like that stuff about his girlfriend thinking she's pregnant. I would make it all about Rodney, Chevy, and of course, Bill Murray.
Speaking of Bill Murray, I'd re-cast Groundhog Day and play Andie McDowall's part myself. Rowwwwwwwr.
If you're looking for intellectual--I'd change The Birth of a Nation so Henry B. Walthall, a/k/a Ben Cameron, a/k/a "The Little Colonel" would not invent the Ku Klux Klan. Or at least, he'd realize that the Klan was a really, really bad idea.
4- You are booked on NPR and, at the moment of airtime, you go utterly mental. What do you do on-air?
I start answering the questions in dead-on impressions of famous NPR personalities. I say "Fuh-resh Air" like Terri Gross; I talk all breathy like Garrison Keillor, I lose my ability to pronounce the letters "r" and "l" like Ira Glass ("Iwa Gwass,") I pontificate like those dweebs on All Things Considered, and for a finale, I do a brilliant Cah Tahk bit.
5- You can have the couture wardrobe of your dreams but raging insomnia OR restful sleep for the rest of your life but nothing except dowdy, frumpy raiments.
I'd have to go for the first choice, because I already sleep like an 8-year-old, and I tend to look like a Glamour Don't most of the time.
-P.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
The book less read
I'm a rugged individualist.
See the lizard costume? Well, be afraid, all of you short, pudgy American millionaires wearing home-made Sultan costumes. I'm one bad-ass character, and I think for myself.
For example, I don't have to read what everyone else is reading. I can read something different. Something that's not on the best-seller list. Something that doesn't have the Internet ablaze with speculation and critical insight.
So enjoy HP&tHBP, all of you ... hell, whom am I kidding ... no one is reading this ... you're all off reading that book ... including That Stud Muffin I Married, who selfishly brought the book with him on his business trips even when he works on the plane and won't have time to read it, anyway.
Not that I mind, really. You know, there are other books, people. And since TSMIM is kind of a slow reader, I'll be polishing off quite a few in the next week or so.
--P.
See the lizard costume? Well, be afraid, all of you short, pudgy American millionaires wearing home-made Sultan costumes. I'm one bad-ass character, and I think for myself.
For example, I don't have to read what everyone else is reading. I can read something different. Something that's not on the best-seller list. Something that doesn't have the Internet ablaze with speculation and critical insight.
So enjoy HP&tHBP, all of you ... hell, whom am I kidding ... no one is reading this ... you're all off reading that book ... including That Stud Muffin I Married, who selfishly brought the book with him on his business trips even when he works on the plane and won't have time to read it, anyway.
Not that I mind, really. You know, there are other books, people. And since TSMIM is kind of a slow reader, I'll be polishing off quite a few in the next week or so.
--P.
P.P.S. to Tom Cruise
OK, OK.
Yes, I'm whipping a dead horse. I know. I'm guilty.
But Dane Cook's impersonation of Tom Cruise is priceless. It's so good it's almost scary.
--P
Yes, I'm whipping a dead horse. I know. I'm guilty.
But Dane Cook's impersonation of Tom Cruise is priceless. It's so good it's almost scary.
--P
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
I feel petty--oh so petty.
I hate going to the dentist more than just about anything.
The only thing I hate more than bringing myself to the dentist is bringing my children to the dentist. This really sucks because I spend the whole time anticipating some kind of disaster that will involve a lot of inconsolable sobbing--and maybe even my children crying a little bit.
Well, the other day I went ahead and brought them to the dentist, and while I was in the waiting room hiding from the old Highlights magazines, I read a newspaper article these oh-so-helpful dentist-type people had tacked up on the wall.
The author of the article claimed that people don't floss their teeth, but pretend they do. It said that hygienists see a lot of people who claim to be regular flossers, but in reality, are only occasional flossers in a "whoops, going to the dentist this week; better floss for a while" kind of way. One hygienist said she can tell when a person flosses regularly, because his or her gums will toughen up.
So basically, this article accused 95 percent of us of lying.
Really, the nerve of this goody-goody Waterpik-wielding Pollyanna. How dare she call me a liar? I'll thank her to keep a civil tongue in her head. A bit more time scraping off plaque and a bit less time mouthing off to reporters is what's called for here.
So I decided that between now and my next check up, I'm going to floss at least once every day. Even if I'm bombed out of my mind. Even if I fall asleep with my contacts in and my makeup on, I will brush and floss my teeth.
Then when the hygienist compliments me on my healthy gums and asks me whether I've been flossing, I'll lie like a rug and say "No, not at all."
That will just show her.
--P.
The only thing I hate more than bringing myself to the dentist is bringing my children to the dentist. This really sucks because I spend the whole time anticipating some kind of disaster that will involve a lot of inconsolable sobbing--and maybe even my children crying a little bit.
Well, the other day I went ahead and brought them to the dentist, and while I was in the waiting room hiding from the old Highlights magazines, I read a newspaper article these oh-so-helpful dentist-type people had tacked up on the wall.
The author of the article claimed that people don't floss their teeth, but pretend they do. It said that hygienists see a lot of people who claim to be regular flossers, but in reality, are only occasional flossers in a "whoops, going to the dentist this week; better floss for a while" kind of way. One hygienist said she can tell when a person flosses regularly, because his or her gums will toughen up.
So basically, this article accused 95 percent of us of lying.
Really, the nerve of this goody-goody Waterpik-wielding Pollyanna. How dare she call me a liar? I'll thank her to keep a civil tongue in her head. A bit more time scraping off plaque and a bit less time mouthing off to reporters is what's called for here.
So I decided that between now and my next check up, I'm going to floss at least once every day. Even if I'm bombed out of my mind. Even if I fall asleep with my contacts in and my makeup on, I will brush and floss my teeth.
Then when the hygienist compliments me on my healthy gums and asks me whether I've been flossing, I'll lie like a rug and say "No, not at all."
That will just show her.
--P.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
P. S. to Tom Cruise
It seems the world just can't get enough of you, Tom. Now Zakk Tyler on Chicago's WLUP has written a song explaining why he thinks you're a Real American A-Hole.
--P.
--P.
Five ways I am fascinating
This is The Interactive Internet Question Game. I got it from Jasmine.
This is how it's played:
1. If you want to play, leave a comment below saying so.
2. I'll post five unique questions to the comments section of this post.
3. You answer them in your blog.
4. In your post, you include this explanation and an offer to interview others.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Isn't it cosmic? It will go on and on and on, just like that shampoo commercial.
Here are the questions that Jasmine asked me.
1. If you had to be a character in a "classic" American film, who would that be and why? Please feel free to define "classic", "American", and "film" as you prefer.
What a great question for me. You know, my dissertation is about film, so I could really show off here. But I'll spare you.
I'd be Wayne Campbell from Wayne's World. And really, who wouldn't? Think of the advantages. First of all, I'd be hilarious. I'd have a loyal sidekick who would laugh at all my jokes. On top of that, every day could be a bad hair day, because I'd be wearing a baseball cap all the time. In fact, I could dress like a slob. And I'd get to mock Rob Lowe.
I'd probably miss shagging my husband, but I'd get to sleep with Tia Carrera, which is some compensation. And best of all, if I didn't like the way anything turned out, I could change the ending. Who wouldn't love being able to change endings--especially if you could do the Scooby Doo ending?
2. Is it better to have loved and lost, or to have never loved at all?
Now see, I think this is a rhetorical question, because the latter is pretty much impossible, unless you're a R2D2 or Mr. Spock or Data. Sure, we all feel superior to the basement boys who surf the internet until 3:00 in the morning, never get laid, and eat take-out pizza every night. But they probably have warm, loving hearts, just like everyone else. It's just that they're in love with Laura Croft. And not as played by Angelina Jolie in the movie--I'm talking about the actual computer-animated video game babe. But it's still love.
3. I have a friend whose birthday is September 11th. After 2001, she chooses to observe her birthday on September 12th instead. If you were her, would you have done the same?
It just goes to show you how out of it I am that I actually had to think about that for a minute, trying to figure out why a September 11th birthday would be a problem. I really have to get out of the basement more often.
So now that I figured it out, duh, I heartily concur with your friend's decision to change birthdays. I gave my husband a surprise birthday party one year. His actual birthday is December 19th, and there was no way my party was going to be able to compete with all the Christmas hoopla. So we had the party in November. He says he actually would prefer to keep it that way; he likes the lack of competition.
I would advise your friend to add a month. Make it October 11th. First of all, all of a sudden, she's a month younger. How cool is that? Also, once in a while her October birthday will coincide with Columbus Day, so maybe she'll get a three-day weekend out of the deal.
4. You can stop people from having overly loud conversations on CTA if you wear iced out gold teeth like the ones found on hiphopdentistry.com. Only for a day, though. But did I mention that the day in question is also the day you go to the White House to meet with the President? Would ya do it?
I would totally do it, and I don't even ride the CTA. But I hate the currently reigning President so much that it would be worth it. Actually, the hiphop teeth are OK, but what I'd really like is dental work like Jaws in the old Bond movies. Then, with some luck, after I shake hands with the President, I could bite him somewhere important and maybe even hormonal. Or maybe just take a chunk out of Laura Bush. Anything to wipe that stupid expression off her face. She looks like a demented chipmunk.
5. Which of the following is the greater evil: low-rider jeans or gigantic acrylic nails that look like corn chips (see here for an example)? Please explain, and don't be afraid to use pictures and elaborate charts to illustrate your point.
My eyes! MY EYES!
The nails by a landslide. We all get sick of fashions, and low-rise jeans have certainly been around too damned long. They are responsible for a number of fashion sins, like visible thongs, "decorative" thong clips, and peekaboo lower back tattoos. As well as an epidemic of plumber's butt.
But there is hope. When jeans start to be designed with fake thongs showing, you know a trend is over.
But acrylic nails, as a fashion, apparently have the half-life of plutonium. When is it going to stop? These things have been around for almost 30 years. Enough with the air-brushing, ladies. Enough with the square tips. Enough with the way they currrrrrrrrrrllllllllllll. Or worse. You look like a Walgreen's cashier. Or a porn star. Or both.
And I don't even want to think about what lies beneath. Not the jeans--the nails. Don't try to get a job as a waitress, because there is no way you should be handling trays of food with those things.
I would also advise you to give up your dream of becoming a gynecologist.
This is how it's played:
1. If you want to play, leave a comment below saying so.
2. I'll post five unique questions to the comments section of this post.
3. You answer them in your blog.
4. In your post, you include this explanation and an offer to interview others.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Isn't it cosmic? It will go on and on and on, just like that shampoo commercial.
Here are the questions that Jasmine asked me.
1. If you had to be a character in a "classic" American film, who would that be and why? Please feel free to define "classic", "American", and "film" as you prefer.
What a great question for me. You know, my dissertation is about film, so I could really show off here. But I'll spare you.
I'd be Wayne Campbell from Wayne's World. And really, who wouldn't? Think of the advantages. First of all, I'd be hilarious. I'd have a loyal sidekick who would laugh at all my jokes. On top of that, every day could be a bad hair day, because I'd be wearing a baseball cap all the time. In fact, I could dress like a slob. And I'd get to mock Rob Lowe.
I'd probably miss shagging my husband, but I'd get to sleep with Tia Carrera, which is some compensation. And best of all, if I didn't like the way anything turned out, I could change the ending. Who wouldn't love being able to change endings--especially if you could do the Scooby Doo ending?
2. Is it better to have loved and lost, or to have never loved at all?
Now see, I think this is a rhetorical question, because the latter is pretty much impossible, unless you're a R2D2 or Mr. Spock or Data. Sure, we all feel superior to the basement boys who surf the internet until 3:00 in the morning, never get laid, and eat take-out pizza every night. But they probably have warm, loving hearts, just like everyone else. It's just that they're in love with Laura Croft. And not as played by Angelina Jolie in the movie--I'm talking about the actual computer-animated video game babe. But it's still love.
3. I have a friend whose birthday is September 11th. After 2001, she chooses to observe her birthday on September 12th instead. If you were her, would you have done the same?
It just goes to show you how out of it I am that I actually had to think about that for a minute, trying to figure out why a September 11th birthday would be a problem. I really have to get out of the basement more often.
So now that I figured it out, duh, I heartily concur with your friend's decision to change birthdays. I gave my husband a surprise birthday party one year. His actual birthday is December 19th, and there was no way my party was going to be able to compete with all the Christmas hoopla. So we had the party in November. He says he actually would prefer to keep it that way; he likes the lack of competition.
I would advise your friend to add a month. Make it October 11th. First of all, all of a sudden, she's a month younger. How cool is that? Also, once in a while her October birthday will coincide with Columbus Day, so maybe she'll get a three-day weekend out of the deal.
4. You can stop people from having overly loud conversations on CTA if you wear iced out gold teeth like the ones found on hiphopdentistry.com. Only for a day, though. But did I mention that the day in question is also the day you go to the White House to meet with the President? Would ya do it?
I would totally do it, and I don't even ride the CTA. But I hate the currently reigning President so much that it would be worth it. Actually, the hiphop teeth are OK, but what I'd really like is dental work like Jaws in the old Bond movies. Then, with some luck, after I shake hands with the President, I could bite him somewhere important and maybe even hormonal. Or maybe just take a chunk out of Laura Bush. Anything to wipe that stupid expression off her face. She looks like a demented chipmunk.
5. Which of the following is the greater evil: low-rider jeans or gigantic acrylic nails that look like corn chips (see here for an example)? Please explain, and don't be afraid to use pictures and elaborate charts to illustrate your point.
My eyes! MY EYES!
The nails by a landslide. We all get sick of fashions, and low-rise jeans have certainly been around too damned long. They are responsible for a number of fashion sins, like visible thongs, "decorative" thong clips, and peekaboo lower back tattoos. As well as an epidemic of plumber's butt.
But there is hope. When jeans start to be designed with fake thongs showing, you know a trend is over.
But acrylic nails, as a fashion, apparently have the half-life of plutonium. When is it going to stop? These things have been around for almost 30 years. Enough with the air-brushing, ladies. Enough with the square tips. Enough with the way they currrrrrrrrrrllllllllllll. Or worse. You look like a Walgreen's cashier. Or a porn star. Or both.
And I don't even want to think about what lies beneath. Not the jeans--the nails. Don't try to get a job as a waitress, because there is no way you should be handling trays of food with those things.
I would also advise you to give up your dream of becoming a gynecologist.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
The adventures of a baby shower dildo
I'm winding up a weekend in Chicago, lying around on my bed of (really-only-a-slight-twinge-now) pain. I've followed everyone's advice about getting better, especially the extremely sound recommendations to drink a lot. Unfortunately, That Stud Muffin I Married has been traveling a lot this summer, so my general consumption for the past two months has gone way down, making me an extremely cheap date.
For example, Friday night was supposed to be an evening devoted to cocktails, take-out Thai food, and Netflix DVDs. But I had a Manhattan, plus a watery refill from the shaker, plus a beer with the Thai food, and whoops, the DVDs stayed in their sleeves because there was no way I was going to be able follow the narrative complexities of Sullivan's Travels.
Saturday I was co-hosting a baby shower that started at 11:30. That Stud Muffin I Married thought it would be kind to let me sleep off the Thai food, so he kept the chiddren quiet and far away from our bedroom. Which means I woke up at 10:20. And had to be bathed, dressed, made up, and pedicured with wrapped presents in tow and arriving promptly at the shower site five miles away so as not to diss my guests. HAHAHAHAHA. So I sent TSMIM to the store to buy wrapping paper, gifts boxes, bows, and gift cards, while I showered, did the world's fastest polish job on the toes, blew my hair dry, slapped on some spackle and got dressed. And I was at the shower at 11:38, which personally, I find damned impressive.
But naturally I had to have a glass of wine to celebrate not having made a complete dildo out of myself. (By the way, that was a free gift to anyone weird enough to do a search for "baby shower dildo." You're welcome.)
So the wine and the boredom that results from being in rather la-di-dah surroundings surrounded by ladylike women watching someone else open presents--and the honoree was extremely sweet and enthusiastic about each. and. every. present--and there were 30 women there, many of whom gave more than one gift--brought out the most obnoxious (unless you're Joke and like that sort of thing) aspects of my behavior. So I was all kinds of funny. I am not making this up. The honoree's mother actually asked me if I was always this funny. Another woman told me I should do stand-up.
Sorry, ladies, but it was just the ethanol.
Oh, and that bizarre personality quirk that tells me it's better to act like a retard than be bored out of my mind.
Then I had a cocktail party to get to. My hosts had taken over the roof deck of their building on Lake Shore Drive and had hired a steel band and a full bar featuring Mai Tais.
I'm sure you have already figured out how I reacted to that. The only thing I have to say in my favor is that I wasn't bored, so I didn't feel the need to be hilarious. Anyway I was too busy guzzling Mai Tais.
Then I went out to dinner with TSMIM and my BFC (Best Friend in Chicago) Liz and her husband. Where I had another Manhattan. So don't bother to ask how dinner was, because I don't remember.
Now for the irony.
It turns out that even though I spent the weekend celebrating the ratification of the 21st amendment, when my car was in an accident, I wasn't responsible. It seems that the valet guy in our garage were befuddled by the sheer size of Stampy the Sienna, so he backed Stampy into some kind of vent coming out of the wall and smashed the rear window. Call the National Enquirer, because this is drunk-driving by association or some other paranormal happening.
I know this is true because I don't have a hangover, when by rights I should. I'm guessing that right now, the drunk-by-association valet parking guy is in severe pain and is wishing he were dead. And that's OK by me, because I wish he were dead, too.
--P
For example, Friday night was supposed to be an evening devoted to cocktails, take-out Thai food, and Netflix DVDs. But I had a Manhattan, plus a watery refill from the shaker, plus a beer with the Thai food, and whoops, the DVDs stayed in their sleeves because there was no way I was going to be able follow the narrative complexities of Sullivan's Travels.
Saturday I was co-hosting a baby shower that started at 11:30. That Stud Muffin I Married thought it would be kind to let me sleep off the Thai food, so he kept the chiddren quiet and far away from our bedroom. Which means I woke up at 10:20. And had to be bathed, dressed, made up, and pedicured with wrapped presents in tow and arriving promptly at the shower site five miles away so as not to diss my guests. HAHAHAHAHA. So I sent TSMIM to the store to buy wrapping paper, gifts boxes, bows, and gift cards, while I showered, did the world's fastest polish job on the toes, blew my hair dry, slapped on some spackle and got dressed. And I was at the shower at 11:38, which personally, I find damned impressive.
But naturally I had to have a glass of wine to celebrate not having made a complete dildo out of myself. (By the way, that was a free gift to anyone weird enough to do a search for "baby shower dildo." You're welcome.)
So the wine and the boredom that results from being in rather la-di-dah surroundings surrounded by ladylike women watching someone else open presents--and the honoree was extremely sweet and enthusiastic about each. and. every. present--and there were 30 women there, many of whom gave more than one gift--brought out the most obnoxious (unless you're Joke and like that sort of thing) aspects of my behavior. So I was all kinds of funny. I am not making this up. The honoree's mother actually asked me if I was always this funny. Another woman told me I should do stand-up.
Sorry, ladies, but it was just the ethanol.
Oh, and that bizarre personality quirk that tells me it's better to act like a retard than be bored out of my mind.
Then I had a cocktail party to get to. My hosts had taken over the roof deck of their building on Lake Shore Drive and had hired a steel band and a full bar featuring Mai Tais.
I'm sure you have already figured out how I reacted to that. The only thing I have to say in my favor is that I wasn't bored, so I didn't feel the need to be hilarious. Anyway I was too busy guzzling Mai Tais.
Then I went out to dinner with TSMIM and my BFC (Best Friend in Chicago) Liz and her husband. Where I had another Manhattan. So don't bother to ask how dinner was, because I don't remember.
Now for the irony.
It turns out that even though I spent the weekend celebrating the ratification of the 21st amendment, when my car was in an accident, I wasn't responsible. It seems that the valet guy in our garage were befuddled by the sheer size of Stampy the Sienna, so he backed Stampy into some kind of vent coming out of the wall and smashed the rear window. Call the National Enquirer, because this is drunk-driving by association or some other paranormal happening.
I know this is true because I don't have a hangover, when by rights I should. I'm guessing that right now, the drunk-by-association valet parking guy is in severe pain and is wishing he were dead. And that's OK by me, because I wish he were dead, too.
--P
Thursday, July 14, 2005
physician heal thyself max headroom
I suppose a word of explanation is in order. Today's title is admittedly a bit ... obscure. Or as they used to say in graduate school, "difficult to unpack." Yep, it is. But you see, I'm sort of bedridden at the moment, and when I'm bedridden, I get even weirder than usual. Which is saying a lot.
My title comes to you courtesy of IDcounter, a website that allows me, an obsessive-compulsive blogger, to check how many people are visiting my blog, the url they typed in, and even what they were searching for when they found it. For the easily amused--and I name no names--some of these search phrases are pretty funny. For example, apparently someone typed "physician heal thyself max headroom" into a search engine and voila! came up with my blog.
I suppose if I tried really hard, I could come up with some way that this makes any kind of sense. I might even be able to figure out what the hell this person was thinking. But I'm too amused by the idea that those phrases both appear in this blog. I don't remember talking about Max Headroom, but I guess he's in here somewhere. I'm not going to argue with all that software out there. Not me. I realize my mind and I are a Sargasso Sea. Anyway, I'm lying here on a bed of pain, and Google would kick my ass.
See, my back and neck started bothering me a few days ago. At first it was nothing a hot shower couldn't cure. Then it took ibuprofen--four at a time. Last night I sat through a completely annoying non-profit board meeting and then discovered when I got home that the babysitter had locked everyone out of the house. We didn't have to call the locksmith only because my husband's travel plans had changed, and he came home Wednesday night. Instead of Friday, as previously planned.
I guess the politeness that had me making remarks such as "it could have happened to anyone" and actually paying this numbnuts $50 and sending her home unbitchslapped instead of informing her how fucking moronic I thought she was resulted in some pent-up rage. Which did its work during the night. And I woke up this morning pretty much unable to move.
Talk about physician heal thyself. If I'd only have smacked said numbnuts around, I'd be fine. Instead I'm high on fistfuls of ibuprofen chat-chat-chattering away like Max Headroom.
Come to think of it, my title does kind of make sense after all.
--P.
My title comes to you courtesy of IDcounter, a website that allows me, an obsessive-compulsive blogger, to check how many people are visiting my blog, the url they typed in, and even what they were searching for when they found it. For the easily amused--and I name no names--some of these search phrases are pretty funny. For example, apparently someone typed "physician heal thyself max headroom" into a search engine and voila! came up with my blog.
| www.flickr.com |
I suppose if I tried really hard, I could come up with some way that this makes any kind of sense. I might even be able to figure out what the hell this person was thinking. But I'm too amused by the idea that those phrases both appear in this blog. I don't remember talking about Max Headroom, but I guess he's in here somewhere. I'm not going to argue with all that software out there. Not me. I realize my mind and I are a Sargasso Sea. Anyway, I'm lying here on a bed of pain, and Google would kick my ass.
See, my back and neck started bothering me a few days ago. At first it was nothing a hot shower couldn't cure. Then it took ibuprofen--four at a time. Last night I sat through a completely annoying non-profit board meeting and then discovered when I got home that the babysitter had locked everyone out of the house. We didn't have to call the locksmith only because my husband's travel plans had changed, and he came home Wednesday night. Instead of Friday, as previously planned.
I guess the politeness that had me making remarks such as "it could have happened to anyone" and actually paying this numbnuts $50 and sending her home unbitchslapped instead of informing her how fucking moronic I thought she was resulted in some pent-up rage. Which did its work during the night. And I woke up this morning pretty much unable to move.
Talk about physician heal thyself. If I'd only have smacked said numbnuts around, I'd be fine. Instead I'm high on fistfuls of ibuprofen chat-chat-chattering away like Max Headroom.
Come to think of it, my title does kind of make sense after all.
--P.
Joyeux Quatorze Juillet!
In the spirit of the long and (at least in my case) heartfelt friendship between France and the United States, I'm wishing all my fellow Francophiles, here and abroad, a happy and safe Bastille Day.
France is, after all, the country where champagne, the ballet, and the cinema were invented.* Any country that can do even that much is all right with me.
On top of that, there is the haute couture. Not to mention the house of Hermes, a vast cornucopia of fabulousness with which I am completely obsessed. Those scarves! Those bracelets! Those fabulous perfumes! Not to mention les sacs.
Then there is the little matter of The Statue of Liberty.
Alors ... vive La France!
Bises,
--P.
* The first public film exhibition was held at the Grand Cafe in Paris in 1895 by the Lumiere brothers. This is years of film scholarship talking. Anyone who wants to argue can bite me.
France is, after all, the country where champagne, the ballet, and the cinema were invented.* Any country that can do even that much is all right with me.
On top of that, there is the haute couture. Not to mention the house of Hermes, a vast cornucopia of fabulousness with which I am completely obsessed. Those scarves! Those bracelets! Those fabulous perfumes! Not to mention les sacs.
Then there is the little matter of The Statue of Liberty.
Alors ... vive La France!
Bises,
--P.
* The first public film exhibition was held at the Grand Cafe in Paris in 1895 by the Lumiere brothers. This is years of film scholarship talking. Anyone who wants to argue can bite me.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Carolyn Bissette Kennedy has risen from the dead and is dating Nosferatu
You have to love it when you find a photograph that perfectly illustrates what you despise most about two people who have been annoying you for years:
1. Gwyneth, could you please try to look ... I don't know ... different? How in the hell did you get the reputation for being a fashion icon when you look exactly like every other long-bleached-blonde-haired starlet clone? And the aviator shades help a bit, but they can't make that jacket any more cutting edge. And really, a little animation would help, hon. After all, you are an Academy Award-winning actress. So could you stretch yourself and try to act like a human being?
2. Karl, Karl, Karl. Yes, you are livid with rage that Gwyneth looks prettier, younger, and more alive than you do. But let's face it; she's wearing Yet Another Pink Tweed Jacket--like we haven't seen enough of them over the past couple of years--while you have this really fresh Michael Jackson/R2D2 hybrid thing going. So please stop gnawing your face. Yes, the diet is stringent and you are supposed to eat mostly protein, but self-cannibalizing is so 2004 Anorexic-Olson-Twin.
--P.
1. Gwyneth, could you please try to look ... I don't know ... different? How in the hell did you get the reputation for being a fashion icon when you look exactly like every other long-bleached-blonde-haired starlet clone? And the aviator shades help a bit, but they can't make that jacket any more cutting edge. And really, a little animation would help, hon. After all, you are an Academy Award-winning actress. So could you stretch yourself and try to act like a human being?
2. Karl, Karl, Karl. Yes, you are livid with rage that Gwyneth looks prettier, younger, and more alive than you do. But let's face it; she's wearing Yet Another Pink Tweed Jacket--like we haven't seen enough of them over the past couple of years--while you have this really fresh Michael Jackson/R2D2 hybrid thing going. So please stop gnawing your face. Yes, the diet is stringent and you are supposed to eat mostly protein, but self-cannibalizing is so 2004 Anorexic-Olson-Twin.
--P.
Ave atque vale
I first heard of Nan Kempner through Vogue magazine in the 1970s. (This was about the time that Joke was cooking his first meatloaf.) Vogue ran an article about Nan with picture after picture of her posing in her favorite outfits--a lot of Halston and even more Yves St. Laurent, if I remember correctly.
I thought she was the coolest thing ever.
It wasn't because she was beautiful, because even 30 years ago, she wasn't a pretty woman. Her face was long and angular, and her eyes and lips were bit too narrow for beauty. She wasn't photogenic, either, and she was certainly no model; in their range of expression, the poses in that article ran the gamut from A to B.
Still, I was fascinated. I guess she was the first "belle-laide" I'd ever encountered. At the time I don't think I'd ever seen a picture of Wallis Simpson, probably the pre-eminent belle-laide, because although neither beautiful nor young, a king renounced his throne to marry her. Since then I've collected a few more belle-laides: Elsie de Wolfe being another favorite. None of these women was particularly attractive, but they stayed model slim, groomed themselves impeccably, and lived with incredible style.
Nan Kempner kept all of her old clothes, so she could wear "vintage" by pulling something out of her own closet. She also wore great jeans, often combining them with couture jackets. Like a 20-year-old Yves St. Laurent piece. And she was doing it 30 years ago, before Lucky magazine had made jeans-plus-dressier-clothes into a cliché.
On top of that, when the Vogue article came out, Nan was already middle-aged. Back then, how many 45 year old ladies were running around in jeans? For that matter, how many women are declared style icons when they're 45?
Nan Kempner also had a terrific sense of humor. And it appears that as she got older, she took more risks and had more fun. She certainly appeared to enjoy herself more and more as she aged; the careful, mummified mannequin look I saw in Vogue magazine was replaced with what appears to be her trademark cat-who-swallowed-the-canary grin.
The last article I read about her said her emphysema had gotten so bad that she was pretty much attached to an oxygen tank. But she was still having fun.
Way to go, Nan.
--P.
I thought she was the coolest thing ever.
It wasn't because she was beautiful, because even 30 years ago, she wasn't a pretty woman. Her face was long and angular, and her eyes and lips were bit too narrow for beauty. She wasn't photogenic, either, and she was certainly no model; in their range of expression, the poses in that article ran the gamut from A to B.
Still, I was fascinated. I guess she was the first "belle-laide" I'd ever encountered. At the time I don't think I'd ever seen a picture of Wallis Simpson, probably the pre-eminent belle-laide, because although neither beautiful nor young, a king renounced his throne to marry her. Since then I've collected a few more belle-laides: Elsie de Wolfe being another favorite. None of these women was particularly attractive, but they stayed model slim, groomed themselves impeccably, and lived with incredible style.
Nan Kempner kept all of her old clothes, so she could wear "vintage" by pulling something out of her own closet. She also wore great jeans, often combining them with couture jackets. Like a 20-year-old Yves St. Laurent piece. And she was doing it 30 years ago, before Lucky magazine had made jeans-plus-dressier-clothes into a cliché.
On top of that, when the Vogue article came out, Nan was already middle-aged. Back then, how many 45 year old ladies were running around in jeans? For that matter, how many women are declared style icons when they're 45?
Nan Kempner also had a terrific sense of humor. And it appears that as she got older, she took more risks and had more fun. She certainly appeared to enjoy herself more and more as she aged; the careful, mummified mannequin look I saw in Vogue magazine was replaced with what appears to be her trademark cat-who-swallowed-the-canary grin.
The last article I read about her said her emphysema had gotten so bad that she was pretty much attached to an oxygen tank. But she was still having fun.
Way to go, Nan.
--P.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Saturday, July 9, 2005
There's a lesson in this
Normally I am not wont to read between the lines, look for dark meanings, or harbor conspiracy theories. However, even the dullest amongst us can't help but realize that if you write a blog entry describing why you like living where you do, and the next day, a hurricane strikes your neighborhood and you lose power and probably, the roof of your house, hubris has got you by the short hairs.
I don't know how savvy hubris is about the internet, and whether hubris knows about clicking the links on a pal's blog, but I'm not taking any chances.
I was going to mention how much I'm enjoying the view of Lake Michigan from my living room, and how it's such a gorgeous shade of blue today, and how pretty the sailboats look.
Or how much fun That Studmuffin I Married and I had at the annual Lincoln Park Zoo Ball last night, drinking and dancing and wandering in our black-tie regalia through the big cat exhibit--especially the lionness asleep on her back with her big feet up in the air and her entire belly exposed like a kitten wanting to have its tummy rubbed.
And how miraculous it was that considering the size of the cocktails and the variety of wines with the Wolfgang Puck-catered dinner and the nightcap we had on our way home in the little French restaurant in our building that I did not have a hangover this morning.
And how much I'm looking forward to a pal's birthday bash tonight, because she throws a hell of a party, and their condo has a fantastic long balcony which is so lovely on a summer night.
And that I'm really looking forward to going swimming in our rooftop pool this afternoon.
But I figure if I say all that:
1. My building will implode;
2. My picture will appear in Skyline looking really fat and unphotogenic, with my mouth so wide open that my uvula shows--the caption saying something like "Hippopotamus Enjoys Annual Zoo Ball";
3. I'll be hungover tomorrow, or worse yet on some random day when I haven't had anything to drink the night before;
4. I'll be stuck with the world's biggest bore at the birthday bash, at least one fight will break out, and the balcony will fall off the building;
5. And first, I'll drown in the rooftop pool.
--P.
I don't know how savvy hubris is about the internet, and whether hubris knows about clicking the links on a pal's blog, but I'm not taking any chances.
I was going to mention how much I'm enjoying the view of Lake Michigan from my living room, and how it's such a gorgeous shade of blue today, and how pretty the sailboats look.
Or how much fun That Studmuffin I Married and I had at the annual Lincoln Park Zoo Ball last night, drinking and dancing and wandering in our black-tie regalia through the big cat exhibit--especially the lionness asleep on her back with her big feet up in the air and her entire belly exposed like a kitten wanting to have its tummy rubbed.
And how miraculous it was that considering the size of the cocktails and the variety of wines with the Wolfgang Puck-catered dinner and the nightcap we had on our way home in the little French restaurant in our building that I did not have a hangover this morning.
And how much I'm looking forward to a pal's birthday bash tonight, because she throws a hell of a party, and their condo has a fantastic long balcony which is so lovely on a summer night.
And that I'm really looking forward to going swimming in our rooftop pool this afternoon.
But I figure if I say all that:
1. My building will implode;
2. My picture will appear in Skyline looking really fat and unphotogenic, with my mouth so wide open that my uvula shows--the caption saying something like "Hippopotamus Enjoys Annual Zoo Ball";
3. I'll be hungover tomorrow, or worse yet on some random day when I haven't had anything to drink the night before;
4. I'll be stuck with the world's biggest bore at the birthday bash, at least one fight will break out, and the balcony will fall off the building;
5. And first, I'll drown in the rooftop pool.
--P.
Thursday, July 7, 2005
Hands across the water
Remember when after 9/11, the French announced that "we are all Americans?"
Well, I guess that means that as of this morning, the Americans have become British.
So hands across the water, guys.
(Just so you know, with one hand, I'm waving and blowing kisses to the Brits. With the other, I'm giving terrorists the finger.)
--P.
Well, I guess that means that as of this morning, the Americans have become British.
So hands across the water, guys.
(Just so you know, with one hand, I'm waving and blowing kisses to the Brits. With the other, I'm giving terrorists the finger.)
--P.
Monday, July 4, 2005
Sunday, July 3, 2005
Envy me
OK, maybe you wouldn't want to attend the Harold Lloyd Festival at Chicago's historic Music Box Theater.
But you have to envy the way I've managed to snooker my husband and children into going with me.
All I had to do was go to see Madagascar with them yesterday. And actually, it was pretty good. No complaints at this end.
And my films are double features, neener neener!
--P.
But you have to envy the way I've managed to snooker my husband and children into going with me.
All I had to do was go to see Madagascar with them yesterday. And actually, it was pretty good. No complaints at this end.
And my films are double features, neener neener!
--P.
Saturday, July 2, 2005
An open letter to Tom Cruise
Dear Tom,
You know all that posturing and opining we've been hearing about? One thing is clear from all of it; you think we care what you think. Well, why is that? Because you're smart? Well-educated? A well-known author? A Republican shill-for-hire pundit?
No, apparently we care what you think because you're a movie star.
Well, Tom, here's a list of films I haven't seen. Read it and weep:
So, Tom, since I'm clearly pretty much underwhelmed by your thespian talents, what do you suppose are the odds that I'd be willing to take your medical advice? Or your opinions on theological matters?
Those are rhetorical questions, Tom. And since I've barely heard of you, despite all those movies I haven't seen, I see no reason to believe that you've heard of me. So I'll answer the question: the odds are a hell of a lot slimmer than I am.
But here's what's cool. Apparently, I have--unbeknownst to me--been boycotting you since before you went crazy. I was boycotting Tom Cruise before you went Tom Cruise™. I'm sort of like the guy in the Moliere play who discovered he'd been speaking prose all his life. I mean, I always thought that I just didn't like big-ass loud blockbuster movies. Or that I wasn't a gay male. I didn't realize I was really onto something--but I guess somehow I figured out way early on that you needed to be shunned.
It's been lonely out here in the pop culture vanguard. But I have a feeling a few other people are going to be joining me very soon.
--P.
You know all that posturing and opining we've been hearing about? One thing is clear from all of it; you think we care what you think. Well, why is that? Because you're smart? Well-educated? A well-known author? A Republican shill-for-hire pundit?
No, apparently we care what you think because you're a movie star.
Well, Tom, here's a list of films I haven't seen. Read it and weep:
- War of the Worlds (2005) .... Ray Ferrier
- Collateral (2004) .... Vincent
- The Last Samurai (2003) .... Nathan Algren
... aka The Last Samurai: Bushidou (USA: poster title) - Minority Report (2002) .... Chief John Anderton
- Vanilla Sky (2001) .... David Aames
- Mission: Impossible II (2000) .... Ethan Hunt
... aka M:I-2 (USA: DVD box title (promotional abbreviation))
... aka Mission: Impossible II (Germany) - Magnolia (1999) .... Frank T.J. Mackey
... aka mag-no'li-a (USA: promotional title) - Eyes Wide Shut (1999) .... Dr. William 'Bill' Harford
... aka EWS (USA: promotional abbreviation) - Jerry Maguire (1996) .... Jerry Maguire
- Mission: Impossible (1996) .... Ethan Hunt
... aka Mission Impossible - Interview with the Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles (1994) .... Lestat de Lioncourt
... aka Interview with the Vampire (USA: short title) - The Firm (1993) .... Mitch McDeere
- Far and Away (1992) .... Joseph Donnelly
- Days of Thunder (1990) .... Cole Trickle
- Born on the Fourth of July (1989) .... Ron Kovic
- Rain Man (1988) .... Charlie Babbitt
- Young Guns (1988) (uncredited) .... Cowboy
- Cocktail (1988) .... Brian Flanagan
- The Color of Money (1986) .... Vincent
- Top Gun (1986) .... Lt. Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell
- Legend (1985) .... Jack
... aka Legend: Ultimate Edition (USA: reissue title (video title)) - All the Right Moves (1983) .... Stef
... aka All Right - Risky Business (1983) .... Joel Goodsen
- Losin' It (1983) .... Woody
- The Outsiders (1983) .... Steve Randle
- Taps (1981) .... David Shawn
... aka The Siege at Bunker Hill: T.A.P.S (UK: TV title) - Endless Love (1981) .... Billy
So, Tom, since I'm clearly pretty much underwhelmed by your thespian talents, what do you suppose are the odds that I'd be willing to take your medical advice? Or your opinions on theological matters?
Those are rhetorical questions, Tom. And since I've barely heard of you, despite all those movies I haven't seen, I see no reason to believe that you've heard of me. So I'll answer the question: the odds are a hell of a lot slimmer than I am.
But here's what's cool. Apparently, I have--unbeknownst to me--been boycotting you since before you went crazy. I was boycotting Tom Cruise before you went Tom Cruise™. I'm sort of like the guy in the Moliere play who discovered he'd been speaking prose all his life. I mean, I always thought that I just didn't like big-ass loud blockbuster movies. Or that I wasn't a gay male. I didn't realize I was really onto something--but I guess somehow I figured out way early on that you needed to be shunned.
It's been lonely out here in the pop culture vanguard. But I have a feeling a few other people are going to be joining me very soon.
--P.
Cruella de Shoes
Poor PETA Rabbit. Look what they've gone and made him into. A pair of backless green satin platform mules with a four-inch wedged heel.
Absolutely perfect, if you're planning on making a return appearance in your critically-acclaimed role as a FemBot in Austin Powers. Because that pink they had you wearing was soooooo 1997.
--P.
Absolutely perfect, if you're planning on making a return appearance in your critically-acclaimed role as a FemBot in Austin Powers. Because that pink they had you wearing was soooooo 1997.
--P.
The Love List
Tea
Etiquette books
What am I saying?? Books in general
Meritocracies. (Do any exist?)
Real bread baked in a brick oven with a serious crust
Splenda
Shopping
Hanging out with my pals
Organic produce, and yes, there is a huge difference
Bourbon
Creme de cassis
Champagne
British invasion rock n roll
Disco
Bluegrass
Elvis Costello
Men who can see past my big hooters to realize I have brains
Marilyn Horne. Holy shit, what a voice.
People with manners
My internet pals
an ice-cold Perfect Manhattan, straight up, with both the cherry and a twist of lemon
Haute couture
Good grooming
My house, a/k/a that tear-down I live in
Antiques
black and white photographs
hand-written letters
Etiquette books
What am I saying?? Books in general
Meritocracies. (Do any exist?)
Real bread baked in a brick oven with a serious crust
Splenda
Shopping
Hanging out with my pals
Organic produce, and yes, there is a huge difference
Bourbon
Creme de cassis
Champagne
British invasion rock n roll
Disco
Bluegrass
Elvis Costello
Men who can see past my big hooters to realize I have brains
Marilyn Horne. Holy shit, what a voice.
People with manners
My internet pals
an ice-cold Perfect Manhattan, straight up, with both the cherry and a twist of lemon
Haute couture
Good grooming
My house, a/k/a that tear-down I live in
Antiques
black and white photographs
hand-written letters
The Hate List
Instant coffee
Chick Lit
Television
Racism
Spongey white supermarket bread
Sweet 'n' Lo
Going to the dentist
Having to make small talk with the people who cut and color my hair
The ground meat at regular supermarkets
Scotch
Cognac
Gin
Heavy metal music
Stupid over-produced R&B
Country music
Gangsta Rap
Sexism
Easy Listening Classical music, like Charlotte Church singing arias from Carmen. Just shut UP.
Celebutantes
Celebrities. Especially Tom Cruise.
Idiotic variations on straight up cocktails erroneously called "martinis." Stop it.
90 percent of the new fashions unleashed on women
So-called "French" manicures and (ew!) pedicures
Faux Tuscan houses
Faux Tuscan furniture
Americans who buy tapestries to hang in their faux chateaux. (I actually haven't seen this, but I get the catalogs.)
Junk mail
--P.
Chick Lit
Television
Racism
Spongey white supermarket bread
Sweet 'n' Lo
Going to the dentist
Having to make small talk with the people who cut and color my hair
The ground meat at regular supermarkets
Scotch
Cognac
Gin
Heavy metal music
Stupid over-produced R&B
Country music
Gangsta Rap
Sexism
Easy Listening Classical music, like Charlotte Church singing arias from Carmen. Just shut UP.
Celebutantes
Celebrities. Especially Tom Cruise.
Idiotic variations on straight up cocktails erroneously called "martinis." Stop it.
90 percent of the new fashions unleashed on women
So-called "French" manicures and (ew!) pedicures
Faux Tuscan houses
Faux Tuscan furniture
Americans who buy tapestries to hang in their faux chateaux. (I actually haven't seen this, but I get the catalogs.)
Junk mail
--P.
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