A few weeks ago, I went to see "Pirates of the Caribbean 3" (or as I called it, "Pirates 2 2") at a local theater. I was there with a small group, and we took our seats right at the start of the previews. Prior to the acquisition of seats, I decided to be the most hardcore moviegoer in the county. That's right, a large blue Icee AND a large Coke!! Balls deep!!! I'm a man, I can handle that. No problem, right?
This would be a good time to mention that the film was two hours and 48 minutes long.
Yeah, that had kinda slipped my mind. Oops?
I have no idea how long I lasted, but eventually, I had to go. Yes, it knocked me down a few pegs on the Man Scale, and yes, it may have been intrusive to a few others, but screw you, "few others," you try keeping in all those ounces of blue raspberry/cola-flavored goodness. I bet you can't.
Anyway, I quickly (and stealthily, by the way...I move like a cat) made my way to the restroom. I walked in to find an empty room, except for one stall in the back that was occupied. I could tell because of a newspaper on the floor next to a pair of feet. I spent no more than 90 seconds in the room, but as I was washing up, I realized that I hadn't heard any noise while I was in there. No paper shuffling, no movement, no grunting, not even any breathing. I looked over and saw the newspaper in the same spot and the feet in the same position (in the future, when you're in the bathroom, don't ever take note of your surroundings; it never ends well). Of course, my mind went right to the worst-case scenario.
"Uh...did I just pee next to a dead guy?"
Needless to say, I made my way out rather quickly, and kept this fact to myself for the rest of the night. Okay, that's a lie. I told everyone. But still...like, I was legitimately concerned about the guy. Not nearly concerned enough to say "Hey bud, you okay?" or "Hey, somebody should check this out." But hey, a man can only care so much. I mean, I paid for my ticket, I had to see the end of the movie, right? Well, assuming there would BE an ending...but I digress.
3.21.2007
Dinner Table Diatribe
I was talking to my family at dinner the other night (I do that every now and again) about, of all things, cheesecake. See, someone had made some sort of cheesecake-ish concoction out of a mix of some kind. I had no problem with this, and was more than willing to try it. When asked my opinion, I said, and I quote:
"It's fine, but it tastes a little crummy."
What I meant was that the cheesecake had a texture that seemed to indicate that it wasn't mixed completely, like there were crumbs of...something. Now, when you make a cheesecake, and someone tells you it's "crummy"...well, that isn't the first thought that comes to mind.
Anyway, I asked about the ingredients of actual cheesecake, "like when they make it for real" (again, not the best wording, but whatever). I was told the ingredients, most of which are no longer stored in the memory bank. However, my mother listed them, and I got more and more excited as she continued.
"Oh," I said, "there's no sour cream?"
"Oh yeah, probably."
Gaaaaaaah, I KNEW she would say that. Why did I ask? Luckily, she told me soon after that there was no sour cream in the irish potatoes she makes, so that made me feel a little better. For that matter, I don't even know if cheesecake really does have sour cream or not. But that isn't the point. This whole exchange set me off on a rant about the names of food products.
I have a little habit that some see as a bad one. When I'm about to try something new, be it a food or a drink, I always sniff it. If it smells bad, chances are I will not put it in my mouth.
Yeah, I'm gonna leave that sentence in there.
Anyway, I also tend to avoid products with names that make no sense. Sour cream comes to mind. I'm sure there are a number of things I enjoy that contain this victim of poor nomenclature, but looking at a dollop of it makes me sad. When you leave milk sit out for too long, it gets sour. That tends to lead to the throwing away of said milk. Cream is a milk-based product...now you want me to eat something called SOUR cream? Oh hell no, mister.
That led me to think about some other foods that have the most idiotic names. What the hell is "bread" pudding? Think of a piece of bread. Fine and dandy invention. Pudding? Up until the age of 12, I may not have believed that a better creation existed. Chocolate...vanilla...chocolate and vanilla...awesome. But BREAD? Like, is this really the best name for something you want me to eat? I envision putting the pudding powder into the big shaker cup (circa 1988) with some milk, starting to shake it, then taking the lid off and jamming a piece of Stroehmann in there. That is NOT how you make "bread" pudding...so why do we call it that? The same goes for "rice" pudding. Is there seriously rice in there? Even if there is, WHO THE HELL WOULD EAT THAT??
I know, I know, plenty of people. But not me.
There are probably a ton of other food names out there that confound me. I can't think of any right now. Leave YOUR stupid food names in the comments section below.
"It's fine, but it tastes a little crummy."
What I meant was that the cheesecake had a texture that seemed to indicate that it wasn't mixed completely, like there were crumbs of...something. Now, when you make a cheesecake, and someone tells you it's "crummy"...well, that isn't the first thought that comes to mind.
Anyway, I asked about the ingredients of actual cheesecake, "like when they make it for real" (again, not the best wording, but whatever). I was told the ingredients, most of which are no longer stored in the memory bank. However, my mother listed them, and I got more and more excited as she continued.
"Oh," I said, "there's no sour cream?"
"Oh yeah, probably."
Gaaaaaaah, I KNEW she would say that. Why did I ask? Luckily, she told me soon after that there was no sour cream in the irish potatoes she makes, so that made me feel a little better. For that matter, I don't even know if cheesecake really does have sour cream or not. But that isn't the point. This whole exchange set me off on a rant about the names of food products.
I have a little habit that some see as a bad one. When I'm about to try something new, be it a food or a drink, I always sniff it. If it smells bad, chances are I will not put it in my mouth.
Yeah, I'm gonna leave that sentence in there.
Anyway, I also tend to avoid products with names that make no sense. Sour cream comes to mind. I'm sure there are a number of things I enjoy that contain this victim of poor nomenclature, but looking at a dollop of it makes me sad. When you leave milk sit out for too long, it gets sour. That tends to lead to the throwing away of said milk. Cream is a milk-based product...now you want me to eat something called SOUR cream? Oh hell no, mister.
That led me to think about some other foods that have the most idiotic names. What the hell is "bread" pudding? Think of a piece of bread. Fine and dandy invention. Pudding? Up until the age of 12, I may not have believed that a better creation existed. Chocolate...vanilla...chocolate and vanilla...awesome. But BREAD? Like, is this really the best name for something you want me to eat? I envision putting the pudding powder into the big shaker cup (circa 1988) with some milk, starting to shake it, then taking the lid off and jamming a piece of Stroehmann in there. That is NOT how you make "bread" pudding...so why do we call it that? The same goes for "rice" pudding. Is there seriously rice in there? Even if there is, WHO THE HELL WOULD EAT THAT??
I know, I know, plenty of people. But not me.
There are probably a ton of other food names out there that confound me. I can't think of any right now. Leave YOUR stupid food names in the comments section below.
3.12.2007
That's Coming Out of Her Tip
So, this weekend a bunch of us went out, ostensibly to watch Georgetown play Pittsburgh in the BIG EAST Tournament final. In reality it was me pleading with people to go so I would have people to distract me from the inevitable heartbreak I was going to suffer when the Hoyas lost. We chose a locale about a half hour from home because "uh...they have a lot of TVs...and parking...and beer" (that's how I sold it; sold it well, I might add). We got there right at tip-off (punctuality and planning aren't exactly strong suits for...you know what? Nevermind), and of course I was a nervous wreck. Certain parties tried to soothe my nerves, others were more than happy to oblige my fear of defeat. Turns out, the game wasn't even close, Georgetown took its first conference title in 18 years (the lifespan of the average freshman...crap I'm old), and a good time was had by all (except our waitress, who wanted us all to die from the second she put the drink napkins on the table).
Chances are if you're reading this, you were either there or you don't care. Or both. Probably both. The reason this is of any import at all is that I found out a shocking thing about some restaurants.
They don't all carry american cheese.
I know, I know. It's strange to me too. But it's true.
The worst part wasn't the fact that they didn't carry the proper assortment of cheeses. The part that got me was the way in which I was informed of this.
See, they serve an "Alpine Burger" at this place, and this burger contains meat (good), mushrooms (good), and swiss cheese (ehhh...not so good). One of my fellow diners was also interested in this burger. I mused aloud whether or not I could substitute a different kind of cheese, and we figured, "Sure, can't see why not." So I went Alpine. This is what happened.
Joe: "I'll have the Alpine Burger as well, medium, and can I get american cheese instead of swiss?"
Waitress: "No."
::silence::
::more silence::
::deafening silence::
::dammit Joe, say something!::
::ANYTHING!!::
Waitress: "We don't have american cheese."
::Joe reverts to pre-pubescent voice of panic because he didn't even look at the rest of the menu::
"Cheddar, maybe?"
Please note that the silence lasted maybe two seconds, but when you're blindsided like that, it feels like an eternity. Like, come ON, if you don't carry a certain type of cheese (the best cheese, by the way), SAY SO!! Don't just say, "no" and stare at me while I scramble to recover from the dinner-ordering equivalent of a shotgun blast to the face. We should have tipped her a slice of cheese. Or a mushroom. Or a punch in the nose.
So the next day I'm relaying this story to the family at dinner, and they didn't seem the least bit surprised that this place didn't have american cheese. I was floored. Who doesn't have american cheese??!? The Fox & Hound in King of Prussia, PA, that's who. So, Hound proprietors, listen up: more american cheese, less lemon-scented ass-beer.
My mother also made a joke about how I couldn't substitute american cheese because it was the "Alpine" burger, and the whole "Swiss Alps" thing...I didn't speak to her for six hours.
Side note - returned to "The Establishment" from the previous post later that night. The Discriminatory Bar Wench was working. I was in too good a mood to plot/exact my revenge. This is likely to become a developing story.
Chances are if you're reading this, you were either there or you don't care. Or both. Probably both. The reason this is of any import at all is that I found out a shocking thing about some restaurants.
They don't all carry american cheese.
I know, I know. It's strange to me too. But it's true.
The worst part wasn't the fact that they didn't carry the proper assortment of cheeses. The part that got me was the way in which I was informed of this.
See, they serve an "Alpine Burger" at this place, and this burger contains meat (good), mushrooms (good), and swiss cheese (ehhh...not so good). One of my fellow diners was also interested in this burger. I mused aloud whether or not I could substitute a different kind of cheese, and we figured, "Sure, can't see why not." So I went Alpine. This is what happened.
Joe: "I'll have the Alpine Burger as well, medium, and can I get american cheese instead of swiss?"
Waitress: "No."
::silence::
::more silence::
::deafening silence::
::dammit Joe, say something!::
::ANYTHING!!::
Waitress: "We don't have american cheese."
::Joe reverts to pre-pubescent voice of panic because he didn't even look at the rest of the menu::
"Cheddar, maybe?"
Please note that the silence lasted maybe two seconds, but when you're blindsided like that, it feels like an eternity. Like, come ON, if you don't carry a certain type of cheese (the best cheese, by the way), SAY SO!! Don't just say, "no" and stare at me while I scramble to recover from the dinner-ordering equivalent of a shotgun blast to the face. We should have tipped her a slice of cheese. Or a mushroom. Or a punch in the nose.
So the next day I'm relaying this story to the family at dinner, and they didn't seem the least bit surprised that this place didn't have american cheese. I was floored. Who doesn't have american cheese??!? The Fox & Hound in King of Prussia, PA, that's who. So, Hound proprietors, listen up: more american cheese, less lemon-scented ass-beer.
My mother also made a joke about how I couldn't substitute american cheese because it was the "Alpine" burger, and the whole "Swiss Alps" thing...I didn't speak to her for six hours.
Side note - returned to "The Establishment" from the previous post later that night. The Discriminatory Bar Wench was working. I was in too good a mood to plot/exact my revenge. This is likely to become a developing story.
3.06.2007
Things That Piss Me Off, Volume 1
This is called "Things That Piss Me Off." This is not called "Things That Annoy Me" or "Things That Mildly Disturb Me." These things truly piss me off.
--Wind Chills. Holy crap. Like, when I check out the weather, I'm looking mostly for the temperature. If I want to know if it's raining or snowing or hailstorming, I can look out the window. A cursory glance, however, won't tell me how cold it is. So I look to you, Mr. Weatherman (or Ms. Weatherwoman). Your job is to tell me what the temperature is. Great, it's 40 degrees out. That's cold. But then you drop this little "wind chill of 25 degrees" factoid on my head. What the hell? Is it 40 or is it 25? Because, if it feels like it's 25, guess what? For all intents and purposes, it is 25!! I don't really care that it's actually 40 degrees; I don't have any crops affected by the actual temperature. I DO have fingers and a nose that are affected by what it feels like. Don't fill my head with your abstract numbers. And don't ever, EVER call it "the real feel." Oooooh I REALLY hate the "real feel."
--Discriminatory bar wenches. Now, before you complain, I am not anti-women. Far from it. Wench is clearly a derogatory term that should not be used, except in clear cases of bartender discrimination. The other night, a select few of us (read: those of us with nothing better to do) went to a fine Irish establishment that serves adult beverages. Being the gentleman I am, I offered immediately upon arrival to buy the first round of said adult beverages (essentially, I dragged everyone out, and this was how I would remedy the "this sucks, Joe, I hate you" phenomenon). Crickets. I got crickets. A few minutes later, I ask again, a little more forcefully. I get orders, go up to the bar, and relay the orders to the young lady serving drinks. She looked nice enough, not anything like the man-hating succubus that she is. She provides me the two mixed drinks, one beer (on special, no less), and a glass of water. She charges me $15.50. Not bad. Three drinks, three dollars on the bar...$20 for a few hours of fun is not too much to pay. A little while later, we've all finished our drinks, and one of my esteemed colleagues...we'll call her "Billy"...goes to the bar to buy another round. She buys the same exact drinks, down to the glass of water. Pretty soon, we're all done, and it's time to go home. I have no idea how the topic came up, but the topic of the price of the drinks comes up. I mention that it was $15.50, and Billy informs me that she paid $13.75. THE BAR WENCH RIPPED ME OFF. Why? BECAUSE I AM A GUY. I had to pay the "All the rest of you are douchebags towards me every night, you are likely to be no different so suck it" tax.
I'm going back there for my $1.75 sometime. Don't think I won't. Friggin' bar wench. She knew what she was doing. That explains the "here's your change, a-hole" comment. Okay, she didn't say that. But she thought it.
--Adam Sandler. I used to think he was funny. I really did. Then, I came back for Thanksgiving break my freshman year of college and thought it would be a good idea to see what was sure to become an animated classic, "Eight Crazy Nights." I don't think I need to tell you that the film wasn't really worth even the discounted student ticket. Ever since then, Adam Sandler sucks. There. I said it. I should see him about getting my $6 back, too.
Man, between the crappy movie and the rip-off at the bar, I'm gonna be pulling in some major coin this week. Got that, ladies? Crazy money.
--Wind Chills. Holy crap. Like, when I check out the weather, I'm looking mostly for the temperature. If I want to know if it's raining or snowing or hailstorming, I can look out the window. A cursory glance, however, won't tell me how cold it is. So I look to you, Mr. Weatherman (or Ms. Weatherwoman). Your job is to tell me what the temperature is. Great, it's 40 degrees out. That's cold. But then you drop this little "wind chill of 25 degrees" factoid on my head. What the hell? Is it 40 or is it 25? Because, if it feels like it's 25, guess what? For all intents and purposes, it is 25!! I don't really care that it's actually 40 degrees; I don't have any crops affected by the actual temperature. I DO have fingers and a nose that are affected by what it feels like. Don't fill my head with your abstract numbers. And don't ever, EVER call it "the real feel." Oooooh I REALLY hate the "real feel."
--Discriminatory bar wenches. Now, before you complain, I am not anti-women. Far from it. Wench is clearly a derogatory term that should not be used, except in clear cases of bartender discrimination. The other night, a select few of us (read: those of us with nothing better to do) went to a fine Irish establishment that serves adult beverages. Being the gentleman I am, I offered immediately upon arrival to buy the first round of said adult beverages (essentially, I dragged everyone out, and this was how I would remedy the "this sucks, Joe, I hate you" phenomenon). Crickets. I got crickets. A few minutes later, I ask again, a little more forcefully. I get orders, go up to the bar, and relay the orders to the young lady serving drinks. She looked nice enough, not anything like the man-hating succubus that she is. She provides me the two mixed drinks, one beer (on special, no less), and a glass of water. She charges me $15.50. Not bad. Three drinks, three dollars on the bar...$20 for a few hours of fun is not too much to pay. A little while later, we've all finished our drinks, and one of my esteemed colleagues...we'll call her "Billy"...goes to the bar to buy another round. She buys the same exact drinks, down to the glass of water. Pretty soon, we're all done, and it's time to go home. I have no idea how the topic came up, but the topic of the price of the drinks comes up. I mention that it was $15.50, and Billy informs me that she paid $13.75. THE BAR WENCH RIPPED ME OFF. Why? BECAUSE I AM A GUY. I had to pay the "All the rest of you are douchebags towards me every night, you are likely to be no different so suck it" tax.
I'm going back there for my $1.75 sometime. Don't think I won't. Friggin' bar wench. She knew what she was doing. That explains the "here's your change, a-hole" comment. Okay, she didn't say that. But she thought it.
--Adam Sandler. I used to think he was funny. I really did. Then, I came back for Thanksgiving break my freshman year of college and thought it would be a good idea to see what was sure to become an animated classic, "Eight Crazy Nights." I don't think I need to tell you that the film wasn't really worth even the discounted student ticket. Ever since then, Adam Sandler sucks. There. I said it. I should see him about getting my $6 back, too.
Man, between the crappy movie and the rip-off at the bar, I'm gonna be pulling in some major coin this week. Got that, ladies? Crazy money.
3.01.2007
Francis Ford Coppola is a Dick
Alright, so let me preface this post by making everyone aware, if they aren't already, that I have not seen most of the "classic" films of our time. Now, if a movie came out after 2002 and it's already a "classic," I've probably seen it. Movies from before then I tend not to have seen, simply because it's something I didn't do when I was younger. At that age, I would have much rather watched a ballgame than a movie. While that's still for the most part true...well, I'm older and wiser now. I enjoy a good movie. Over the Christmas holiday period, I saw "The Godfather" for the first time. Last night, I watched "The Godfather: Part II." All I can say is...Francis Ford Coppola is a dick.
Something that REALLY pisses me off is when a movie simply doesn't have an ending. A good example of this is "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest." Not to ruin it, but "Pirates 2" essentially ends with...nothing. There IS no end. You CANNOT watch this film by itself...you HAVE to watch it with the third part of the series. Part three has not been released yet, so as far as I'm concerned, "Pirates 2" has not ended. When "Pirates 3" comes out and my angry crusade against it inevitably falls on deaf ears and I go see it, I will demand to be allowed entry to the theater simply by showing my stub from "Pirates 2." I paid to see that film, and, dammit, I will see the end of it. The end of it happens to also be the end of "Pirates 3." Unless of course they filmed "Pirates 4" already as well, in which case I will drink a gallon of unleaded gasoline.
Now, I understand that they filmed both movies at the same time, but for the love of God, you HAVE to make them watchable on their own. There is no way I can watch this movie by itself.
This brings me to my point about "The Godfather." The most arrogant thing a director can do is end a film with what is essentially a lead-in to that film's sequel. "Oh, I'm the big bad director, my movie is going to be so good it's going to make eleventy billion dollars and everyone will demand a sequel, so hey, let's force them to see that, too." That's just pure, unadulterated cockiness right there. If you haven't seen "The Godfather," skip the next sentence. I personally think the scene at (rather, near) the end where Michael Corleone is at the baptism of his nephew/godson renouncing Satan while his men are assassinating the leaders of all the other mob families in New York as well as other enemies of the family is fantastic. In fact, if that was the end, it would be the greatest film ending of all time. EVER. Nothing would come close. And yet, Mr. Coppola insisted on setting up his sequel by continuing the movie after that. Unnecessary, and just plain arrogant. Now you KNOW there's gonna be a sequel, and now you HAVE to go see it. Bastard.
Now, if the most arrogant thing you can do as a director is end your movie with a lead-in to a sequel, the double-most arrogant thing you can do is REPEAT THE SAME EXACT SEQUENCE in the next movie. At the end of "Part II" (spoiler coming), Michael sits around while more of his thugs kill more people. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!? You already did that, Frankie! Not only is that complete and unadulterated arrogance, it's plagiarism. Copying yourself, being self-referential, is even more arrogant. Francis Ford Coppola might be the most arrogant man in the history of the world, and I want to punch him in the nose. These are things that keep me up at night. Global warming? Eh. War in Iraq? We're there, deal with it. Immigration? Taxes? Famine? Fuhgeddaboudem. I lay awake wondering who the hell Francis Ford Coppola thinks he is. And the only answer I come up with is: he's a dick. And that helps me sleep. That and a lot of pills.
Something that REALLY pisses me off is when a movie simply doesn't have an ending. A good example of this is "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest." Not to ruin it, but "Pirates 2" essentially ends with...nothing. There IS no end. You CANNOT watch this film by itself...you HAVE to watch it with the third part of the series. Part three has not been released yet, so as far as I'm concerned, "Pirates 2" has not ended. When "Pirates 3" comes out and my angry crusade against it inevitably falls on deaf ears and I go see it, I will demand to be allowed entry to the theater simply by showing my stub from "Pirates 2." I paid to see that film, and, dammit, I will see the end of it. The end of it happens to also be the end of "Pirates 3." Unless of course they filmed "Pirates 4" already as well, in which case I will drink a gallon of unleaded gasoline.
Now, I understand that they filmed both movies at the same time, but for the love of God, you HAVE to make them watchable on their own. There is no way I can watch this movie by itself.
This brings me to my point about "The Godfather." The most arrogant thing a director can do is end a film with what is essentially a lead-in to that film's sequel. "Oh, I'm the big bad director, my movie is going to be so good it's going to make eleventy billion dollars and everyone will demand a sequel, so hey, let's force them to see that, too." That's just pure, unadulterated cockiness right there. If you haven't seen "The Godfather," skip the next sentence. I personally think the scene at (rather, near) the end where Michael Corleone is at the baptism of his nephew/godson renouncing Satan while his men are assassinating the leaders of all the other mob families in New York as well as other enemies of the family is fantastic. In fact, if that was the end, it would be the greatest film ending of all time. EVER. Nothing would come close. And yet, Mr. Coppola insisted on setting up his sequel by continuing the movie after that. Unnecessary, and just plain arrogant. Now you KNOW there's gonna be a sequel, and now you HAVE to go see it. Bastard.
Now, if the most arrogant thing you can do as a director is end your movie with a lead-in to a sequel, the double-most arrogant thing you can do is REPEAT THE SAME EXACT SEQUENCE in the next movie. At the end of "Part II" (spoiler coming), Michael sits around while more of his thugs kill more people. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!? You already did that, Frankie! Not only is that complete and unadulterated arrogance, it's plagiarism. Copying yourself, being self-referential, is even more arrogant. Francis Ford Coppola might be the most arrogant man in the history of the world, and I want to punch him in the nose. These are things that keep me up at night. Global warming? Eh. War in Iraq? We're there, deal with it. Immigration? Taxes? Famine? Fuhgeddaboudem. I lay awake wondering who the hell Francis Ford Coppola thinks he is. And the only answer I come up with is: he's a dick. And that helps me sleep. That and a lot of pills.
2.27.2007
What Goes Around Comes All The Way Back Around and Then Chops Off Your Hair
Alright, might as well start with what everyone else is talking about these days. That's right, the return of vinyl to the record stores.
Seriously, the fall of Britney Spears from the throne of "America's Princess" to the bean-bag chair of "K-Fed's (Very) Sloppy Seconds" is at once shocking, totally expected, disappointing, and oddly satisfying. I won't even go into the details because, honestly, everyone knows them. But yikes, the girl went all G.I. Jane and shaved her friggin' head. A few weeks ago I read somewhere that she was looking to restart her career. Well my dear, you saw what the bald look did for Sinead O'Connor. Although, to be fair, she did invent AIM-speak with her hit "Nothing Compares 2 U," obliterating the spelling skills of teenagers across the world. So hey, you've got that going for you, kiddo.
According to this story, Britney has rented out an entire wing of the rehab facility she's staying at (for the next few hours, at least). That isn't rehab, that's vacation. That's not even vacation, that's like buying your own private island. Except it's different. I dunno. I thought part of the rehabilitation process was getting to know others in similar situations, and learning how to cope and avoid future problems, not going up to a room and watching Oprah and Ellen all day. When I used to go up to my room and watch TV all day, if I told my mom I was "rehabbing" and couldn't do the dishes, I'd have to rehab a frying pan out of my rectum.
Despite all of this, despite the total train wreck she's become...part of me roots for her. Like when they run a story about her, and there's a semi-recent photo where she doesn't look half-bad, I say, "See, she's getting better. It was that idiot dancer's fault." I long for the days when Britney, Christina, Jessica, and Mandy could promise to have a four-way jello wrestling match and it would be something we would all want to see. I actually would still like to see this. Am I the only one? I can't be the only one. I'm probably the only one. So, Brit, when your hair grows back and you get those tattoos lasered off...come find me. We'll do lunch.
Somewhere, Justin Timberlake is smiling. Mostly because he's banging Scarlett Johansson. Right now.
Seriously, the fall of Britney Spears from the throne of "America's Princess" to the bean-bag chair of "K-Fed's (Very) Sloppy Seconds" is at once shocking, totally expected, disappointing, and oddly satisfying. I won't even go into the details because, honestly, everyone knows them. But yikes, the girl went all G.I. Jane and shaved her friggin' head. A few weeks ago I read somewhere that she was looking to restart her career. Well my dear, you saw what the bald look did for Sinead O'Connor. Although, to be fair, she did invent AIM-speak with her hit "Nothing Compares 2 U," obliterating the spelling skills of teenagers across the world. So hey, you've got that going for you, kiddo.
According to this story, Britney has rented out an entire wing of the rehab facility she's staying at (for the next few hours, at least). That isn't rehab, that's vacation. That's not even vacation, that's like buying your own private island. Except it's different. I dunno. I thought part of the rehabilitation process was getting to know others in similar situations, and learning how to cope and avoid future problems, not going up to a room and watching Oprah and Ellen all day. When I used to go up to my room and watch TV all day, if I told my mom I was "rehabbing" and couldn't do the dishes, I'd have to rehab a frying pan out of my rectum.
Despite all of this, despite the total train wreck she's become...part of me roots for her. Like when they run a story about her, and there's a semi-recent photo where she doesn't look half-bad, I say, "See, she's getting better. It was that idiot dancer's fault." I long for the days when Britney, Christina, Jessica, and Mandy could promise to have a four-way jello wrestling match and it would be something we would all want to see. I actually would still like to see this. Am I the only one? I can't be the only one. I'm probably the only one. So, Brit, when your hair grows back and you get those tattoos lasered off...come find me. We'll do lunch.
Somewhere, Justin Timberlake is smiling. Mostly because he's banging Scarlett Johansson. Right now.
This is a Blog, But You Better Not Call It a Blog
So I've been thinking about doing this (again) for awhile. Recently I've been told it would be a good decision, that it would be "fun for all." Well, alright. Twist my arm. Apparently my unique writing style (at least, I like to think it's unique) makes things enjoyable to read. Couple that with a passionate rage about...everything...and there could be a few laughs to be had. There could also be a few unintended reader suicides. Make sure you keep sharp/explosive/gunlike objects as far away as possible when you read.
So here it is, a blog, my blog...but you sure as hell better not call it a blog.
See, I hate the word...it isn't even a word, but whatever...I hate the word "blog." It's just so...I don't know...lazy? Childish? Stupid? I don't even know. Say it out loud. Blog. Say it with different inflections. Blog. BLOG. Blog? Blog! BLOG!!! Like, seriously, it sounds more like you should say "I got blogged in the head by that rock" than "I'm gonna go post to my blog about how this music makes me want to cut myself." I look down on people who talk about their blog much the same way that I do people who talk about their Myspace pages (I am the last bastion of under-30 Myspace-lessness...this is likely not true, but I like to think it is, and you and your statistics will never convince me otherwise). I already have one crippling social-networking website addiction (thanks, Facebook a-holes), I don't need another. Or a blog for that matter.
So this is not a blog. This is a...a...um...a "personal forum for topical discussion/ranting/musing." Yes, that's it. Go publish your blogs. I will write my PFTDRM. And then update my Facebook page.
So here it is, a blog, my blog...but you sure as hell better not call it a blog.
See, I hate the word...it isn't even a word, but whatever...I hate the word "blog." It's just so...I don't know...lazy? Childish? Stupid? I don't even know. Say it out loud. Blog. Say it with different inflections. Blog. BLOG. Blog? Blog! BLOG!!! Like, seriously, it sounds more like you should say "I got blogged in the head by that rock" than "I'm gonna go post to my blog about how this music makes me want to cut myself." I look down on people who talk about their blog much the same way that I do people who talk about their Myspace pages (I am the last bastion of under-30 Myspace-lessness...this is likely not true, but I like to think it is, and you and your statistics will never convince me otherwise). I already have one crippling social-networking website addiction (thanks, Facebook a-holes), I don't need another. Or a blog for that matter.
So this is not a blog. This is a...a...um...a "personal forum for topical discussion/ranting/musing." Yes, that's it. Go publish your blogs. I will write my PFTDRM. And then update my Facebook page.
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