Reading the newspaper daily is a surefire way to become a killjoy. Debbie Downer wasn't necessarily a bad person, she just knew too much. With information thrown around throughout the day, one learns that almost anything enjoyable is also bad for you, wrong for the Earth, or the result of the exploitation of Chinese people. Those Barbies are "toxic." Don't "put them in your mouth." Wrestling wildlife might "kill you." "Don't burn tires for fun." But I ask you, is nothing sacred? I read today that a pulmonary specialist has released findings that suggest our lungs are in danger due to the buttery flavor fumes released by microwave popcorn. The condition is known as Popcorn Lung.
This is for real.
Apparently, the microwave popcorn industry already knew of the lung damage caused by fumes because factory workers have complained of ailments.
A quick aside: How horrible must it be to leave work everyday and have to explain to everyone you run into that you haven't just come from the movies? Or worse, every time you enter a room have to hear, "Hey, it smells like popcorn!" Did you ever notice that people can't help but say, "Smells like popcorn!" when they smell popcorn? And they're always so pleased with themselves like they've cracked some impossible case of mystery smell. (sniff sniff) "Popcorn!" Go make some popcorn, [wear a mask] and then wait for someone to come in. If they don't say "popcorn", I'll give you $100. But I digress.
This recent study focused on the consumer, after someone developed lung disease from making several bags of microwave popcorn everyday for several years. I had to read that part twice. It seems this man reeeally enjoyed the popcorn button feature on his microwave and was making bags of the stuff daily, for years. OK, so clearly, this is weird. But the poor bastard probably just loved popcorn and had no clue it was hurting him. Orville Redenbacher's respiratory system seemed fine.
Aside from being just about the most random thing I've read in recent weeks, this story is pretty annoying. Few things match the simple perfection of a movie night.
Couch--good.
DVD's-good.
Waiting to see who says "popcorn" first--good.
Why modern medicine and research? Why did you have to ruin something so good? I hate to think that a chill Friday night will now have to include some sort of SARS guard. Or that Philip Morris will release a low tar butter-flavored cigarette with a label that reads, "These still kill, but at least you won't die fat."
I guess until all of this is straightened out, let's just stick with Junior Mints.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
You, uhh, Got Any Gum?
It must be nice to do whatever the hell you want and know the people around you will love you more because of it. Dogs have this distinct honor. Extremely good looking people come in a close second, but a wink and a toothy grin will do little to help the hottie who, say, takes a shit on the floor. People will forgive their dogs anything. The greater the offense, the deeper the love. "You ate my entire sofa! How did you manage to do that? You're superdog, that's who you are!"
New parents always think their children are the best and dog owners are the same way with their pets. Benchmark moments like feedings, potty training and new tricks are all shared with such enthusiasm. And the silly things a baby does are recounted with such pride. Only, parents eventually stop sharing these stories because what was once cute becomes embarrassing. They don't want you to know that their son is now 20 and still dropping his keys in the toilet. But a dog? A dog can be a lifetime idiot and still seem like something to brag about.
I love that about dogs.
My sister's dog, Stella, adds all new descriptions to the definition of cute. It's really ridiculous. My phone conversations with Nessa almost always start or end with, "Can you put me on speakerphone?" But since I just start cooing, "Stelllla, hi Stella!" without exception, Vanessa refuses to do it.
This morning she called to share that Stella had gotten into an entire pack of Winterfresh and described what she looked like trying to chew the gum. Head tilted, trying to figure out what was going on, a huge wad of gum and foil wrappers hanging out of her mouth, gum on her front paws causing sheets of paper to stick to her wherever she walked. Nessa said, "Listen, if you've never seen a dog chew gum, sprint to a pet store with a pack of Eclipse."
I wish more of my days would start with such great sentences.
Ever since seeing "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" as a child, I've wanted all animals to walk on their hind legs. It's been a hard wish to shake. I've basically narrowed it down to only really wanting domestic cats to walk on two legs at all times (and wear pants). But now the visual of a dog standing up, walking down the street chewing gum is something I think could happen.
Small, reasonable goals. That's how I approach life.
New parents always think their children are the best and dog owners are the same way with their pets. Benchmark moments like feedings, potty training and new tricks are all shared with such enthusiasm. And the silly things a baby does are recounted with such pride. Only, parents eventually stop sharing these stories because what was once cute becomes embarrassing. They don't want you to know that their son is now 20 and still dropping his keys in the toilet. But a dog? A dog can be a lifetime idiot and still seem like something to brag about.
I love that about dogs.
My sister's dog, Stella, adds all new descriptions to the definition of cute. It's really ridiculous. My phone conversations with Nessa almost always start or end with, "Can you put me on speakerphone?" But since I just start cooing, "Stelllla, hi Stella!" without exception, Vanessa refuses to do it.
This morning she called to share that Stella had gotten into an entire pack of Winterfresh and described what she looked like trying to chew the gum. Head tilted, trying to figure out what was going on, a huge wad of gum and foil wrappers hanging out of her mouth, gum on her front paws causing sheets of paper to stick to her wherever she walked. Nessa said, "Listen, if you've never seen a dog chew gum, sprint to a pet store with a pack of Eclipse."
I wish more of my days would start with such great sentences.
Ever since seeing "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" as a child, I've wanted all animals to walk on their hind legs. It's been a hard wish to shake. I've basically narrowed it down to only really wanting domestic cats to walk on two legs at all times (and wear pants). But now the visual of a dog standing up, walking down the street chewing gum is something I think could happen.
Small, reasonable goals. That's how I approach life.
Friday, August 17, 2007
These Are Getting Old.
Remember when you realized Kristen Schaal is the funniest person on the planet?
That was an important day.
That was an important day.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Alas, A Lapse.
Remember when i said i was going to have "Remember When Fridays?"
Well, I forgot about it. Ha.
Anyway, remember when R. Kelly and Usher were dating the same girl, even though the girl was the love of R. Kelly's life and his potential wife?
Yeah, I remember that too.
Well, I forgot about it. Ha.
Anyway, remember when R. Kelly and Usher were dating the same girl, even though the girl was the love of R. Kelly's life and his potential wife?
Yeah, I remember that too.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Um.
A woman in Arkansas just gave birth to her 17th child. 
Read that sentence again.
And now go back and read it one more time.
I thought I would have 1,000 different things to say about this, but I guess I don't.
Friday, July 20, 2007
This Is A Nice Find.
I'm on the farm with Deb and Steve during perhaps the most inopportune time of the year. My mother goes through phases where she thinks she hosts a show on Home and Garden Television and as a result 3,000 random projects ensue simultaneously. I'm reminded of her scrapbooking/stenciling summer in the early 90's. Half of the pictures from our childhood were cut and pasted to the pages of "Footprints In The Sands of Time" (her scrapbook's actual title) and all of our bathrooms had seashell borders.
This summer will be remembered as "The Clearing." She must have gotten her hands on some books about Minimalist design because I swear she is determined to wipe out the contents of the home. Everyday there's a carload of things to be dropped off at the Volunteers of America and every night my father asks what has been thrown away. "Debbie, where did the table by the door go?" And my mom's eyes grow wide as she sort of shakes her head to say, "oh I don't know." But we all know she knows.
The other day she went through each cabinet in the kitchen and basically threw away everything. To be fair, so much was not needed. She had a crystal deviled egg tray with actual grooved out little place holders for deviled eggs. This is not necessary in life. How often do people make deviled eggs that a tray made specifically for that food would be warranted? And she kept pulling out tons of stuff like this. In fact, so much random stuff that my sister and I had no choice but to play "Antiques Roadshow."
If you've never seen Antiques Roadshow, a part of my soul weeps for that incomplete part of your soul. But for those of you who have, you must agree that the best part of the show is when people bring something they think is valuable only to learn it's worth 11 cents. Anyway, Nessa and I took turns playing owner and appraiser and would have to tell the story of how we acquired the item or share the actual history of the item. Note to reader: This is instant fun.
We must have spent an hour making up fake stories about strainers (Viking helmet), metal kebab skewers (ancient Korean sword), and a lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it (lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it).
When my mother emerged from the basement with a bag of stuff to be given away she found me standing over a pile of ice cube trays giving a detailed account of their history as Ness listened intently. We ignored the random thing she was doing, she ignored ours.
This summer will be remembered as "The Clearing." She must have gotten her hands on some books about Minimalist design because I swear she is determined to wipe out the contents of the home. Everyday there's a carload of things to be dropped off at the Volunteers of America and every night my father asks what has been thrown away. "Debbie, where did the table by the door go?" And my mom's eyes grow wide as she sort of shakes her head to say, "oh I don't know." But we all know she knows.
The other day she went through each cabinet in the kitchen and basically threw away everything. To be fair, so much was not needed. She had a crystal deviled egg tray with actual grooved out little place holders for deviled eggs. This is not necessary in life. How often do people make deviled eggs that a tray made specifically for that food would be warranted? And she kept pulling out tons of stuff like this. In fact, so much random stuff that my sister and I had no choice but to play "Antiques Roadshow."
If you've never seen Antiques Roadshow, a part of my soul weeps for that incomplete part of your soul. But for those of you who have, you must agree that the best part of the show is when people bring something they think is valuable only to learn it's worth 11 cents. Anyway, Nessa and I took turns playing owner and appraiser and would have to tell the story of how we acquired the item or share the actual history of the item. Note to reader: This is instant fun.
We must have spent an hour making up fake stories about strainers (Viking helmet), metal kebab skewers (ancient Korean sword), and a lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it (lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it).
When my mother emerged from the basement with a bag of stuff to be given away she found me standing over a pile of ice cube trays giving a detailed account of their history as Ness listened intently. We ignored the random thing she was doing, she ignored ours.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Bobby, You'll Be Tree Number 4.
I saw an article online that said a man robbed a bank in New Hampshire dressed as a tree. I can't help but love everything about this story. I love thinking about his mindset going into the robbery, I love the cartoon nature of the disguise and I love imagining what the other people in line at the bank thought as a tree waited patiently to make a transaction. Crime is wrong, obviously, but if someone demanded my wallet dressed as some sort of shrubbery (or anything really) I think I'd go along with the whole thing. Yes, I'd be out some cash, but just think of how many times I could mention that I was robbed by a pencil (or cat, or spruce). You can't put a price on that.
For anyone who has ever seen The Bushman at Fisherman's Wharf in SF, you have to appreciate how hilarious this story is. I hate Fisherman's Wharf, but 5 minutes of watching this guy scare people was worth getting stuck behind slow-walking tourists. The Bushman is brilliant for 2 reasons.
1) Watching startled people jump and scream is one of life's simple pleasures.
2) People are actually surprised someone is behind a random group of branches sprouting out of nothing on a city sidewalk.
I like to think the Tree-Man in NH had the Bushman in mind when he robbed the bank. "I'll just move slowly along, la de da, I'm just a tree, nothing to see here, and then when they least expect it, 'Give me all your money!'' The more I started to think about the whole thing, the more I started to really like this guy. How sad is that? I just can't help but smile when I imagine him breaking twigs off the trees in his yard. "Oh, this one is good! I am so going to look like a tree."
But all of this raises the question, why? Why would a grown man think dressing as a tree and robbing a bank would work? Or, not even work, but why would he think this was a good idea? Or, not even a good idea, why would he even think it? I know little (read: nothing) about the origins of the criminal mind but I'd say the source is a childhood trauma. For this man in New Hampshire, it's quite clear to me that he played a tree in one too many an elementary school play.
Do you remember elementary school plays? The quiet kids were ALWAYS trees. It was the only way to get Shy Sally on stage so her parents could get a picture and she wouldn't feel left out. But even when I was in first grade it amazed me that these kids didn't tell the teachers to fuck off. Trees never had lines, they literally stood there, and I swear to you, I remember one kid being a tree that didn't even have a hole for his face. He was literally behind the tree, holding it up. That kid is without a doubt in jail right now. Telling a child to be a tree (particularly during aquatic scenes) does very little to build his sense of self and establishes within him the idea that he won't be noticed. Enter Tree-Man, stage right.
I like to think that if he'd been given a few lines in a play as a kid, he might have done something more sophisticated than robbing a bank dressed as a tree. Maybe a soft soliloquy delivered at the ATM.
For anyone who has ever seen The Bushman at Fisherman's Wharf in SF, you have to appreciate how hilarious this story is. I hate Fisherman's Wharf, but 5 minutes of watching this guy scare people was worth getting stuck behind slow-walking tourists. The Bushman is brilliant for 2 reasons.
1) Watching startled people jump and scream is one of life's simple pleasures.
2) People are actually surprised someone is behind a random group of branches sprouting out of nothing on a city sidewalk.
I like to think the Tree-Man in NH had the Bushman in mind when he robbed the bank. "I'll just move slowly along, la de da, I'm just a tree, nothing to see here, and then when they least expect it, 'Give me all your money!'' The more I started to think about the whole thing, the more I started to really like this guy. How sad is that? I just can't help but smile when I imagine him breaking twigs off the trees in his yard. "Oh, this one is good! I am so going to look like a tree."
But all of this raises the question, why? Why would a grown man think dressing as a tree and robbing a bank would work? Or, not even work, but why would he think this was a good idea? Or, not even a good idea, why would he even think it? I know little (read: nothing) about the origins of the criminal mind but I'd say the source is a childhood trauma. For this man in New Hampshire, it's quite clear to me that he played a tree in one too many an elementary school play.
Do you remember elementary school plays? The quiet kids were ALWAYS trees. It was the only way to get Shy Sally on stage so her parents could get a picture and she wouldn't feel left out. But even when I was in first grade it amazed me that these kids didn't tell the teachers to fuck off. Trees never had lines, they literally stood there, and I swear to you, I remember one kid being a tree that didn't even have a hole for his face. He was literally behind the tree, holding it up. That kid is without a doubt in jail right now. Telling a child to be a tree (particularly during aquatic scenes) does very little to build his sense of self and establishes within him the idea that he won't be noticed. Enter Tree-Man, stage right.
I like to think that if he'd been given a few lines in a play as a kid, he might have done something more sophisticated than robbing a bank dressed as a tree. Maybe a soft soliloquy delivered at the ATM.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Existential Crisis On A Bun.
Today I watched the Nathan's Hot dog Eating Contest for the first time ever. I've seen enough highlight footage to get the gist, but I thought I owed it to myself to actually witness the full 12 minutes. I tried to go into it with an open mind. I thought, perhaps it isn't the worst display of gluttony the world has ever known. Perhaps there's a level of sportsmanship that trumps the blatant disregard for millions of starving people. Maybe it's just really fun to watch.
It turns out, the answers to those thoughts are as follows:
1)Yes it is.
2) No there's not.
3) Are you effing kidding me?
Around 3 minutes into the event (which is of course, an eating competition but also,"The World's Biggest Dumbass" contest) I grew predictably nauseous. If there is anything more disgusting than consuming mass quanities of hot dogs, it's eating wet hot dogs. The dipping of the buns into water caused me to dry-heave in a manner that is usually reserved for finding hair in food. But the eating wasn't necessarily the main source of my discomfort. I think it was the spectacle.
The announcers introduced each competitor with a laundry list of their achievements. World record holder in oysters! World record holder in cheesecake! Birthday cake! Fried Asparagus! Chicken Wings! Ribs! Shoo-Fly Pie Champion of the World! This man ate his own baby! And with each name announced the crowd roared with enthusiasm. Roaring crowds for people who eat. "Hey! I eat food too! But you eat waaay more food than me so I painted your name on my face! I love you! I love the way, you know, you eat food... and stuff."
I don't understand the cheering. If you've ever been to a buffet and noticed the gross guy who keeps going up with the same plate, you might not be inclined to clap so hard.
And I'd like to think the announcers weren't being 100% serious with their commentary but it was honestly hard to tell. When introducing the American hopeful Joey Chestnut one commentator said that some American heroes people think about on Independence Day are "Abe Lincoln, Neil Armstrong, Taylor Hicks, and Joey Chestnut." Normally I'd find this comical. But coming from a man who is paid to moderate a hot dog contest, I'm not so sure what to think.
Events like this, where there seems to great excitement over something I don't understand on any level, send me into introspective overdrive. People could be cheering or dressing up or taking pictures and I'm left in a slight panic questioning what the hell is going on. So as each minute ticked off the clock, and 30, then 40, then 50 hot dogs were devoured by each eater, I heard my inner Alvy Singer grow louder and louder. The universe is expanding and these idiots are eating 60 hot dogs.
It was impossible for me to make it through the 12-minute gorging without questioning our collective purpose. And maybe, that's what this whole thing was about. Nihilism, solipsism syndrome, and the meaning of life all called into question outside of Nathan's on Coney Island, Brooklyn.
Or maybe it was about eating hot dogs really fast.
It turns out, the answers to those thoughts are as follows:
1)Yes it is.
2) No there's not.
3) Are you effing kidding me?
Around 3 minutes into the event (which is of course, an eating competition but also,"The World's Biggest Dumbass" contest) I grew predictably nauseous. If there is anything more disgusting than consuming mass quanities of hot dogs, it's eating wet hot dogs. The dipping of the buns into water caused me to dry-heave in a manner that is usually reserved for finding hair in food. But the eating wasn't necessarily the main source of my discomfort. I think it was the spectacle.
The announcers introduced each competitor with a laundry list of their achievements. World record holder in oysters! World record holder in cheesecake! Birthday cake! Fried Asparagus! Chicken Wings! Ribs! Shoo-Fly Pie Champion of the World! This man ate his own baby! And with each name announced the crowd roared with enthusiasm. Roaring crowds for people who eat. "Hey! I eat food too! But you eat waaay more food than me so I painted your name on my face! I love you! I love the way, you know, you eat food... and stuff."
I don't understand the cheering. If you've ever been to a buffet and noticed the gross guy who keeps going up with the same plate, you might not be inclined to clap so hard.
And I'd like to think the announcers weren't being 100% serious with their commentary but it was honestly hard to tell. When introducing the American hopeful Joey Chestnut one commentator said that some American heroes people think about on Independence Day are "Abe Lincoln, Neil Armstrong, Taylor Hicks, and Joey Chestnut." Normally I'd find this comical. But coming from a man who is paid to moderate a hot dog contest, I'm not so sure what to think.
Events like this, where there seems to great excitement over something I don't understand on any level, send me into introspective overdrive. People could be cheering or dressing up or taking pictures and I'm left in a slight panic questioning what the hell is going on. So as each minute ticked off the clock, and 30, then 40, then 50 hot dogs were devoured by each eater, I heard my inner Alvy Singer grow louder and louder. The universe is expanding and these idiots are eating 60 hot dogs.
It was impossible for me to make it through the 12-minute gorging without questioning our collective purpose. And maybe, that's what this whole thing was about. Nihilism, solipsism syndrome, and the meaning of life all called into question outside of Nathan's on Coney Island, Brooklyn.
Or maybe it was about eating hot dogs really fast.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Broker's Fee (Fie Foe Fum).
Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!
I smell the blood of a renter in a desperate situation
Be she live, or be she dead
I'm going to charge 10% of annual rent because I can, and you'll pay it, because this space is really nice and you can't have it until you give me my money first. Sorry, It's just sort of how the industry works.
Note: This is an actual excerpt from an actual Real Estate Marketing Fairy Tale, "Jack and the Two Bedroom, One Bath, Quiet Tree-Lined Street Close to Shops Beanstalk." It's not great. It has this really annoying ending where it turns out that heat and hot water aren't included and jack just decides to live in his sister's living room until he's 30.
So I'm going crazy. Looking for an apartment in NY is basically the worst thing in the world. Some people might enjoy it. Those people might also enjoy soft rock, mystery smells on a crowded train or watching strangers eat corn on the cob. Different strokes. I for one, would prefer not to spend the vast majority of my weekends walking around Brooklyn in intense heat looking at places that either A) Scare me in a, "Will a bug eat my face off when i sleep?" kind of way
or
B) Are so amazing I can't believe I can afford to live there, and then the Broker chimes in with a ps--I can't.
The whole process is frustrating, and that's why people should really limit it to looking at one or two places a day. But you can't do that because everyone is telling you that the great spaces will be picked by noon and that good apartments won't last longer than the day they're posted. But no pressure. Just get out there and have fun with it!
Do you know how painful it is to spend hours a day looking at apartment listings on Craigslist? Do you?! It's a modern day cilice. Craig Newmark lived in my neighborhood in SF and I always ran into him when grabbing a coffee at Reverie. I never thought to look for a hairshirt, but I'm quite certain he was wearing one.
Saturday was a real treat. I woke up early to search open-houses, made some calls, and Vanessa and I set out. Long story short, by 11AMi was delirious and sweating like some sort of sweaty animal (pig, i guess? are there others?) because of the heat and the billionth floor walk ups. Note: Be leery of "Views." An ad that reads, "Nice View" just means that by the time you reach the top floor, you'll be very dizzy and start hallucinating that you're dancing on a giant cupcake (if it's giant i guess it would just be a cake) and a pony walks up to you and says, "Hi, I'm Buttons."
That's all "Nice View" means when you have a budget.
By 2:00 we had walked so far away from anything we knew that we were searching for any establishment that served or sold food. Where the hell do people eat in random parts of Brooklyn?! We ended up getting a sandwich at a convenient store with one aisle--(complete contents of aisle included: Fantastic spray cleaner, a 6pk of Sam Adams, beef jerky, and kotex products--that IS convenient!) A woman who looked like she was about to die, walked to the back of the aisle and started coughing violently. I was so punch-drunk by this point I go to Ness, "Clean up on aisle...aisle." and literally burst into tears laughing.
The whole process is unhealthy.
Looked at a few no-fee apartments yesterday and fell in love with one, but when I spoke with the guy today it turns out there is a broker's fee. Well, sure. It's only fair. I mean, he did unlock the doors for us, and then he had to lock them back up when we left. Makes sense that I should give him a few thousand dollars.
Foe Fum.
I smell the blood of a renter in a desperate situation
Be she live, or be she dead
I'm going to charge 10% of annual rent because I can, and you'll pay it, because this space is really nice and you can't have it until you give me my money first. Sorry, It's just sort of how the industry works.
Note: This is an actual excerpt from an actual Real Estate Marketing Fairy Tale, "Jack and the Two Bedroom, One Bath, Quiet Tree-Lined Street Close to Shops Beanstalk." It's not great. It has this really annoying ending where it turns out that heat and hot water aren't included and jack just decides to live in his sister's living room until he's 30.
So I'm going crazy. Looking for an apartment in NY is basically the worst thing in the world. Some people might enjoy it. Those people might also enjoy soft rock, mystery smells on a crowded train or watching strangers eat corn on the cob. Different strokes. I for one, would prefer not to spend the vast majority of my weekends walking around Brooklyn in intense heat looking at places that either A) Scare me in a, "Will a bug eat my face off when i sleep?" kind of way
or
B) Are so amazing I can't believe I can afford to live there, and then the Broker chimes in with a ps--I can't.
The whole process is frustrating, and that's why people should really limit it to looking at one or two places a day. But you can't do that because everyone is telling you that the great spaces will be picked by noon and that good apartments won't last longer than the day they're posted. But no pressure. Just get out there and have fun with it!
Do you know how painful it is to spend hours a day looking at apartment listings on Craigslist? Do you?! It's a modern day cilice. Craig Newmark lived in my neighborhood in SF and I always ran into him when grabbing a coffee at Reverie. I never thought to look for a hairshirt, but I'm quite certain he was wearing one.
Saturday was a real treat. I woke up early to search open-houses, made some calls, and Vanessa and I set out. Long story short, by 11AMi was delirious and sweating like some sort of sweaty animal (pig, i guess? are there others?) because of the heat and the billionth floor walk ups. Note: Be leery of "Views." An ad that reads, "Nice View" just means that by the time you reach the top floor, you'll be very dizzy and start hallucinating that you're dancing on a giant cupcake (if it's giant i guess it would just be a cake) and a pony walks up to you and says, "Hi, I'm Buttons."
That's all "Nice View" means when you have a budget.
By 2:00 we had walked so far away from anything we knew that we were searching for any establishment that served or sold food. Where the hell do people eat in random parts of Brooklyn?! We ended up getting a sandwich at a convenient store with one aisle--(complete contents of aisle included: Fantastic spray cleaner, a 6pk of Sam Adams, beef jerky, and kotex products--that IS convenient!) A woman who looked like she was about to die, walked to the back of the aisle and started coughing violently. I was so punch-drunk by this point I go to Ness, "Clean up on aisle...aisle." and literally burst into tears laughing.
The whole process is unhealthy.
Looked at a few no-fee apartments yesterday and fell in love with one, but when I spoke with the guy today it turns out there is a broker's fee. Well, sure. It's only fair. I mean, he did unlock the doors for us, and then he had to lock them back up when we left. Makes sense that I should give him a few thousand dollars.
Foe Fum.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Could You Spell That Please?
The Scripps National Spelling Bee might be the last genuine bit of programming on television. It's not puffed up with lights and celebrity (it's at the Hyatt), it's galaxies away from the influence of fashion (ah, the white polo t-shirt!), it lacks a plot created in an editing suite, and is basically a huge bore. Only, it's not a bore at all. And that's why it's so fascinating. The Spelling Bee has the potential to be worse than watching Charlie Rose on mute, but whenever it's on, I'm glued.
And It's not about the spelling. Well, not entirely. No one needs to know how to spell anymore--that's common knowledge. So i guess there's a strange fascination with these little kids who have spent the better parts of their youth memorizing words no one uses. Spell check Peggy! Now go out and play! But it's this strange art almost. This awkward, brilliant, performance art and ESPN is smart enough to let us all in on it. Spelling words is the excuse to see how the brain works. To actually view the process of the left brain churning and then to witness it link up with the right when the bell either dings, or doesn't. It's the most advanced form of people watching on TV. Some of these kids have already perfected their poker faces at 11-years old, and that's pretty sad. But the kids who react as if playing "emotion charades" are the best. Their relief, or surprise, or frustration, or sadness is loud in their expressions. It's so real you have to think hard about the last time you might have seen something so honest.
But let's not build it up too much. Some of the kids are really annoying, asking questions for the full 2-minutes they're allowed. "Could you use it in a sentence?" "Could you repeat that sentence?" "Language of origin please?" "What was the word again?" "Is there another pronunciation?" Ok, Jimmy, spell or leave. They repeat the word over and over, and the announcer repeats the word back to them.
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
"Reseau? Is that right?"
"Sounds right. Reseau."
"Reseau?"
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
And then you feel like you want to punch someone.
A few years ago I came up with the "Lord of the Rings" Drinking Game. Basically, anytime a character in the movie stared into the distance, you had to drink. 15-minutes into each movie, everyone was wasted. The National Spelling Bee Drinking Game might beat that. Every time the word is said out loud, take a drink. It's probably not a great idea at the actual event, but for people viewing at home, it could be a good time. If by next year the event is called the "Miller High Life National Spelling Bee," you owe me a dollar.
And It's not about the spelling. Well, not entirely. No one needs to know how to spell anymore--that's common knowledge. So i guess there's a strange fascination with these little kids who have spent the better parts of their youth memorizing words no one uses. Spell check Peggy! Now go out and play! But it's this strange art almost. This awkward, brilliant, performance art and ESPN is smart enough to let us all in on it. Spelling words is the excuse to see how the brain works. To actually view the process of the left brain churning and then to witness it link up with the right when the bell either dings, or doesn't. It's the most advanced form of people watching on TV. Some of these kids have already perfected their poker faces at 11-years old, and that's pretty sad. But the kids who react as if playing "emotion charades" are the best. Their relief, or surprise, or frustration, or sadness is loud in their expressions. It's so real you have to think hard about the last time you might have seen something so honest.
But let's not build it up too much. Some of the kids are really annoying, asking questions for the full 2-minutes they're allowed. "Could you use it in a sentence?" "Could you repeat that sentence?" "Language of origin please?" "What was the word again?" "Is there another pronunciation?" Ok, Jimmy, spell or leave. They repeat the word over and over, and the announcer repeats the word back to them.
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
"Reseau? Is that right?"
"Sounds right. Reseau."
"Reseau?"
"Reseau."
"Reseau."
And then you feel like you want to punch someone.
A few years ago I came up with the "Lord of the Rings" Drinking Game. Basically, anytime a character in the movie stared into the distance, you had to drink. 15-minutes into each movie, everyone was wasted. The National Spelling Bee Drinking Game might beat that. Every time the word is said out loud, take a drink. It's probably not a great idea at the actual event, but for people viewing at home, it could be a good time. If by next year the event is called the "Miller High Life National Spelling Bee," you owe me a dollar.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
God's Weird Birthday Party.
If you happen to watch Fox News you know that God's Birthday falls on May 23, or, whatever day of the year the American Idol Finale airs. And to celebrate, God enjoys throwing a little party. It's called, the American Idol Finale. It's actually pretty convenient how that all works out. But then, why wouldn't it be?
I don't watch Fox News, so I didn't know about this whole birthday thing. But after seeing the show last night, it became quite clear that only an omniscient being could have put that little get-together together. Party hats and streamers do not a God birthday make. One needs the most interesting people, one needs Ryan Seacrest, one needs lots of music, and one needs an ice cream cake. (It was in the back of the auditorium, the camera never showed it but it was there). Last night's finale at the Kodak Theatre was the most bizarre grouping of humans in one space--ever. It was obvious that God had made the guest list in hopes of outdoing last year's party, which He so carefully planned with a twist ending, "Um, and then i want the 'Soul Patrol' guy to win. He's funny."
Let's discuss that guest-list, shall we? In no particular order, these are some faces I saw in the crowd.
-Jerry Springer
-Jeff Foxworthy
-Rebecca from Full House and some young boys who were definitely not Nicky and Alex
-Constantine "I'll stare into every camera i see" Maroulis
-Denise Richards
-Jennifer Hudson
-Madonna
-Jack Bauer
-Helen Thomas
-The Shah of Iran. Or, I think it was the Shah's cousin.
-Popeye
Just to name a few.
For such an esteemed list of attendees, the performances had to be spot on. Hot artists of the now such as Gwen Stefani and Kelly Clarkson.
A Pretenders cover by Carrie Underwood.
A set with Smokey Robinson and the fat kid with the horrible hair.
Gladys Night. (Because nothing sets off a party quite like a woman named Gladys.)
A piece in which Blake and Doug E. Fresh worked the stage together, ensuring that everyone in America would try for at least 15 seconds to beatbox.
Oh, and then Bette Midler showed up out of nowhere to sing "Wind Beneath My Wings." You know, because it was relevant.
I enjoyed watching Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul dry-hump each other while doing the Angels in the Outfield arm movements to that song. It was appropriate. PS. Randy, the man who is making your suits is pulling a tragically successful joke on you. Fire him dog, the suits really didn't work for me. Particularly that suit with sailing rope all over it. I wasn't feeling it dog.
The entire night was just about as weird as you could want. But just to make sure there were no doubts about that, th
is lady showed up.
I don't watch Fox News, so I didn't know about this whole birthday thing. But after seeing the show last night, it became quite clear that only an omniscient being could have put that little get-together together. Party hats and streamers do not a God birthday make. One needs the most interesting people, one needs Ryan Seacrest, one needs lots of music, and one needs an ice cream cake. (It was in the back of the auditorium, the camera never showed it but it was there). Last night's finale at the Kodak Theatre was the most bizarre grouping of humans in one space--ever. It was obvious that God had made the guest list in hopes of outdoing last year's party, which He so carefully planned with a twist ending, "Um, and then i want the 'Soul Patrol' guy to win. He's funny."
Let's discuss that guest-list, shall we? In no particular order, these are some faces I saw in the crowd.
-Jerry Springer
-Jeff Foxworthy
-Rebecca from Full House and some young boys who were definitely not Nicky and Alex
-Constantine "I'll stare into every camera i see" Maroulis
-Denise Richards
-Jennifer Hudson
-Madonna
-Jack Bauer
-Helen Thomas
-The Shah of Iran. Or, I think it was the Shah's cousin.
-Popeye
Just to name a few.
For such an esteemed list of attendees, the performances had to be spot on. Hot artists of the now such as Gwen Stefani and Kelly Clarkson.
A Pretenders cover by Carrie Underwood.
A set with Smokey Robinson and the fat kid with the horrible hair.
Gladys Night. (Because nothing sets off a party quite like a woman named Gladys.)
A piece in which Blake and Doug E. Fresh worked the stage together, ensuring that everyone in America would try for at least 15 seconds to beatbox.
Oh, and then Bette Midler showed up out of nowhere to sing "Wind Beneath My Wings." You know, because it was relevant.
I enjoyed watching Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul dry-hump each other while doing the Angels in the Outfield arm movements to that song. It was appropriate. PS. Randy, the man who is making your suits is pulling a tragically successful joke on you. Fire him dog, the suits really didn't work for me. Particularly that suit with sailing rope all over it. I wasn't feeling it dog.
The entire night was just about as weird as you could want. But just to make sure there were no doubts about that, th
is lady showed up.Maybe next year, I don't know, perhaps just a small dinner party? A few close friends, the ice cream cake, maybe make a cool little party shuffle on your playlist? Just a thought.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Enough Already.
Enrique Iglesias sang "Hero" on Dancing With the Stars tonight and it occurred to me that the song could easily be 35 years old. Still with the Hero Enrique?? Really?!
My problem with the song is trifold:
1) It's horrible. (Did I even need to mention that?)
2) It's a song comprised almost entirely of questions and that's really annoying.
3) Still singing this song is like the inventor of the crimp iron still walking around and saying, "Hey, you know the crimp iron? That was me. Should we make out now, or later?"
With every question he asks in the song I grow more and more frustrated. Who the hell is he talking to? And hasn't he figured out after all these years that they're not going to answer?
It's a random rant. I'm just not a fan.
And at one point during the show I was pretty sure Enrique was tap dancing. That turned out not to be the case. Either way, it was lame.
My problem with the song is trifold:
1) It's horrible. (Did I even need to mention that?)
2) It's a song comprised almost entirely of questions and that's really annoying.
3) Still singing this song is like the inventor of the crimp iron still walking around and saying, "Hey, you know the crimp iron? That was me. Should we make out now, or later?"
With every question he asks in the song I grow more and more frustrated. Who the hell is he talking to? And hasn't he figured out after all these years that they're not going to answer?
It's a random rant. I'm just not a fan.
And at one point during the show I was pretty sure Enrique was tap dancing. That turned out not to be the case. Either way, it was lame.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Remember When Fridays!
The blog has taken a backseat to a few things as of late. (Thanks for still reading grandma.) In an effort to keep things interesting, and guarantee a post a week, I am proud to introduce "Remember When" Friday.
There's no way for you to know this, but an old Asian man wearing a baseball cap that reads, "Whatever." just blew on one of those blowout party favors into my face. He was hired to do so. I'm going all out for these "Remember When" Fridays, people.
Please feel free to contribute pieces of garbage stuck in your mind to Remember When postings on Fridays. It'll be a fun. Or, it won't. But I can promise you, it will be one of the two.
So, without further ado. Ah-hem.
Remember when DJ Tanner was invited to a Kimmy's pool party but felt bad about her body in a bathing suit and tried to lose weight by starving herself and eventually passing out on a StairMaster?
Yeah, I remember that one too.
There's no way for you to know this, but an old Asian man wearing a baseball cap that reads, "Whatever." just blew on one of those blowout party favors into my face. He was hired to do so. I'm going all out for these "Remember When" Fridays, people.
Please feel free to contribute pieces of garbage stuck in your mind to Remember When postings on Fridays. It'll be a fun. Or, it won't. But I can promise you, it will be one of the two.
So, without further ado. Ah-hem.
Remember when DJ Tanner was invited to a Kimmy's pool party but felt bad about her body in a bathing suit and tried to lose weight by starving herself and eventually passing out on a StairMaster?
Yeah, I remember that one too.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
I'll Pencil That In.
When I arrived in New York, Sabrina told me it was imperative that I buy a planner. She said that people living here have too many things going on and that if I ever wanted to see anyone, I'd have to plan weeks in advance. That's fine. It's so not me, but you know, when in Rome.
But here's the problem with planners for people who don't have "jobs." They're really silly. No, I mean like seven-year old kid scheduling you into their Blackberry silly. When people ask me my plans for 2 weeks from now, I can say with great confidence that I'll be free. But part of me wants to flip through my imaginary planner anyway and look over the blank pages with great care. "I have nothing going on the 20th, that'll be perfect. Oh, you said the 21st? Shoot, let me check. Hmm, OK, that's also looking very good."
I suppose all of this will change when I decide to actively look for gainful employment. But that's not scheduled until June. The other day I interrupted Vanessa in the middle of a story to tell her about a commercial contest for Heinz 57. Describing my idea for the commercial I want to submit, and then wondering about all of the rules for the contest, I jumped up to grab my computer and started searching online for the fine print. While reading the official rules aloud, I looked up to Vanessa's judging look.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. I just like how instead of looking for a job, you're running to read the rules for a ketchup contest."
It was a good point.
Anyway, the no job/open schedule combo is not a total bust. On the contrary, it's awesome! Sabrina and her old roommate Justin have all these great tickets, and because normal people have things going on at 2 in the afternoon, I am able to take in fantastic shows, free of charge. It's nice. Justin called the other day saying he had an extra ticket to a Tarzan matinee. Brina covered the phone and goes, "You don't want to see Tarzan tomorrow, do you?" And I was like, "Um, yes I do. Thank You."
I had to take Vanessa in to her first day of work yesterday because she hasn't figured out the train yet and on the ride in we discussed my plans for the day.
-Well let's see. I'm riding on a train with you this morning and then walking you to work like the first day of school. Then I have to return a pair of pants, and then i have Tarzan at 2:00.
Brina was right. People living here just have too much going on.
But here's the problem with planners for people who don't have "jobs." They're really silly. No, I mean like seven-year old kid scheduling you into their Blackberry silly. When people ask me my plans for 2 weeks from now, I can say with great confidence that I'll be free. But part of me wants to flip through my imaginary planner anyway and look over the blank pages with great care. "I have nothing going on the 20th, that'll be perfect. Oh, you said the 21st? Shoot, let me check. Hmm, OK, that's also looking very good."
I suppose all of this will change when I decide to actively look for gainful employment. But that's not scheduled until June. The other day I interrupted Vanessa in the middle of a story to tell her about a commercial contest for Heinz 57. Describing my idea for the commercial I want to submit, and then wondering about all of the rules for the contest, I jumped up to grab my computer and started searching online for the fine print. While reading the official rules aloud, I looked up to Vanessa's judging look.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. I just like how instead of looking for a job, you're running to read the rules for a ketchup contest."
It was a good point.
Anyway, the no job/open schedule combo is not a total bust. On the contrary, it's awesome! Sabrina and her old roommate Justin have all these great tickets, and because normal people have things going on at 2 in the afternoon, I am able to take in fantastic shows, free of charge. It's nice. Justin called the other day saying he had an extra ticket to a Tarzan matinee. Brina covered the phone and goes, "You don't want to see Tarzan tomorrow, do you?" And I was like, "Um, yes I do. Thank You."
I had to take Vanessa in to her first day of work yesterday because she hasn't figured out the train yet and on the ride in we discussed my plans for the day.
-Well let's see. I'm riding on a train with you this morning and then walking you to work like the first day of school. Then I have to return a pair of pants, and then i have Tarzan at 2:00.
Brina was right. People living here just have too much going on.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
I'd Clap But I Have A Beverage.
I was at a concert with Ashley and the music was fantastic. We were both holding beers and she looked over and said, "This is really great. I'd clap, but i have a beverage." I thought it was such a funny line. I want it to be a track on my fake band's album. That and "Baby, It's my Latin Temper." Those will be two hot tracks. Anyway, Ashley's line was sort of a theme for the graduation weekend. More pics.
Donna Martin Graduates!
Pics from Nessa's graduation weekend.She got a great job in New York and now I'm in the same city with both of my sisters. It's sort of a huge deal.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Clueless "R" I.
My cousin's baby shower is coming up and I've been meaning to stop by a Babies "R" Us, to pick out a gift. Only every time I thought of doing this I became overwhelmed. I'm terrible at picking out gifts for people. And these are people I know. Grown people who can talk and have interests. How do I shop for a newborn? Do infants have hobbies straight out the womb? Is pooping a hobby? An entire level of Babies "R" Us says it is.
Sabrina told me that there were no Babies "R" Us stores in the city so you can imagine my surprise when I saw one whilst walking around Union Square. (I think I'm the first person to ever say, "*%$# YES! Babies R US!") I walked into the store and printed out my cousin's registry, but because I was obviously the last person to buy a gift, the only things left on the list were pacifiers and random cloths. Can we discuss the "cloths" for babies? Is this Capitalism's biggest joke? Burp cloths,wash cloths, cleansing cloths, cloth diapers, and all things terry. And then, to make us feel even dumber for purchasing the same piece of fabric priced differently because some genius at Gerber or Koala Baby gave it a different name, all the cloths are just about the same size as the blankets, receiving or warming, or what have you.
So standing with an arm full of cloths, growing slightly steamed that I was being made a fool of, I kept referring back to the registry to ensure that there was actually a need for these things. I must have had a pained look of confusion on my face because a sales woman approached me.
-Can I help you?
-Um, I think I'm good, thanks.
-Are you shopping for a friend, or?
(Note to self: Stop eating)
-For my cousin's shower.
-Oh, those warming blankets are great.
(Yea? Well I'm glad it was one of 5 things left that this printed list told me to buy.)
-Can I ask you? Is there really a big difference between the function of a warming blanket and say, a burp cloth? I mean, couldn't you basically wipe a baby down or wrap it up with any of these things?
Note to reader: NEVER EVER say that in Babies "R" Us.
The woman gave me a look that told me I was a total ass. I tried to smile it off but she wasn't having it. I walked away to find a unisex pacifier, and left.
Sabrina told me that there were no Babies "R" Us stores in the city so you can imagine my surprise when I saw one whilst walking around Union Square. (I think I'm the first person to ever say, "*%$# YES! Babies R US!") I walked into the store and printed out my cousin's registry, but because I was obviously the last person to buy a gift, the only things left on the list were pacifiers and random cloths. Can we discuss the "cloths" for babies? Is this Capitalism's biggest joke? Burp cloths,wash cloths, cleansing cloths, cloth diapers, and all things terry. And then, to make us feel even dumber for purchasing the same piece of fabric priced differently because some genius at Gerber or Koala Baby gave it a different name, all the cloths are just about the same size as the blankets, receiving or warming, or what have you.
So standing with an arm full of cloths, growing slightly steamed that I was being made a fool of, I kept referring back to the registry to ensure that there was actually a need for these things. I must have had a pained look of confusion on my face because a sales woman approached me.
-Can I help you?
-Um, I think I'm good, thanks.
-Are you shopping for a friend, or?
(Note to self: Stop eating)
-For my cousin's shower.
-Oh, those warming blankets are great.
(Yea? Well I'm glad it was one of 5 things left that this printed list told me to buy.)
-Can I ask you? Is there really a big difference between the function of a warming blanket and say, a burp cloth? I mean, couldn't you basically wipe a baby down or wrap it up with any of these things?
Note to reader: NEVER EVER say that in Babies "R" Us.
The woman gave me a look that told me I was a total ass. I tried to smile it off but she wasn't having it. I walked away to find a unisex pacifier, and left.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
um, hilarious.
Erik (of Gwen Stefani forgery notoriety) sent me this text last night when I landed in NY.
Ball-busting knows no geographic limitation.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
This Might Fit.
I'm not a great packer. Never have been. I try to subscribe to the rule that you shouldn't pack more than you can sprint with. That if you can't start running with your bags at a moment's notice, you've packed too much.
I took this rule to heart after traveling with Allison, one of my roommates in London. On a trip to Germany, she had obviously packed too much. Cd's IN their cases (who does that?!) snacks, clothes, books, basically everything she owned for a 4-day vacay. So much stuff in fact, that she needed about 9 plastic bags to hold the overflow. Seriously. So cut to the end of our trip. The plastic bags were nearly doubled thanks to all the crap she bought and she stared at everything in the hotel lobby wondering how she might make it to the train. We told her to throw most of it away but she refused, so we offered her a head start and she left 20 minutes before us. I know what you're thinking, that it was mean of us not to help. Whatever. 4 of the bags she refused to throw away were groceries from London. I wasn't about to carry 25 lbs of crisps and her entire music library to a train, I just wasn't. After a leisurely breakfast, Jackie, Robin and I happily threw our backpacks on our shoulders and walked to the train station.
About a mile down the road we saw Allison dragging her luggage, holding 3 large bags and (I need to tell you, this is one hundred percent true) kicking all the rest of her things down the street. All of the plastic bags had ripped, and yet, she still didn't get the hint that perhaps it was too much.
I mention this story only because I've felt a bit like Allison in the past few days. I'm packing up to head back to New York and it's forcing me to evaluate what I really need. It's hard to send the contents of your life across the country. The airline says 2 bags but your life says, what, are you kidding me? I don't want to keep taking junk with me coast to coast but it's hard to part with old t-shirts and pants I have no intention of ever wearing again. Every item of clothing is subjected to the test.
Q: When was the last time you wore this sweater?
A: 2002.
Q: Why are you keeping these pants?
A: Well, I might make them into shorts.
Q: Then why are you keeping all these shorts?
A: Well, I might make those into a blanket.
I kept all of my MUNI passes for 3 years thinking that I was going to do something artistic with them but I never came up with anything. Of course, now that they're gone I think they would have made a sweet pair of shorts. I've saved all the letters I've received (yay pen pals!) while I was out here but those are heavy and have forced me to throw out classic old shirts. People, we have too much crap. Or, I have too much crap. I've had Erykah Badu's "Bag Lady" on repeat while packing to remind me of Allison and force me to cut ties with my favorite useless things.
Truly, I want to throw everything away. The packing is driving me nuts. Speaking of which, can we discuss the Styrofoam peanut for a minute? The Styrofoam peanut is bubble wrap's evil twin. Bubble wrap is sleek, and fun, and practical. Everyone loves bubble wrap. No one likes the nut. The Styrofoam peanut is impossible to arrange once in a box--think trying to shovel a hole in the sand right where the waves hit. Just when you think you have a little space in the box, all the peanuts fall over filling it up. I was actually screaming at a box this morning. I'm not proud of it. Wars should not involve bombs or guns. Planes should simply drop tons of Styrofoam peanuts over cities forcing the bad guys to dig out of it.
So I've been looking at everything I own and thinking about it in terms of shipping costs. Yes, I love that jacket, but it's going to put this bag over the 50 lb mark. Leave the gun, take the cannoli. Or rather, toss the wool, pack the chiffon.
Ha. The idea of me owning chiffon anything made me laugh.
I took this rule to heart after traveling with Allison, one of my roommates in London. On a trip to Germany, she had obviously packed too much. Cd's IN their cases (who does that?!) snacks, clothes, books, basically everything she owned for a 4-day vacay. So much stuff in fact, that she needed about 9 plastic bags to hold the overflow. Seriously. So cut to the end of our trip. The plastic bags were nearly doubled thanks to all the crap she bought and she stared at everything in the hotel lobby wondering how she might make it to the train. We told her to throw most of it away but she refused, so we offered her a head start and she left 20 minutes before us. I know what you're thinking, that it was mean of us not to help. Whatever. 4 of the bags she refused to throw away were groceries from London. I wasn't about to carry 25 lbs of crisps and her entire music library to a train, I just wasn't. After a leisurely breakfast, Jackie, Robin and I happily threw our backpacks on our shoulders and walked to the train station.
About a mile down the road we saw Allison dragging her luggage, holding 3 large bags and (I need to tell you, this is one hundred percent true) kicking all the rest of her things down the street. All of the plastic bags had ripped, and yet, she still didn't get the hint that perhaps it was too much.
I mention this story only because I've felt a bit like Allison in the past few days. I'm packing up to head back to New York and it's forcing me to evaluate what I really need. It's hard to send the contents of your life across the country. The airline says 2 bags but your life says, what, are you kidding me? I don't want to keep taking junk with me coast to coast but it's hard to part with old t-shirts and pants I have no intention of ever wearing again. Every item of clothing is subjected to the test.
Q: When was the last time you wore this sweater?
A: 2002.
Q: Why are you keeping these pants?
A: Well, I might make them into shorts.
Q: Then why are you keeping all these shorts?
A: Well, I might make those into a blanket.
I kept all of my MUNI passes for 3 years thinking that I was going to do something artistic with them but I never came up with anything. Of course, now that they're gone I think they would have made a sweet pair of shorts. I've saved all the letters I've received (yay pen pals!) while I was out here but those are heavy and have forced me to throw out classic old shirts. People, we have too much crap. Or, I have too much crap. I've had Erykah Badu's "Bag Lady" on repeat while packing to remind me of Allison and force me to cut ties with my favorite useless things.
Truly, I want to throw everything away. The packing is driving me nuts. Speaking of which, can we discuss the Styrofoam peanut for a minute? The Styrofoam peanut is bubble wrap's evil twin. Bubble wrap is sleek, and fun, and practical. Everyone loves bubble wrap. No one likes the nut. The Styrofoam peanut is impossible to arrange once in a box--think trying to shovel a hole in the sand right where the waves hit. Just when you think you have a little space in the box, all the peanuts fall over filling it up. I was actually screaming at a box this morning. I'm not proud of it. Wars should not involve bombs or guns. Planes should simply drop tons of Styrofoam peanuts over cities forcing the bad guys to dig out of it.
So I've been looking at everything I own and thinking about it in terms of shipping costs. Yes, I love that jacket, but it's going to put this bag over the 50 lb mark. Leave the gun, take the cannoli. Or rather, toss the wool, pack the chiffon.
Ha. The idea of me owning chiffon anything made me laugh.
Monday, April 09, 2007
I'd Hate To See The Old Day.
I just read that Celine Dion's Vegas show, "Celine Dion: A New Day," will end it's run at Caesar's Palace in December. The show has been going on for over 4 years and while I haven't seen it, I'll bet you my uterus each show ends with "My heart will go on."
Perhaps more impressive than the ticket sales (over 90% of seats sold at each performance) and far more interesting than Ms. Dion's stamina (she's a robot, everyone knows that, right?) is the fact that there wasn't a repeat episode of Jonestown among the employees at the Coliseum.
The show's creator, Franco Dragone (best name ever) said the performances have varied over the years and that the last show in December will be much different than the opening show years ago.
Sidebar, your honor.
-Celine Dion still sings Celine Dion songs at these shows, correct?
-Well, yes.
-Then I don't care how you spin it Dragon, it's the same day. It's like the worst version of Groundhog Day, with 45 costume changes and heartfelt talks given by Dion to the audience as she flies around on swings.
"You know people-- (rises into air). Whoa! What ees dis that is happening to me? (Flies from one side of the stage to the other). You know, growing up in Canada I used to fly around my house at night because there was no where on the floor to sleep. I have 36 brothers and sisters (Flies into a giant bubble). Hey! Look at me in this bubble! This reminds me of a song. Can I sing dee song for you people? It's called, 'My heart will go on.' It's from a little movie about a boat. I hope you like it."
And while the flying, the bubble, and the song were the essence of the show, it was a New Day, everyday. For $600 a ticket, people could get a sneak preview of Hell.
That's a tough act to follow. The Coliseum, the arena Caesar's built for the show, cost almost $100 million. They'll need to find an artist come December who can:
A) Fill those seats
B) Act semi-human despite actual robot/alien status
C) Keep that Hell on Earth vibe fresh
Michael Bolton comes to mind but even Vegas has standards. My money is on Clay Aiken filling the spot. The show will be called, "Clay Aiken: A Thousand Different Ways" and it will be done the same way every night for 5-years.
You owe me a dollar if it happens
Perhaps more impressive than the ticket sales (over 90% of seats sold at each performance) and far more interesting than Ms. Dion's stamina (she's a robot, everyone knows that, right?) is the fact that there wasn't a repeat episode of Jonestown among the employees at the Coliseum.
The show's creator, Franco Dragone (best name ever) said the performances have varied over the years and that the last show in December will be much different than the opening show years ago.
Sidebar, your honor.
-Celine Dion still sings Celine Dion songs at these shows, correct?
-Well, yes.
-Then I don't care how you spin it Dragon, it's the same day. It's like the worst version of Groundhog Day, with 45 costume changes and heartfelt talks given by Dion to the audience as she flies around on swings.
"You know people-- (rises into air). Whoa! What ees dis that is happening to me? (Flies from one side of the stage to the other). You know, growing up in Canada I used to fly around my house at night because there was no where on the floor to sleep. I have 36 brothers and sisters (Flies into a giant bubble). Hey! Look at me in this bubble! This reminds me of a song. Can I sing dee song for you people? It's called, 'My heart will go on.' It's from a little movie about a boat. I hope you like it."
And while the flying, the bubble, and the song were the essence of the show, it was a New Day, everyday. For $600 a ticket, people could get a sneak preview of Hell.
That's a tough act to follow. The Coliseum, the arena Caesar's built for the show, cost almost $100 million. They'll need to find an artist come December who can:
A) Fill those seats
B) Act semi-human despite actual robot/alien status
C) Keep that Hell on Earth vibe fresh
Michael Bolton comes to mind but even Vegas has standards. My money is on Clay Aiken filling the spot. The show will be called, "Clay Aiken: A Thousand Different Ways" and it will be done the same way every night for 5-years.
You owe me a dollar if it happens
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
