That's Just The Booze Talking

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Dreams Are Free Motherfucker!

And so is Hotmail. Ergo, you can contact us thusly: Be gentle; we are thin-skinned and shaky.

Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions

So last night we attended some dress-up event in Times Square that had something to do with Celebrating Women. While the free wine more or less erased much of the data we passively collected, our notes reveal that a) Kimora Lee Simmons is “tall and stupid,” b) Hannah Storm “suffers from EYE DISEASE,” c) Paula Zahn “has a geometrically perfect face, like a rhombus” and d) we apparently intend to develop “a new genre of Internet entertainment: Frankenberry Slash Fiction.” This last entry was underlined several times and was embellished by a crudely drawn rendering of the cereal pitchmonster--essentially, we just sketched an ass with a clock sticking out of it .

Anyway, to make a pointless story short, while we loudly noted that every piece of entertainment honored at the gala could be comfortably slotted in one of three general categories--Women In Peril, Here Comes a Beatdown and My Shameful Baby Area Has a Disease--we discovered that the classy older woman seated to our immediate left was paying particular attention to our jottings and (noisy) observations. It put us off our game a little, for as much as we like to posture as some kind of Italianate Cro-Mag ((picture Laverne DeFazio's dad minus the (inevitable) ass hair and the undying love for Edna Babish)), deep down we really do have a lot of respect for the skirts. But we forged ahead, and it was only upon reciting the only joke we can ever remember, viz, what's green and smells like pork?*, that we realized that the now sort of angry-looking woman the next table setting over was none other than Ms. Gloria Steinem.

Famous people fucking love us.

*Kermit's fingers. Bwah!

Punk Band: Larry Taint*

While there's no way in hell we're plunking down $10.50 to see Bewitched, it would be an utterly genius move if the director** were to replace Will Farrell with another actor who looks vaguely like him three quarters of the way through the movie. Everyone would pretend they didn't notice and later both Ferrell and his replacement would die of a terrible disease.

Also: Here is a review we wrote after downloading the New Pornographer's upcoming third album, Twin Cinema. It makes no sense.

Here we are, the broken spine of a lime wedge trapped between the melting ice of the night's second TUD***. Upstairs, the neighbor with the prosthetic hand is listening to Dido, while somewhere down the hall, the 14-year-old kid who visits his mother in the city on weekends is Roughing Up The Suspect with a little help from a Pottery Barn catalog. Outside, a woman waiting for the M101 bus thinks about all the frankfurter she's had up the old coal shoot and mentally gives herself the thumbs down. Then, like in that Magnolia**** movie, this song plays and everybody sings along, you, me, the plastic hand man, the whacking kid, the slattern at the bus stop. Jason Robards looks on from Hell's fiery furnace and says, “What the fuck?”

* This is a play on the name of Darren Stevens' boss. And by taint we mean, well, you know. Look alive, people.
** Wait, it's Nora Ephron. This will not happen.
*** Totally Unnecessary Drink
**** “Respect the cock.”

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Anger is an Energy

Can't recall exactly where we found this meme**, but as our tank is just about empty, we thought this would make for a quick and breezy way to generate content for this, the laziest blog in the 11215. Herewith, Five Things We Hate That Everyone Else (Inexplicably) Loves:

1) The Beach: Everything about the beach sucks like that dude from the Spin Doctors trying to eke one last puff out of his Marmaduke Cock bong. (No really; we saw one for sale on Craig's List.) We hate the sand, which gets on and in everything; we hate the sun, which burns our skin and makes us sweat; we hate the water, which is little more than a cauldron of tooth-studded death; we hate the boredom and the lousy music from the people two blankets down and the children and the seagulls and the weird shark egg sacks that wash ashore and seeing hairy back fat quiver as Men Who Should Know Better cavort without their shirts.

2) Other People: No use for 'em. Think about it: Every time you're standing in an interminable line at the bank, who's in front of you? Other People. And whenever somebody grabs the last seat on the train in the morning when you've not quite got your sea legs yet, who's responsible for making you stand? Other People. And who's that screwing the cute brunette on the other side of the office, the one that looks like she probably has a really good CD collection and whose idea of recreation is likely to be something along the lines of a little beer, a little pot and a whole lot of knickers-free lolling around on her featherbed? You guessed it: Other People. Other People also make more money, are blessed with solid stools and don't hear voices*** whenever they bend down to tie their shoes. Hate, hate, hate.

3) The White Stripes. For about 30 different reasons, none of which have to do with their actual songs. And while we know that this is the kind of hipster douchepickle reductionism that makes talking about music with anyone in this blasted metropolis such a fucking chore, we still think the peripheral aspects of a band are pretty important. (For example, we had a hard time admiring Arcade Fire because one of the guys in the band looks a little like that Napoleon Dynamite turkey.)

Here are a few of the things that drive us to distraction whenever we find ourselves contemplating Jack White's little rock n' roll combo:

a) Enough already with trying to convince me that Meg White is some kind of indie love goddess. If she worked at a bank, you wouldn't take a second look at her. Besides, she plays drums like John Bonham, only retarded someone falling down a flight of stairs with a tray full of martini glasses.

b) The whole Chinatown she's-my-sister, she's-my-wife shtick is at once clownish and boring. No one cares.

c) Telling people that Elephant is about “the death of the sweetheart” and attempting to maintain some kind of tubercular viscount's sense of doomed romanticism was bad enough. But courting Renee “Citrus Puss” Zellwegger and handing out beatings to the pimply guy in Von Bondies suggests that Jack White isn't so much finding it harder to be a gentleman every day as he's just bughouse crazy.

4) Non-Smokers. Don't get us wrong, we don't smoke. Never have, never will. Not tobacco, anyway. But we don't care what anyone says: Girls who smoke, fuck. Not necessarily us, mind you, but there you have it. We have nothing but empirical evidence to back up our blanket generalization--ask us sometime about the ineffable superiority of oral sex when administered by waitresses--and you're free to take our assertion with a healthy dose of skepticism. But we know what we know.

5) Carbon: We don't care if carbon is the building block of life, the greatest element in the entire periodic table is Lithium, because it keeps us from trying to fuck the toaster. Carbon can go suck it.

** Oh wait, now we remember.

***For the record, these voices are those of ornery Muppet octogenarians Stadler and Waldorf. We shit you not.