Like the rest of the world, I've been following the election fallout in Iran, which is admittedly much more life-or-death than anything I could possibly complain about in my own life (like how to find a man who isn't gay, or crazy, or hocked up on pills, or hiding an explosive secret - which nine times out of ten is the gay thing unless it's the "I didn't realize it would be legal in Vegas" thing) and it occurs to me, as I continue reading these live blogs and watching videos, how very far removed I am from true political revolution.
Truthfully, as a kid, my ideas about life outside the United States were pretty skewed - as in, without the aid of that newfangled interweb, I imagined other countries like movie sets from 1930s, where villagers wandered about the cobbled streets singing and curtseying to one another and then hiding from the Nazis, like an obscene version of The Sound of Music. This I blame on an adolescence spent in the deep south, where "what are you doing Friday night?" was usually answered with"depends on how much pot you have;" life as a result moved like maple syrup, and was generally humid and unchanging and blonde and fake-tanned and much, much preferred to any other style of living - a culture sustained inside a snowglobe. Anything outside of it was therefore wrong, or lesser, or an other. Like on Lost. I sometimes liken it to the way I felt about Amy Jo Young, the varsity cheerleader who sat across from me in English, who in my band-geek brain was so confident and smart and athletic and awesome that I wanted to punch her in the face with her own hairbrush; Southerners, similarly, always worried that they'd have to defend their popular awesomeness against a perpetually jealous, hairbrush-wielding Universe.
I'm now years removed from South Florida - although I still occasionally find myself at war with the me who lived for years in that palm-tree, douchebag filled snowglobe; the me who has since become acutely self-aware of all acts of douchebaggery - such as my inability to quit complaining about the endless construction on the A-C subway line, or why God has apparently set a plague of rain upon New York City (five days in a row? Really? Are we in biblical times?) meanwhile in Iran, citizens everywhere are rising up in revolution, being thrown into jail or being beaten in the streets for problems that are actually REAL. And so I find myself wishing I didn't have as many fake problems (guys who whine, guys who spend too much time with my dog, guys who are teachers and refer to the children as "those annoying little motherfuckers") and could do more for Iran in a way that is real - although thus far have only come up with adjusting the color on my Twitter avatar (please see How To Start a Political Revolution in 140 Characters or Less, Bitches - page 3 of the Twitter FAQ).
But I also keep picturing the 2008 presidential hulaballoo - how passionate we all were; how my friends and I distributed "Yes We Can" buttons to anyone who would listen; how we posted viral videos of Barack Obama on the campaign trail and marched peacefully in protest of Prop 8. I remember the dual lines of voters that stretched from Broadway and 86th to 8th Avenue and beyond, onto West End Avenue; in the midst of cut pay and brutally cold weather, we all ditched our day jobs and stood on line for several agonizing hours to vote and make our voices heard. And later that night, when we realized that we could, in fact, make a difference, we all made our way down to Times Square, where a joyous crowd had gathered, and we clapped and honked and cheered and hugged and behaved in ways that, on any other night, would have gotten us fucked up and sold for cash in Chinatown. But instead, we were part of something much bigger. The freedom of voting, of making a choice both individually and together - gave us hope.
And THAT, my friends, is why fair election is so important - freedom of choice is what sustains a nation, and the desire for it will always be more powerful than the need to terrorize. So welcome to the 21st Century, Ahmadenijad. Wake up and smell the Twitter.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Tales of my Grandfather
Last month I flew to Florida for my grandfather's funeral, and as is typical for any Rodent family function, we all took part in a bit of inappropriate story-telling - interspersed with some bickering, some eating, some out-and-out fighting, and some hot-boxing of the Ford Focus in the parking lot of a TooJays (never let it be said that a Ford is good for nothing.) As a result, I now know way more than I ever needed to about the lives of my grandparents - such as how to correctly be hidden from the Nazis (hint: ceilings are good for storage), how my grandmother was successfully "wooed" by my grandfather (he chased her down a boardwalk until she had nowhere else to run, and then he tricked her into posing for a photograph), how the two of them overcame boredom (by getting kicked out of assisted living facilities for general maliciousness ), and how my grandfather had once instigated a bar-fight, just for fun. ("It was his birthday," according to my grandmother. "And we were broke. It was the 70s. What else was there to do?")
Flashforward to yesterday: my mother and I were talking on the phone about my Grandpa Murray, and as I was winding my way down Broadway, we somehow segued into the fact that I hate walking anywhere near the TKTS booth on 47th, where crowds like to congregate and change directions every thirteen seconds like Pac Man characters - and she responded with this absolutely insane story about my grandfather.
"He was on his way back to the house with your grandmother," she said, "When some guy in a Gremlin made an illegal left-hand turn in front of him. So your grandfather follows the guy until they get to the next red light, and then he gets out of his car, knocks politely on the guy's window, waits for the guy to roll it down, tells him him to fuck off, rips the door clean off the car, and then just drives off with your grandmother."
"Wait," I said. "You're saying he just... ripped the whole fucking door off the hinges and left?"
"Well, he wasn't going to take the door with him," reasoned my mother. "How would he have done that? Ridiculous."
At this point, of course, I needed to ask that all-important question:"Why the hell?" (which is also known as "What the fuck?")
"He was a fighter," said my Mother. "An iron worker. His parents were immigrants. What else do you expect of a man who manages to claw his way to 90?" And then, as if this should further clarify everything for me: "It was the 70s."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Shit was crazy back then."
"Are you kidding me?" I said. "How do you just... rip the door off some poor asshole's car?"
"You become a bodybuilder first," said my mother. "Although your grandmother told him she didn't think he could do it. She lost that bet."
This fucked-up conversation (like many) of course segued into talk of how blood is crazier than water, and ended with my mother asking, "Aren't you proud to come from such stock?" which left behind the disturbing image of my grandfather as some crazed Donkey Kong - so contrary to the image I'd had from early childhood, of the big softie who'd let me dance on his feet while improvising songs peppered with Yiddish insults, mainly about how my heft would eventually kill him. (The Chorus: "You're so heavy, Oiye vey - I'm falling off my feet, Oiye vey!")
This, of course, made me wonder whether I should question my own inclinations - such as the urge to punch every pedestrian with an oversized camera and/or child on a leash between sixty-sixth street and the village. Or the urge to say, "What do you think 'out of mediums' means, douchebag? Think hard - there might be a quiz." But even more importantly, if my DNA is destined to always be torn between gentle absurdity and psychotic cartoon gorilla behavior, what does that mean for my chances of being properly matched at eHarmony.com? (Fucking online dating.)
Anyway.
This I will ponder for the remainder of my Monday.
Flashforward to yesterday: my mother and I were talking on the phone about my Grandpa Murray, and as I was winding my way down Broadway, we somehow segued into the fact that I hate walking anywhere near the TKTS booth on 47th, where crowds like to congregate and change directions every thirteen seconds like Pac Man characters - and she responded with this absolutely insane story about my grandfather.
"He was on his way back to the house with your grandmother," she said, "When some guy in a Gremlin made an illegal left-hand turn in front of him. So your grandfather follows the guy until they get to the next red light, and then he gets out of his car, knocks politely on the guy's window, waits for the guy to roll it down, tells him him to fuck off, rips the door clean off the car, and then just drives off with your grandmother."
"Wait," I said. "You're saying he just... ripped the whole fucking door off the hinges and left?"
"Well, he wasn't going to take the door with him," reasoned my mother. "How would he have done that? Ridiculous."
At this point, of course, I needed to ask that all-important question:"Why the hell?" (which is also known as "What the fuck?")
"He was a fighter," said my Mother. "An iron worker. His parents were immigrants. What else do you expect of a man who manages to claw his way to 90?" And then, as if this should further clarify everything for me: "It was the 70s."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Shit was crazy back then."
"Are you kidding me?" I said. "How do you just... rip the door off some poor asshole's car?"
"You become a bodybuilder first," said my mother. "Although your grandmother told him she didn't think he could do it. She lost that bet."
This fucked-up conversation (like many) of course segued into talk of how blood is crazier than water, and ended with my mother asking, "Aren't you proud to come from such stock?" which left behind the disturbing image of my grandfather as some crazed Donkey Kong - so contrary to the image I'd had from early childhood, of the big softie who'd let me dance on his feet while improvising songs peppered with Yiddish insults, mainly about how my heft would eventually kill him. (The Chorus: "You're so heavy, Oiye vey - I'm falling off my feet, Oiye vey!")
This, of course, made me wonder whether I should question my own inclinations - such as the urge to punch every pedestrian with an oversized camera and/or child on a leash between sixty-sixth street and the village. Or the urge to say, "What do you think 'out of mediums' means, douchebag? Think hard - there might be a quiz." But even more importantly, if my DNA is destined to always be torn between gentle absurdity and psychotic cartoon gorilla behavior, what does that mean for my chances of being properly matched at eHarmony.com? (Fucking online dating.)
Anyway.
This I will ponder for the remainder of my Monday.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Recession In The City: Every Day is Festivus For The Rest of Us
As I poured over my resume and cover letter (for the eightieth time in a day) I found myself thinking fondly about my old job, and my old desk (where, beneath my monitor, I had set up an entire "nun bowling" figurine scenario, of which I was particularly fond), which got me to thinking about the movie, Office Space, and poor Milton with his red swingline stapler. All that poor dude ever wanted was to staple shit and watch the squirrels mate - And look where he ended up.
This thought segued into further thought about my own situation, and how, one day when I'm accepting an academy award for best original screenplay, I am going to read two acceptance speeches. The first will comprise all the people I wish to thank. The second will comprise all the people who can fuck off.
Admittedly, this fantasy devolved even further (me at my high school reunion with six Oscars, me at the 2019 Oscars challenging Angelina Jolie to a duel, me becoming the next Real Housewife of New York City) until I had to step back from my own brain. For one thing, I'll never beat Jolie in a duel if I don't start training immediately. For another, I can't go back to my old job and burn the building down. I simply don't have enough matches. Finally, I'm worried I sound like a villain from Austin Powers, determined to destroy all who have wronged me, except I don't have any sharks armed with frickin laser beams and am thus left to wonder what else in my home might be more awesome with laser beams (answer: everything), and as I cannot afford laser beams and have no other suitable tools for villainy, I find myself wanting to punch people I don't even know, simply because they can afford to eat.
I suppose my point is that in situations like this, it's better to laugh than to punch people. No - seriously.
This thought segued into further thought about my own situation, and how, one day when I'm accepting an academy award for best original screenplay, I am going to read two acceptance speeches. The first will comprise all the people I wish to thank. The second will comprise all the people who can fuck off.
Admittedly, this fantasy devolved even further (me at my high school reunion with six Oscars, me at the 2019 Oscars challenging Angelina Jolie to a duel, me becoming the next Real Housewife of New York City) until I had to step back from my own brain. For one thing, I'll never beat Jolie in a duel if I don't start training immediately. For another, I can't go back to my old job and burn the building down. I simply don't have enough matches. Finally, I'm worried I sound like a villain from Austin Powers, determined to destroy all who have wronged me, except I don't have any sharks armed with frickin laser beams and am thus left to wonder what else in my home might be more awesome with laser beams (answer: everything), and as I cannot afford laser beams and have no other suitable tools for villainy, I find myself wanting to punch people I don't even know, simply because they can afford to eat.
I suppose my point is that in situations like this, it's better to laugh than to punch people. No - seriously.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Steve Jobs - take away the "jobs" and he's just "Steve."
Just like any typical American these days, I find myself feeling a bit like Harry Burns from When Harry Met Sally - insisting on reading the last page of any book first, just in case of unexpected death by Malaria. (What if insidious, exotic mosquitos rise up like the Terminator and take over the subway? In a life without health insurance, I can assure you that hostile, mosquito-based-illnesses are a totally valid concern.) In any case, I found myself reading the last in a series of articles on The Huffington Post today - courtesy of their News Articles That Make You Want To Maybe Build A Batcave And Wait Out The End Of Days Section. Apparently, Apple shareholders wouldn't mind booking a private place, like maybe Hogwarts' Room of Requirement or Punky Brewster's treehouse or 1985, for their next board meeting - no cell phones allowed! No handhelds allowed! No emailing allowed! No streaming to the website allowed! Clearly, this can mean only one of two things. Either 1 - finally, FINALLY (please god let it be true), Sonic the Hedgehog has come to iphone and now the iphone is too awesome for its own meetings, or 2 - Steve Jobs is driving everyone crazy with his newfound facebook-for-iphone obsession. I can only imagine the kinds of shit he posts to Twitter.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Tragic Snark: The Oscars: Let's Get This Party Started!
Dudes, I'm not gonna lie - The Oscars totally had me at Hello. Perhaps more than any other stupid awards show (except for the Grammys which - let's face it - is its own mail-order basket of douchalicious crazy, and here's a question to ponder for next year, Grammy organizers: what does your party say about you when the best dressed person in attendance is Kathy Griffin?) Anyway. As I was saying. The Oscars are... the greatest acknowledgment of art. High Art. The highest... Oh, fuck it.
So, okay. I don't really give a shit who wins tonight; at the end of the evening, all of those wealthy bitches will go home with free lasik eye surgery coupons regardless of whether they get a statue (meanwhile, I'm still wearing an outdated prescription and polishing off my third Twinkie, which reminds me - I'd like to thank Hostess Pastries for such unprecedented, sponge-cake-creamy goodness, Mom and Dad for the blind thing, and of course, God - both for affording me the ability to recognize Retarded and the right to mock it when doused in sequins and desperation - thank you, all of you, from the bottom of my heart. )
Moving on.
Here we go with a few fashion highlights (or "Fuglights" as it were...)
Miley Cyrus apparently decided to come dressed as the sun. Or Jem, Barbie's Prom date. Or She-Ra. Or her grandmother's cubic zirconian Brooch. Of course, in a perfect world Miley Cyrus wouldn't be allowed at the Oscars at all. Or anywhere else. Still, she is the picture of tinfoil sunshine.
And here we have... Angelina Jolie. Oh, world - I cannot tell you how so very, VERY over Angelina Jolie I am. Sure, she's married to a man who is literally The Walking Multiple Orgasm, and together, the two of them have adopted all of Africa, but now that she's become Queen of the American Celebrity Monarchy, every time she opens her mouth to blabber in her Weird Regal I-Am-Jolie-Speak, I just want to slap her across the face and say, "Bitch, please. You used to wear Billy Bob Thorton's blood in a vial around your neck."
This year, Regal Weirdo Jolie's dress is pretty, but.. uninspired. But my guess is those green earrings will get a lot of attention. I might just have to pick some up next week at Kmart. Oh, the pressure to be like Jolie. Damn you, Jolie.
Oh, Vanessa Hutchins. I only have one question for you. Why.... are you here? And why... did you borrow Scarlet O'Hara's mourning gown? (Okay, that was two questions.) Did you lose a bet with Janine Garafalo and Elvira? (Okay fine, three questions.)
Amy Adams, where... do I even start? First, I loved you much better in Enchanted, when you were wearing cotton-candy colored drapes. Second - did you not get that memo about red hair? And red dresses? Maybe before the next awards show, you should have a word with Agent Scully.
Beyonce, you are my favorite - did you steal this off a depressed lawn chair outside your Great Aunt's house? Also, why are you hooked arm-in-arm with Sasha Fierce? (You know she's not real, right?) Finally, I know this dress shows off the crazy (CRAZY!!) awesomeness of your biceps, but your gold headlights are pointed in two totally different directions.
Leslie Mann - so amazing in Knocked Up - apparently doubles as a Solar Wind panel. Good to see celebs willing to go Green for the environment.
Tilda Swinton came dressed as two completely different garbage bags, with cinches set in strategic places. And by strategic, I mean unfortunate. But maybe this is symbolism - the black and eggshell of the dress represent the good and evil in our world and the changing tides of personal responsibility and... No, I can't. It's just ridiculous. Also, I think the dress understands I'm talking about it and could probably take me.
Amanda Seyfried - today on Unwrapped, Holiday Edition.
Other Related Items:
1. Hugh Jackman + Beyonce Knowles + Marching Band + Dancing Boys + High School Musical + Mamma Mia + the look on Penelope Cruz' face = NO
2. Ben Stiller + Joaquin Pheonix's Ted Kaczynski beard = Awesome
3. 5000 categories + old people who can't read teleprompters + speeches + cut to Brad and Angelina = Time I Will Never Get Back
4. Judd Apatow + Seth Rogen + James Franco = GOLD
5. Slumdog Millionaire > Benjamin Button
6. Winslet > Jolie
7. Silence > Vanessa Hutchins
8. Nose > Sarah Jessica Parker
So, okay. I don't really give a shit who wins tonight; at the end of the evening, all of those wealthy bitches will go home with free lasik eye surgery coupons regardless of whether they get a statue (meanwhile, I'm still wearing an outdated prescription and polishing off my third Twinkie, which reminds me - I'd like to thank Hostess Pastries for such unprecedented, sponge-cake-creamy goodness, Mom and Dad for the blind thing, and of course, God - both for affording me the ability to recognize Retarded and the right to mock it when doused in sequins and desperation - thank you, all of you, from the bottom of my heart. )
Moving on.
Here we go with a few fashion highlights (or "Fuglights" as it were...)
Miley Cyrus apparently decided to come dressed as the sun. Or Jem, Barbie's Prom date. Or She-Ra. Or her grandmother's cubic zirconian Brooch. Of course, in a perfect world Miley Cyrus wouldn't be allowed at the Oscars at all. Or anywhere else. Still, she is the picture of tinfoil sunshine.
And here we have... Angelina Jolie. Oh, world - I cannot tell you how so very, VERY over Angelina Jolie I am. Sure, she's married to a man who is literally The Walking Multiple Orgasm, and together, the two of them have adopted all of Africa, but now that she's become Queen of the American Celebrity Monarchy, every time she opens her mouth to blabber in her Weird Regal I-Am-Jolie-Speak, I just want to slap her across the face and say, "Bitch, please. You used to wear Billy Bob Thorton's blood in a vial around your neck."
This year, Regal Weirdo Jolie's dress is pretty, but.. uninspired. But my guess is those green earrings will get a lot of attention. I might just have to pick some up next week at Kmart. Oh, the pressure to be like Jolie. Damn you, Jolie.
Oh, Vanessa Hutchins. I only have one question for you. Why.... are you here? And why... did you borrow Scarlet O'Hara's mourning gown? (Okay, that was two questions.) Did you lose a bet with Janine Garafalo and Elvira? (Okay fine, three questions.)
Amy Adams, where... do I even start? First, I loved you much better in Enchanted, when you were wearing cotton-candy colored drapes. Second - did you not get that memo about red hair? And red dresses? Maybe before the next awards show, you should have a word with Agent Scully.
Beyonce, you are my favorite - did you steal this off a depressed lawn chair outside your Great Aunt's house? Also, why are you hooked arm-in-arm with Sasha Fierce? (You know she's not real, right?) Finally, I know this dress shows off the crazy (CRAZY!!) awesomeness of your biceps, but your gold headlights are pointed in two totally different directions.
Leslie Mann - so amazing in Knocked Up - apparently doubles as a Solar Wind panel. Good to see celebs willing to go Green for the environment.
Tilda Swinton came dressed as two completely different garbage bags, with cinches set in strategic places. And by strategic, I mean unfortunate. But maybe this is symbolism - the black and eggshell of the dress represent the good and evil in our world and the changing tides of personal responsibility and... No, I can't. It's just ridiculous. Also, I think the dress understands I'm talking about it and could probably take me.
Amanda Seyfried - today on Unwrapped, Holiday Edition.
Other Related Items:
1. Hugh Jackman + Beyonce Knowles + Marching Band + Dancing Boys + High School Musical + Mamma Mia + the look on Penelope Cruz' face = NO
2. Ben Stiller + Joaquin Pheonix's Ted Kaczynski beard = Awesome
3. 5000 categories + old people who can't read teleprompters + speeches + cut to Brad and Angelina = Time I Will Never Get Back
4. Judd Apatow + Seth Rogen + James Franco = GOLD
5. Slumdog Millionaire > Benjamin Button
6. Winslet > Jolie
7. Silence > Vanessa Hutchins
8. Nose > Sarah Jessica Parker
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Office: No Work Is Good Work
Oh, reruns - how I hate you so. In a perfect world, there would never be reruns. (Or war. Or famine. Or Ann Coulter. Or blue cheese dressing. Seriously, people? It looks like baby puke.)
Sadly, Baby Shower is my least favorite episode of the year - seconded only by the episode in which Meredith turned into Elisabeth Moss from Girl, Interrupted, and Michael proved to the world that clearly, he has never watched a single episode of Intervention.)
The premise: Michael plans a baby shower for Jan's Mail Order Sperm Baby, justifying to the office underlings that because he and Jan once lived together, the baby must be his. (Hint, Michael: That only works on the Tyra Banks Show.) He even goes so far as to plan out birthing scenarios with Dwight (who, let's face it, is a much more likely candidate to mother Michael's children) in a cold-open that I may never forget, if only for the sight of Rain Wilson pretending to push a giant watermelon out of an invisible vagina. If only I'd had that visual back in high school.
Moving on.
More Plottage: New HR-Rep Holly Flax (AKA: The M.C. Hammer to Michael's Vanilla Ice) tries to put out friendly feelers for Jan, who prefers to chomp up friendliness with her Eye Teeth. Meanwhile, Jim is frustrated that Pam's still in NY and Pam is frustrated that Jim can't talk louder than a bunch of crotchety washing machines. Consequently, Pam calls Jim to gush about some tampons and this one friend she has at art school that...whatever. I went to get a Ring Ding. Anyway, nobody cares, including Jim. (Although it is indeed better than listening to Jan sing about whores and preachers banging like monkeys outside the church. As an aside, I sure hope little AssTurd enjoys getting the milk for free when everyone else has to pay 120 freakin dollars - or $12.50 on TDF if you're smart and go for the discount because HEL-LO, nobody goes to see Chicago on Broadway anymore. Like at all. Ever. Sorry Melora Hardin.)
So. I'm not sure what's up with this weird, uneven mix of slapstick and subtlety this year - if last night's episode were a person, it'd be that confused chick on What Not To Wear who pairs leggings with Converse and weeps because she doesn't understand why velvet and plaid don't live together in harmony; obviously, there's a pretty girl inside her somewhere, but how far beneath the camel-toe and the over-the-top Hypercolor and the desperation to be as irreverent as 30 Rock?
But maybe this is just the unavoidable side-effect of popularity: when you start getting requests to air episodes immediately following the Superbowl, its only a matter of time before you've got to hit someone in the crotch with a football or set Meredith on fire. And that's fine. But can we perhaps come to some sort of happy middle ground? Maybe limiting the number of vandalized copy machines Michael throws down the stairs? Or the number of cars he drives into a lake? And if Dwight is really going to do battle with a $1500 Indestructi-Stroller for the duration of the episode, can we at least pretend that someplace in the Dunder Mifflin Universe, these douchebag actions have equal but opposite douchebag consequences? Granted, I spend about 90% of my day either looking up cute baby animals on the internet or shooting at cute baby animals on the internet, and let's face it, anything's better than work - no really, ANYTHING - like there's a list I've actually made up that includes jail, hanging out in a bomb shelter with the cast of High School Musical, and getting punched in the face by a fifth-grader - but my guess is the line would be drawn when I started throwing strollers off of buildings (which I only ever do when money is involved.)
But where was I?
In the end, to quoth Kevin: "It sounds like jail is better than Dunder Mifflin."
Yes, it occasionally is - but only if you're Ryan.
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