A man today walked into the local video rental outlet in suburban Austin, Texas, today and rented a film traditionally known as a “Chick Flick”. The man, William Brennan, 28, had previously only rented action-adventure films, horror pictures, and movies with gratuitous nudity and sorority-girl antics.
“I really like the movies with lots of T&A, the kind that usually have ‘National Lampoon’s’ somewhere in the title,” the embarrassed Brennan said at the checkout counter of the Video Hut. “I don’t know what made me grab for ‘In Her Shoes’ but I figured it was okay because Cameron Diaz is pretty hot, right?”
Seeming to regret his decision more after several female renters laughed and one overly pretty man waved, Brennan became defensive and violent. “F*** you all, it doesn’t mean anything.” He then pointed out that a creepy older looking man in a long overcoat was attempting to rent the latest Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen movie “Young Hot Twins”. “Come on, at least I’m not taking home some really girly movie like ‘Rent’ or something,” Brennan said intimating that he was well within the limits of chick-flick renting for strong heterosexual men.
“He’ll prolly be okay,” reassured assistant manager Sandy O’Connor, 16 ½. “Checking over his other vids and seeing that he rented ‘Animal House’ three times tells me he isn’t going to make a mistake like this all the time.”
When asked about the problems presented by likely Academy Award winning film “Brokeback Mountain”, General Manager Sammy Alito, 18, professed uncertainty. “Who the f*** knows, man. I mean, it’s like a serious film, so maybe there is an excuse to see it if you aren’t a big queen but I don’t know. I guess, you know, I’ll have to preview it for my customers, but I mean, I don’t want to see it or anything it’s just my job.”
Reassuring reporters that he would return the movie promptly because he would definitely only view it once and really hated late fees, Brennan remained defiant about his choice. “Look, someone told me you get to see her melons and I do have a girlfriend.”
“In Her Shoes”, a Columbia-TriStar release from last year, was rated PG-13 for mild language and an insipid plot.
Staff Reporter
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
My Happy Valentine
Two years ago on February 17th, 2004, a light snow began to fall around our apartment in Austin, Texas. At the time I was living with my wife, Trina, in a one-bedroom rental on the north side of town. The apartment was small, but well furnished and comfortable for the two of us. We could have easily afforded a more luxurious or prestigious apartment, but we intended to save our money so that we could buy a nice house in the suburbs some years into the future. Save now, enjoy later was our unspoken motto. Our entire life together had been guided by that principle to the point that as the first flakes spiraled towards the Earth from the Heavens on that evening, we not longer considered it a principle, we reflexively lived the ideal.
Trina, an Austin Police Department Cadet, was busy studying for some exams she would take the next morning. I, an underemployed writer, was busy “studying” the television. As we noticed the crystalline shapes piling onto our patio, we stopped for only a moment before deciding that we absolutely must run out and play in the snow. We didn’t hesitate to throw on our thin coats and good shoes and just dash into the winter landscape that was so alien to this part of Texas. We considered nothing but that we had to embrace an opportunity that did not come often to Austin residents. The cold, the wet, the lateness of the hour – none of those would deter us. An activity so antithetical to our motto of delayed gratification, playing in the snow on a “school night”, suddenly became the most important thing as we raced around making snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other. For those few hours, some of the most wonderful of my entire life, we were children again without a care or responsibility in the world.
But as I reflect on that time two years ago, I can only think of two things: how magnificent and precious a time that was and how wrong I was about how “child-like” we were.
The first thoughts about how wonderful that evening was I cannot explain to someone who has never experienced real love and the subsequent joy that can come from that almost otherworldly emotion. Anyone who has seen a good movie or had a nice walk in the park can speak about being entertained or about having a good time. But without the element of true love, a pleasant event is just that – pleasant. Joy, with the almost religious connotation of rapture, is a breathtaking emotion: the combination of deep love and overwhelming happiness that banishes all the darkness of the world with a blinding light of total bliss. For someone who has not had that total devotion to another human being, a night like mine two years ago would be inexplicable; just a walk in the park with snow. But for someone who knows, it was a moment to be held and cherished and remembered as a rare time of real joy.
As for the second thought, it is only in hindsight that I realize that children do not experience events the same way adults do (duh!) and it is neither fair to them or to me to claim we were acting like children. On the surface, both Trina and I behaved as children might: we shouted and giggled, made awkward looking snow men with stick arms and noses, and threw hastily constructed snowballs at each other. But underneath the behavior, the impetus and the emotion were far different. I believe a child would have played in the snow because of novelty and excitement; we played in the snow because it was a reward for the “good” life we had constructed.
From the moment Trina and I became a couple and threw our fortunes and dreams together into one pot, we decided that “tomorrow” was more important than “today”. Without really understanding why, we agreed that any happiness “today” was marginal compared to what we believed to be a golden future. We planned out our careers, saved great sums of money, and seemingly metered out even our emotional lives so that we would have plenty left for the years ahead. Our existence was structured around the idea that the hard work and sacrifice “today” would pay huge dividends later. What need had we for grand luxuries now when we were young and healthy and had each other? Better to enjoy those “free” things now and wait to buy things like good health and youth later when they became more expensive. We figured we would always have each other, so putting off some entertainment and comfort was no great loss.
We also put a great deal of work into making sure that our relationship was sound even though we eschewed entertainment that normally keeps a couple “happy”. Whereas many other partners determined that there was a set number of movie dates or dinner dates or nice homes that were needed to make them a happy couple, we agreed unconsciously that our happiness was more internal than external and that although fun was necessary, even essential, it need not be paramount. Our top priority was that we respected each other emotionally and mentally and a vast amount of effort went into proving that to each other. Fun was a happy bi-product of finding out how to show our love and respect for one another.
So on the day that the snow fell on our happy little home, the reason we didn’t hesitate to run out and play was because we had already, in ways great and small, paid for the right to enjoy ourselves with abandon. And where a child would play because he had plenty of free time to do so and because of the new experience of doing so, we played because we had earned that time together. It meant something, something wonderful and special, because we had passed up so many other minor entertainments. We acted like children, but we experience the joy of adults. We knew the joy that only comes from devotion to another person. It wasn’t the relief one gets from finding food after a long starvation. No, it was altogether another emotion: satisfaction. It was a reward for time well spent. It was a way of saying to each other, “I haven’t missed a thing in life because all I will ever need is one minute like this.”
I am tempted to defend what may sound like a call to deprivation. Because a casual reading of my explanation of that day may sound like someone who thinks it’s acceptable to forgo common comforts in lieu of rare, inexpensive play dates. But it is more a failure of my writing than of the concept. Or perhaps a failure to make the case for faith: it takes a great deal of faith in God and another person to believe that not buying a fast new car today will lead to a happier tomorrow. But I think it is obvious now; I could never have known the simple joy of playing in the snow had Trina and I build a life together based on casual and common thrills.
As a side note I would add that I am not an advocate of deprivation for deprivation’s sake. To say, for example, that a man should go without eating his favorite spicy food for a year simply so he may savor that one occasion is artificial and not true in my way of thinking. If that same man really loved a plain food he would savor it even if he ate it every day. It is not the scarcity of a thing that makes it valuable in this case; it is the effort to accomplish that thing that gives it meaning.
Trina and I didn’t cherish that post-Valentine’s snow because snow was rare in Austin: we cherished it because we had worked hard to make the time to enjoy it. We took an unusual opportunity and said: “This is our moment to relax and reap the reward of our commitment to each other.” We could have taken that moment at some other time; it didn’t have to be that snow. But we could have only had a moment like that because we were productive the rest of the time in our relationship.
In the end our goal, our product, were the words from the Declaration of Independence “…the pursuit of happiness.” That was the thing we had faith in, that thing our working lives would bring us to compliment our deep love for one another. We didn’t seek some pointless thrill; that is not what the Framers meant by “happiness”. We fought for, and worked for, and saved for joy.
One night two years ago we found it… and it was worth it all.
To my love Trina, Happy Valentine’s Day,
Chris
Trina, an Austin Police Department Cadet, was busy studying for some exams she would take the next morning. I, an underemployed writer, was busy “studying” the television. As we noticed the crystalline shapes piling onto our patio, we stopped for only a moment before deciding that we absolutely must run out and play in the snow. We didn’t hesitate to throw on our thin coats and good shoes and just dash into the winter landscape that was so alien to this part of Texas. We considered nothing but that we had to embrace an opportunity that did not come often to Austin residents. The cold, the wet, the lateness of the hour – none of those would deter us. An activity so antithetical to our motto of delayed gratification, playing in the snow on a “school night”, suddenly became the most important thing as we raced around making snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other. For those few hours, some of the most wonderful of my entire life, we were children again without a care or responsibility in the world.
But as I reflect on that time two years ago, I can only think of two things: how magnificent and precious a time that was and how wrong I was about how “child-like” we were.
The first thoughts about how wonderful that evening was I cannot explain to someone who has never experienced real love and the subsequent joy that can come from that almost otherworldly emotion. Anyone who has seen a good movie or had a nice walk in the park can speak about being entertained or about having a good time. But without the element of true love, a pleasant event is just that – pleasant. Joy, with the almost religious connotation of rapture, is a breathtaking emotion: the combination of deep love and overwhelming happiness that banishes all the darkness of the world with a blinding light of total bliss. For someone who has not had that total devotion to another human being, a night like mine two years ago would be inexplicable; just a walk in the park with snow. But for someone who knows, it was a moment to be held and cherished and remembered as a rare time of real joy.
As for the second thought, it is only in hindsight that I realize that children do not experience events the same way adults do (duh!) and it is neither fair to them or to me to claim we were acting like children. On the surface, both Trina and I behaved as children might: we shouted and giggled, made awkward looking snow men with stick arms and noses, and threw hastily constructed snowballs at each other. But underneath the behavior, the impetus and the emotion were far different. I believe a child would have played in the snow because of novelty and excitement; we played in the snow because it was a reward for the “good” life we had constructed.
From the moment Trina and I became a couple and threw our fortunes and dreams together into one pot, we decided that “tomorrow” was more important than “today”. Without really understanding why, we agreed that any happiness “today” was marginal compared to what we believed to be a golden future. We planned out our careers, saved great sums of money, and seemingly metered out even our emotional lives so that we would have plenty left for the years ahead. Our existence was structured around the idea that the hard work and sacrifice “today” would pay huge dividends later. What need had we for grand luxuries now when we were young and healthy and had each other? Better to enjoy those “free” things now and wait to buy things like good health and youth later when they became more expensive. We figured we would always have each other, so putting off some entertainment and comfort was no great loss.
We also put a great deal of work into making sure that our relationship was sound even though we eschewed entertainment that normally keeps a couple “happy”. Whereas many other partners determined that there was a set number of movie dates or dinner dates or nice homes that were needed to make them a happy couple, we agreed unconsciously that our happiness was more internal than external and that although fun was necessary, even essential, it need not be paramount. Our top priority was that we respected each other emotionally and mentally and a vast amount of effort went into proving that to each other. Fun was a happy bi-product of finding out how to show our love and respect for one another.
So on the day that the snow fell on our happy little home, the reason we didn’t hesitate to run out and play was because we had already, in ways great and small, paid for the right to enjoy ourselves with abandon. And where a child would play because he had plenty of free time to do so and because of the new experience of doing so, we played because we had earned that time together. It meant something, something wonderful and special, because we had passed up so many other minor entertainments. We acted like children, but we experience the joy of adults. We knew the joy that only comes from devotion to another person. It wasn’t the relief one gets from finding food after a long starvation. No, it was altogether another emotion: satisfaction. It was a reward for time well spent. It was a way of saying to each other, “I haven’t missed a thing in life because all I will ever need is one minute like this.”
I am tempted to defend what may sound like a call to deprivation. Because a casual reading of my explanation of that day may sound like someone who thinks it’s acceptable to forgo common comforts in lieu of rare, inexpensive play dates. But it is more a failure of my writing than of the concept. Or perhaps a failure to make the case for faith: it takes a great deal of faith in God and another person to believe that not buying a fast new car today will lead to a happier tomorrow. But I think it is obvious now; I could never have known the simple joy of playing in the snow had Trina and I build a life together based on casual and common thrills.
As a side note I would add that I am not an advocate of deprivation for deprivation’s sake. To say, for example, that a man should go without eating his favorite spicy food for a year simply so he may savor that one occasion is artificial and not true in my way of thinking. If that same man really loved a plain food he would savor it even if he ate it every day. It is not the scarcity of a thing that makes it valuable in this case; it is the effort to accomplish that thing that gives it meaning.
Trina and I didn’t cherish that post-Valentine’s snow because snow was rare in Austin: we cherished it because we had worked hard to make the time to enjoy it. We took an unusual opportunity and said: “This is our moment to relax and reap the reward of our commitment to each other.” We could have taken that moment at some other time; it didn’t have to be that snow. But we could have only had a moment like that because we were productive the rest of the time in our relationship.
In the end our goal, our product, were the words from the Declaration of Independence “…the pursuit of happiness.” That was the thing we had faith in, that thing our working lives would bring us to compliment our deep love for one another. We didn’t seek some pointless thrill; that is not what the Framers meant by “happiness”. We fought for, and worked for, and saved for joy.
One night two years ago we found it… and it was worth it all.
To my love Trina, Happy Valentine’s Day,
Chris
Monday, February 13, 2006
February 13th: Business: "Wisteria Lane Experiences Lower Property Values, Angst"
Royders:
An area once known for its friendly neighbors, quiet streets, and large, expensive homes, Wisteria Lane has become something of a murderous Gomorrah. Residents, fearful of being clubbed to death or left to die in a stairwell, have abandoned the once pleasant street and left behind the shattered dreams of Suburban Heaven.
“We’re going tonight, when the neighbors are asleep,” whispered one longtime resident Justine Case as she looked side to side nervously. “I don’t want anyone to see us leave or they might think we have something to hide and then those aging Nancy Drews will be on us like a pack of wild dogs.” Justine, not her real name, confided that her fear in the last few months was that her neighbor Susan Myers would break into the Case home to look for evidence of a stolen child or a missing woman, or just to burn the place to the ground. “I can’t tell you how many times that goofy daughter of hers ‘accidentally’ lobbed her Frisbee into our backyard and I caught her looking through the window.”
Many neighbors have voiced similar complaints over what they see as the general decline of the moral stature of the seemingly idyllic community. “Ya got boys making out night and day at the Van De Kamp house… and not just with that skanky Van De Kamp girl either… I’m talking the boys are making out,” bemoaned ancient resident and probable “peeping tom” Erst Wyle. “And that hooker that sells houses around here? I watch that Britt woman every time she washes her car and I watch and I watch and she just gets wetter and wetter and ooohhh…”
But other residents are more sanguine about the moral decline and upset instead about what they see as a crime rate that would make a Colombian drug lord blush. In halting, screeching panic Mrs. Connie Torsion reminded her neighbors, “Naked women doing yoga? Slutty gardeners? Who cares? Last week they pulled a BODY out of the back of a car. Hello? A dead man was parked in front of the Applewhite’s house and everybody was like ‘hmmm, we should find out who did this’. Yeah, how about we get the f*** out of here?!”
Still others are reluctant to relocate simply because of what they see as isolated incidents or merely symptomatic of a general increase in crime nationwide. Mused Mrs. Constance Payshion, “Yes a lady was beaten to death with a blender top. And yes several houses have been broken into and one old woman was bludgeoned with a hockey stick. Sure one house was burned down and yet another old lady was run over in the street. But we don’t have any Mexican gangs shooting out our windows during dinner parties do we?” Responding to Mrs. Payshion’s reassurance that the neighborhood was actually still quite nice, her teenage son Breck agreed, “As long as you’re not an old lady and can avoid the drunk drivers, this place rocks. I mean that one guy was 17 and that hot piece in the Aston Martin banged him for like a year without going to jail right?”
Still one thing all the residents can agree on is the depressed value of their property due to the inability to even give away the homes. “Apparently the only people moving in to buy the empty houses are either here as hit men hired to get revenge for a crack addict’s death or because they have a murderous half-wit son locked in the basement,” proclaimed Neighborhood Watch chairman Art Bell. “Yup, probably couldn’t pay most people to move here now unless they were ex-cons… or maybe one of them Liberals.”
An area once known for its friendly neighbors, quiet streets, and large, expensive homes, Wisteria Lane has become something of a murderous Gomorrah. Residents, fearful of being clubbed to death or left to die in a stairwell, have abandoned the once pleasant street and left behind the shattered dreams of Suburban Heaven.
“We’re going tonight, when the neighbors are asleep,” whispered one longtime resident Justine Case as she looked side to side nervously. “I don’t want anyone to see us leave or they might think we have something to hide and then those aging Nancy Drews will be on us like a pack of wild dogs.” Justine, not her real name, confided that her fear in the last few months was that her neighbor Susan Myers would break into the Case home to look for evidence of a stolen child or a missing woman, or just to burn the place to the ground. “I can’t tell you how many times that goofy daughter of hers ‘accidentally’ lobbed her Frisbee into our backyard and I caught her looking through the window.”
Many neighbors have voiced similar complaints over what they see as the general decline of the moral stature of the seemingly idyllic community. “Ya got boys making out night and day at the Van De Kamp house… and not just with that skanky Van De Kamp girl either… I’m talking the boys are making out,” bemoaned ancient resident and probable “peeping tom” Erst Wyle. “And that hooker that sells houses around here? I watch that Britt woman every time she washes her car and I watch and I watch and she just gets wetter and wetter and ooohhh…”
But other residents are more sanguine about the moral decline and upset instead about what they see as a crime rate that would make a Colombian drug lord blush. In halting, screeching panic Mrs. Connie Torsion reminded her neighbors, “Naked women doing yoga? Slutty gardeners? Who cares? Last week they pulled a BODY out of the back of a car. Hello? A dead man was parked in front of the Applewhite’s house and everybody was like ‘hmmm, we should find out who did this’. Yeah, how about we get the f*** out of here?!”
Still others are reluctant to relocate simply because of what they see as isolated incidents or merely symptomatic of a general increase in crime nationwide. Mused Mrs. Constance Payshion, “Yes a lady was beaten to death with a blender top. And yes several houses have been broken into and one old woman was bludgeoned with a hockey stick. Sure one house was burned down and yet another old lady was run over in the street. But we don’t have any Mexican gangs shooting out our windows during dinner parties do we?” Responding to Mrs. Payshion’s reassurance that the neighborhood was actually still quite nice, her teenage son Breck agreed, “As long as you’re not an old lady and can avoid the drunk drivers, this place rocks. I mean that one guy was 17 and that hot piece in the Aston Martin banged him for like a year without going to jail right?”
Still one thing all the residents can agree on is the depressed value of their property due to the inability to even give away the homes. “Apparently the only people moving in to buy the empty houses are either here as hit men hired to get revenge for a crack addict’s death or because they have a murderous half-wit son locked in the basement,” proclaimed Neighborhood Watch chairman Art Bell. “Yup, probably couldn’t pay most people to move here now unless they were ex-cons… or maybe one of them Liberals.”
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
February 8th: Op-Ed: Superbowl
Few events in contemporary American life seem to evoke as much emotion and anticipation in the populace as does the yearly “Superbowl”. At least that’s what I hear, not what I actually experience, and I am lead to believe that by the media. To suggest that a reading of any dictionary under the word “hype” would include the word “Superbowl” might make many real sports fans angry, but it would only give evidence to the old adage that a lie doesn’t have the power to enrage like the truth does. For after watching this Sunday’s “Big Game”, I am left with the feeling that at this point the Superbowl is more about being the friggin Superbowl than actually about a really good football game.
I should note that the game itself was not an unpleasant or boring sporting event, after a fashion. There was, at least in the first half, some tension and a possibility that either team could go home with Championship rings and have unprotected gratuitous sex with fans. Add to that some bad calls, good plays, and baffling coaching decisions, and it seemed for a while that the game might be at least worthy of the moniker “fairly interesting football game”. But even that would only have been possible if the expectation that this game was the Ultimate Showdown of the Year wasn’t present. Except that it wasn’t really since most fans seem to agree that the Superbowl is now just about being the Superbowl. Well, as one of my closest friends likes to say, “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Before the contest even started though, the media tried very hard to make sure that this game was different. That this one was tense and that excitement was in the air floating around like so much cocaine in Kate Moss’s nasal cavities. Breathless announcers reminded the audience a dozen times that the teams were asked, no begged, not to start fights with each other and succumb to cannibalism on national television. Security details were shown in detail and countless references were made to the teams being this close to breaking loose at any minute and starting a riot. Why, other than for purposes of turning this lazy merry-go-round into a Rollercoaster-of-Death would the ABC announcers tell me that the teams had asked not to come through the tunnel together for fears of bloodshed? I swear at some point I heard one talking head say, “Pray for the lives that will doubtless be lost today.” Except that’s probably not true because no one in the media believes in God.
But of course nothing of the sort happened. To summarize: two teams showed up, one team was more aggressive and played more consistently, one “Half-time show” featuring the undead was presented without any saggy, middle-aged boobs, and a few mostly literate players were allowed to vocally masturbate in public over how awesome those players thought they were. Yeah, yawn.
And now comes the part where people tell me I “Just Don’t Get It”.
Apparently I am missing “The Point”. Somehow the game has become more of a cultural experience than a really interesting display of talent. Granted the idea is that the Superbowl should be the best game of the year since the two, ostensibly best teams in the country are playing one another. But in actuality the real entertainment value comes from, I assume, more nebulous factors such as watching the game with friends, taunting your friends about who will win, boring your friends with your vast knowledge of trivial sports facts, having your friends get you more beer and so on. Well if that’s the case, then I certainly “get it”. Further I understand the desire to be part of something more communal, more catholic in the lower-c meaning of the word. After all who wouldn’t want to be able to respond knowingly, when a stranger asked about the game, “Yeah, I saw that play, and I still don’t understand why the coach didn’t call a time-out when the guy’s bowel spilled over the line of scrimmage…” Sure, we all want that.
But I posit that it wasn’t always the case and perhaps something more pernicious and deeply cultural is going on. Perhaps this desire to have any kind of connection with the rest of the country is more an indication that many Americans feel they no longer have anything in common with other Americans. Certainly no national holiday doesn’t pass without someone whining about being excluded or oppressed, and the daily news is exclusively concerned with showing the results of arguments between people who could not get along and had few common interests (i.e. a murderer, his victim, and the cops). So most people need a break; something everyone can be involved in; something that is uncontroversial enough to limit the death toll and spark pleasant conversations around the Proverbial water-cooler.
I think the evidence for this isolation is the increasing representation of women in the national audience. Recent statistics put female viewership of the game at an all-time high of half of all viewers. Huh? Since only a small fraction of that number of woman watch regular season football regularly, obviously it isn’t just a love of the game that fixes them in front of the television alongside the slobbering, raving sports nut they married. Apparently women became wiser and decided that sure, it would be nice to have one thing a year they could talk over with the father of their children.
On a related note I would add that advertisers are hip to this phenomenon from both ends: there are now Superbowl adds aimed at women (boring and touchy-feely women’s shelter stuff) and the traditional adds aimed towards men that show good old-fashioned violence, sex, beer, and humor. No one can figure out why they dug up the moldering remains of Mic Jagger to perform and I must say I think we should leave the deceased in peace.
Which leads us to the point: Americans, alienated and desperate, seek a socialist paradise wherein everyone has seen the Superbowl. The game itself no longer matters so much as the act of participating in the game, even tangentially (evidence: a hotdog from the stadium sold on Ebay for $10,000). Even I, long disinterested in football, was forced at gunpoint to write something about the friggin Superbowl. But I think something important has been lost when the foundation of a tradition has been eroded to the point that it is inconsequential to that tradition. Christmas is now about “holiday spirit” and not about Jesus; a college education is more about having that “piece of paper” than actually being able to think; marriage is more about convenience than a commitment to God and family. And like Paris Hilton’s sexual partners, the list of failed traditions grows each year. Now the Superbowl is one of the most obvious examples of that loss of solid principles (the best teams playing the best game of the year) in favor of fuzzy, little understood goals (feeling good because people you didn’t know also watched the game at the same time you did).
Obviously most people would just assume I “think too much” or I am “too serious” or I “need to get out and get laid”. Most of that is true but irrelevant and just mean. A more damning argument against me would be that I am, in true hippie fashion, making Rousseau’s argument for “authenticity” and that I am railing against the Bourgeois concept of the mass-market Superbowl. In one sense I am but with very important differences. We would both agree that the Superbowl should remain about being the best, playing the best, being the most exciting. Reality matters, hype doesn’t. But where Rousseau would suggest that only the people directly involved in the game could appreciate it, I believe that everyone, even the mass market, should be able to appreciate it but only if it is truly the most super of bowls. Neither of us is happy with the spectacle as it has become today… except maybe the part with the cheerleaders.
But have I fallen into the same trap? If I don’t include a reason why this authenticity is important, then yes, this article is simply about writing an article about the Superbowl. So instead I will suggest that foundational values are important in anything because the superficial is easily discarded. If the Superbowl is not about the best game of the year, then why pretend it matters at all and afford it more coverage and audience than any other game? Why not change the rules to make it more exciting, add extra players, allow more abusive contact, include starving lions? Like a marriage that is based on expedience being easy to dissolve with divorce when circumstances change, a Superbowl based on hype is not “super”; it’s just another game. At some point people will realize the game is trivial and conclude that they watch because the commercials are funny. And once the commercials aren’t funny, who will watch then?
I think the Superbowl will continue on with increasing popularity for a long time to come regardless. But popular consent does not imply a general good: Chinese citizens consent to communism but also drown thousands of baby girls each year. Yet it is a tide and tides are powerful until they are not, even to a doubter like myself. Despite all of the above and my fervent disappointment that flash continues to win over substance, one thing remains certain: I’ll watch next year’s game too.
I should note that the game itself was not an unpleasant or boring sporting event, after a fashion. There was, at least in the first half, some tension and a possibility that either team could go home with Championship rings and have unprotected gratuitous sex with fans. Add to that some bad calls, good plays, and baffling coaching decisions, and it seemed for a while that the game might be at least worthy of the moniker “fairly interesting football game”. But even that would only have been possible if the expectation that this game was the Ultimate Showdown of the Year wasn’t present. Except that it wasn’t really since most fans seem to agree that the Superbowl is now just about being the Superbowl. Well, as one of my closest friends likes to say, “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Before the contest even started though, the media tried very hard to make sure that this game was different. That this one was tense and that excitement was in the air floating around like so much cocaine in Kate Moss’s nasal cavities. Breathless announcers reminded the audience a dozen times that the teams were asked, no begged, not to start fights with each other and succumb to cannibalism on national television. Security details were shown in detail and countless references were made to the teams being this close to breaking loose at any minute and starting a riot. Why, other than for purposes of turning this lazy merry-go-round into a Rollercoaster-of-Death would the ABC announcers tell me that the teams had asked not to come through the tunnel together for fears of bloodshed? I swear at some point I heard one talking head say, “Pray for the lives that will doubtless be lost today.” Except that’s probably not true because no one in the media believes in God.
But of course nothing of the sort happened. To summarize: two teams showed up, one team was more aggressive and played more consistently, one “Half-time show” featuring the undead was presented without any saggy, middle-aged boobs, and a few mostly literate players were allowed to vocally masturbate in public over how awesome those players thought they were. Yeah, yawn.
And now comes the part where people tell me I “Just Don’t Get It”.
Apparently I am missing “The Point”. Somehow the game has become more of a cultural experience than a really interesting display of talent. Granted the idea is that the Superbowl should be the best game of the year since the two, ostensibly best teams in the country are playing one another. But in actuality the real entertainment value comes from, I assume, more nebulous factors such as watching the game with friends, taunting your friends about who will win, boring your friends with your vast knowledge of trivial sports facts, having your friends get you more beer and so on. Well if that’s the case, then I certainly “get it”. Further I understand the desire to be part of something more communal, more catholic in the lower-c meaning of the word. After all who wouldn’t want to be able to respond knowingly, when a stranger asked about the game, “Yeah, I saw that play, and I still don’t understand why the coach didn’t call a time-out when the guy’s bowel spilled over the line of scrimmage…” Sure, we all want that.
But I posit that it wasn’t always the case and perhaps something more pernicious and deeply cultural is going on. Perhaps this desire to have any kind of connection with the rest of the country is more an indication that many Americans feel they no longer have anything in common with other Americans. Certainly no national holiday doesn’t pass without someone whining about being excluded or oppressed, and the daily news is exclusively concerned with showing the results of arguments between people who could not get along and had few common interests (i.e. a murderer, his victim, and the cops). So most people need a break; something everyone can be involved in; something that is uncontroversial enough to limit the death toll and spark pleasant conversations around the Proverbial water-cooler.
I think the evidence for this isolation is the increasing representation of women in the national audience. Recent statistics put female viewership of the game at an all-time high of half of all viewers. Huh? Since only a small fraction of that number of woman watch regular season football regularly, obviously it isn’t just a love of the game that fixes them in front of the television alongside the slobbering, raving sports nut they married. Apparently women became wiser and decided that sure, it would be nice to have one thing a year they could talk over with the father of their children.
On a related note I would add that advertisers are hip to this phenomenon from both ends: there are now Superbowl adds aimed at women (boring and touchy-feely women’s shelter stuff) and the traditional adds aimed towards men that show good old-fashioned violence, sex, beer, and humor. No one can figure out why they dug up the moldering remains of Mic Jagger to perform and I must say I think we should leave the deceased in peace.
Which leads us to the point: Americans, alienated and desperate, seek a socialist paradise wherein everyone has seen the Superbowl. The game itself no longer matters so much as the act of participating in the game, even tangentially (evidence: a hotdog from the stadium sold on Ebay for $10,000). Even I, long disinterested in football, was forced at gunpoint to write something about the friggin Superbowl. But I think something important has been lost when the foundation of a tradition has been eroded to the point that it is inconsequential to that tradition. Christmas is now about “holiday spirit” and not about Jesus; a college education is more about having that “piece of paper” than actually being able to think; marriage is more about convenience than a commitment to God and family. And like Paris Hilton’s sexual partners, the list of failed traditions grows each year. Now the Superbowl is one of the most obvious examples of that loss of solid principles (the best teams playing the best game of the year) in favor of fuzzy, little understood goals (feeling good because people you didn’t know also watched the game at the same time you did).
Obviously most people would just assume I “think too much” or I am “too serious” or I “need to get out and get laid”. Most of that is true but irrelevant and just mean. A more damning argument against me would be that I am, in true hippie fashion, making Rousseau’s argument for “authenticity” and that I am railing against the Bourgeois concept of the mass-market Superbowl. In one sense I am but with very important differences. We would both agree that the Superbowl should remain about being the best, playing the best, being the most exciting. Reality matters, hype doesn’t. But where Rousseau would suggest that only the people directly involved in the game could appreciate it, I believe that everyone, even the mass market, should be able to appreciate it but only if it is truly the most super of bowls. Neither of us is happy with the spectacle as it has become today… except maybe the part with the cheerleaders.
But have I fallen into the same trap? If I don’t include a reason why this authenticity is important, then yes, this article is simply about writing an article about the Superbowl. So instead I will suggest that foundational values are important in anything because the superficial is easily discarded. If the Superbowl is not about the best game of the year, then why pretend it matters at all and afford it more coverage and audience than any other game? Why not change the rules to make it more exciting, add extra players, allow more abusive contact, include starving lions? Like a marriage that is based on expedience being easy to dissolve with divorce when circumstances change, a Superbowl based on hype is not “super”; it’s just another game. At some point people will realize the game is trivial and conclude that they watch because the commercials are funny. And once the commercials aren’t funny, who will watch then?
I think the Superbowl will continue on with increasing popularity for a long time to come regardless. But popular consent does not imply a general good: Chinese citizens consent to communism but also drown thousands of baby girls each year. Yet it is a tide and tides are powerful until they are not, even to a doubter like myself. Despite all of the above and my fervent disappointment that flash continues to win over substance, one thing remains certain: I’ll watch next year’s game too.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
February 1st: Politics: Hillary Clinton's State of the Union Rebuttal
Amalgamated Press:
Senator Hillary Clinton (D Anywhere that will elect her) today gave the official Democrat rebuttal to the President's State of the Union Address. Winging in from her filthy nest atop the Capitol Building the erstwhile First Lady and current harpy alighted on a special podium/roost erected on the Capitol steps and addressed a group of nervous, heavily armored reporters. Her long talons wrapped threateningly around the creaking wooden stand, Senator Clinton asked that all questions be held until after the statement.
Tucking her long, greasy wings behind her and exposing her three bare, sagging breasts New York's junior Senator read from a prepared speech.
"My fellow Americans:
President George Bush has poisoned your water and drained your bank accounts. Only today, while you were at work his clandestine operative Vice President 'Dick' Cheney broke into your home and had sexual relations with your pet. These men are dangerous and armed and should not be trusted. No matter that during yesterday's speech President Bush attempted to appear congenial with that heartfelt rendition of 'Tomorrow' from the musical 'Annie'; he is a warmonger. Remember he has heard of Halliburton and still insists as do all despots to be referred to as the 'Commander-in-Chief'. Would a more peaceful man do the same?
I have flown down to the Capitol steps to urge all Americans today to defy this 'selected' President and remember how good you all had it during my first term in the oval office.
Thank you."
Reporters, fearing a diving, swooping attack were reluctant to ask questions of Senator Clinton about her startling transformation from an ersatz human woman to a hideous creature straight out of Greek mythology.
"What are you all looking at?" screamed the half woman, half vulture in consternation. "Can't you see it's the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy that has done this to me?" she asked flapping her vast right wing. "When the callous, vicious Republicans can let a single child go without State-sponsored medical care or let an entire city be flooded by a hurricane, who is the real monster?"
After one unlucky reporter, Jason Blair of the New York Times, pointed at the unclean beast in response to her question, Senator Clinton gave a blood-curdling screech that shattered glass as far as 200 yards away. Winging aloft, she snatched Mr. Blair in her talons and carried him to her lair.
A spokesman for Mrs. Clinton denied the incident and immediately called for an investigation into the activities of House Majority Leader Tom DeLay (R. Texas, for now).
Senator Hillary Clinton (D Anywhere that will elect her) today gave the official Democrat rebuttal to the President's State of the Union Address. Winging in from her filthy nest atop the Capitol Building the erstwhile First Lady and current harpy alighted on a special podium/roost erected on the Capitol steps and addressed a group of nervous, heavily armored reporters. Her long talons wrapped threateningly around the creaking wooden stand, Senator Clinton asked that all questions be held until after the statement.
Tucking her long, greasy wings behind her and exposing her three bare, sagging breasts New York's junior Senator read from a prepared speech.
"My fellow Americans:
President George Bush has poisoned your water and drained your bank accounts. Only today, while you were at work his clandestine operative Vice President 'Dick' Cheney broke into your home and had sexual relations with your pet. These men are dangerous and armed and should not be trusted. No matter that during yesterday's speech President Bush attempted to appear congenial with that heartfelt rendition of 'Tomorrow' from the musical 'Annie'; he is a warmonger. Remember he has heard of Halliburton and still insists as do all despots to be referred to as the 'Commander-in-Chief'. Would a more peaceful man do the same?
I have flown down to the Capitol steps to urge all Americans today to defy this 'selected' President and remember how good you all had it during my first term in the oval office.
Thank you."
Reporters, fearing a diving, swooping attack were reluctant to ask questions of Senator Clinton about her startling transformation from an ersatz human woman to a hideous creature straight out of Greek mythology.
"What are you all looking at?" screamed the half woman, half vulture in consternation. "Can't you see it's the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy that has done this to me?" she asked flapping her vast right wing. "When the callous, vicious Republicans can let a single child go without State-sponsored medical care or let an entire city be flooded by a hurricane, who is the real monster?"
After one unlucky reporter, Jason Blair of the New York Times, pointed at the unclean beast in response to her question, Senator Clinton gave a blood-curdling screech that shattered glass as far as 200 yards away. Winging aloft, she snatched Mr. Blair in her talons and carried him to her lair.
A spokesman for Mrs. Clinton denied the incident and immediately called for an investigation into the activities of House Majority Leader Tom DeLay (R. Texas, for now).
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
January 31st: Politics: "Bush's State of the Union Address"
Royter’s
Addressing the full Congress and the Supreme Court from the White House lawn, President George Bush today gave yet another State of the Union Address. Professing a belief that the stuffy confines of the U.S. Capitol building, historically the site of such addresses, was causing the Congressmen and Senators to be “uncooperative” and “bitchy” the President requested that the 600-odd listeners roll up their suit pants and squat noble and proud American-Indian style on the well manicured lawn directly in front of the White House. Brushing aside complaints from the 500 or so octogenarians present, the President reminded the old “farts”, as he called them, to remember that in many parts of the undeveloped world, where compassionate conservatism had not yet taken hold, old people were slow roasted and made into tasty canned meat products.
The embattled President, still reeling from rumors, hints of corruption, and suspicious sideways glances, opened his fifteen minute speech with a request for a sing-along. Failing an “around” version of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” with the House members going first, the scandal-plagued Commander-in-Chief settled for a rousing off-key rendition of “Tomorrow” from the musical “Annie”.
“I love that both weak-kneed ostrich-like Republicans and amoral, legally intoxicated Democrats can put aside their partisan differences long enough to show the American people that musical talent is not what we were sent here for but that the theme of the song is about hope, a belief in the future, and the endless untapped potential of the sun to lower our dependence on imported oil.” Bush punctuated his enthusiasm for the theme during the song by repeatedly giving the “thumbs up” to members of the chorus and mouthing the word “ANWAR”.
Settling down, the President outlined his plan for the remainder of his term in office. Citing a need for more robust job creation, a tighter fiscal policy, lower taxes, and greater energy independence, the President called for the creation of 271 new Cabinet-level departments to oversee the under-regulated American economy. When the stunned audience of immediately capitulatory Republicans and drooling, spontaneously masturbating Democrats failed to respond with the canned, stilled applause usually given at such times the President assured them it was a joke. “As if!” the President mocked before reprimanding the audience of assembled legislators for failing to look embarrassed about their recent legislative record. “Come on,” scolded Bush, “Jenna-B. can produce better legislation after an all-night kegger! Woohoo!”
Senator Ted Kennedy (D. Glenfiddich) booed the President at the presumption that the Congress was not as drunk as Jenna Bush.
Finishing off a night of optimism, President Bush asked that the Congress and the country be patient with the War on Terrorism and to humbly pray for all the brave troops still on the ground in Iraq. When greeted with confused looks and an odd attempt by Senator Diane Fienstien (D. Hell) to call upon the forces of evil to smite the God-fearing Commander-in-Chief, Bush sighed impatiently and waved his hand in disgust indicating the unusual Address was over.
Senate Republicans moved immediately to show support for Senate Democrats by denouncing the President while House Republicans called for an investigation into the activities of House Majority Leader Dennis Hastert (R. Texas, for now).
The official Democrat responses was scheduled immediately after the President’s speech.
Addressing the full Congress and the Supreme Court from the White House lawn, President George Bush today gave yet another State of the Union Address. Professing a belief that the stuffy confines of the U.S. Capitol building, historically the site of such addresses, was causing the Congressmen and Senators to be “uncooperative” and “bitchy” the President requested that the 600-odd listeners roll up their suit pants and squat noble and proud American-Indian style on the well manicured lawn directly in front of the White House. Brushing aside complaints from the 500 or so octogenarians present, the President reminded the old “farts”, as he called them, to remember that in many parts of the undeveloped world, where compassionate conservatism had not yet taken hold, old people were slow roasted and made into tasty canned meat products.
The embattled President, still reeling from rumors, hints of corruption, and suspicious sideways glances, opened his fifteen minute speech with a request for a sing-along. Failing an “around” version of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” with the House members going first, the scandal-plagued Commander-in-Chief settled for a rousing off-key rendition of “Tomorrow” from the musical “Annie”.
“I love that both weak-kneed ostrich-like Republicans and amoral, legally intoxicated Democrats can put aside their partisan differences long enough to show the American people that musical talent is not what we were sent here for but that the theme of the song is about hope, a belief in the future, and the endless untapped potential of the sun to lower our dependence on imported oil.” Bush punctuated his enthusiasm for the theme during the song by repeatedly giving the “thumbs up” to members of the chorus and mouthing the word “ANWAR”.
Settling down, the President outlined his plan for the remainder of his term in office. Citing a need for more robust job creation, a tighter fiscal policy, lower taxes, and greater energy independence, the President called for the creation of 271 new Cabinet-level departments to oversee the under-regulated American economy. When the stunned audience of immediately capitulatory Republicans and drooling, spontaneously masturbating Democrats failed to respond with the canned, stilled applause usually given at such times the President assured them it was a joke. “As if!” the President mocked before reprimanding the audience of assembled legislators for failing to look embarrassed about their recent legislative record. “Come on,” scolded Bush, “Jenna-B. can produce better legislation after an all-night kegger! Woohoo!”
Senator Ted Kennedy (D. Glenfiddich) booed the President at the presumption that the Congress was not as drunk as Jenna Bush.
Finishing off a night of optimism, President Bush asked that the Congress and the country be patient with the War on Terrorism and to humbly pray for all the brave troops still on the ground in Iraq. When greeted with confused looks and an odd attempt by Senator Diane Fienstien (D. Hell) to call upon the forces of evil to smite the God-fearing Commander-in-Chief, Bush sighed impatiently and waved his hand in disgust indicating the unusual Address was over.
Senate Republicans moved immediately to show support for Senate Democrats by denouncing the President while House Republicans called for an investigation into the activities of House Majority Leader Dennis Hastert (R. Texas, for now).
The official Democrat responses was scheduled immediately after the President’s speech.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
January 31st: World News: "Aliens Abduct TDQ Editorial Staff"
AP:
At approximately noon on Friday, January 27th, 2006, the entire staff of "The Daily Quotidian" was abducted by "aliens". Reports are only now coming in, and details are spare, but police have confirmed that "aliens" were indeed responsible for the heretofore unexplained disappearance of the beleaguered and underpaid staff and the halting of all news. Looking haggard and smelling God-awful, the staff of the "Newspaper of Record", a title claimed but not believed and quickly litigated, refused comment on the abduction.
"I won't talk about the aliens that abducted us and kept us from writing any news, I just won't!" said Editor-in-Chief Roark Howard. "Talking about aliens and abductions and how they performed tests on us is just not a subject that should be discussed or debated because it only further delays the production of actual news."
When asked about where the staff had been abducted or when or why, Mr. Howard again refused to comment. "I won't say, but we were eating nachos in a great Mexican restaurant called 'Los Casa del Perro' when they just ran out from the kitchen and grabbed us." Mr. Howard, visibly shaken from the memory at this point waved his hands to show he had finished explanation. "It was awful. They took us to the back and made us listen to that f****** Tejano music with that... that... what is it, an accordion that makes that sound?" No one at the press conference was darker than whole milk and was unable to answer the question.
"Alien" abductions, thought at one time to include actual aliens from another planet or dimension and usually much more interesting and dramatic, have become common of late and are now thought to be sheer fantasy and a new excuse for getting out of work.
"Screw it, ya got me, are ya happy? My modem went down on Friday and I couldn't get on the Internet so I took a four-day weekend." Mr. Howard, unable to explain why a failed Internet connection would keep him from showering all weekend, quickly and thankfully disappeared back to his low-rent duplex and muttered something about getting out more news.
At approximately noon on Friday, January 27th, 2006, the entire staff of "The Daily Quotidian" was abducted by "aliens". Reports are only now coming in, and details are spare, but police have confirmed that "aliens" were indeed responsible for the heretofore unexplained disappearance of the beleaguered and underpaid staff and the halting of all news. Looking haggard and smelling God-awful, the staff of the "Newspaper of Record", a title claimed but not believed and quickly litigated, refused comment on the abduction.
"I won't talk about the aliens that abducted us and kept us from writing any news, I just won't!" said Editor-in-Chief Roark Howard. "Talking about aliens and abductions and how they performed tests on us is just not a subject that should be discussed or debated because it only further delays the production of actual news."
When asked about where the staff had been abducted or when or why, Mr. Howard again refused to comment. "I won't say, but we were eating nachos in a great Mexican restaurant called 'Los Casa del Perro' when they just ran out from the kitchen and grabbed us." Mr. Howard, visibly shaken from the memory at this point waved his hands to show he had finished explanation. "It was awful. They took us to the back and made us listen to that f****** Tejano music with that... that... what is it, an accordion that makes that sound?" No one at the press conference was darker than whole milk and was unable to answer the question.
"Alien" abductions, thought at one time to include actual aliens from another planet or dimension and usually much more interesting and dramatic, have become common of late and are now thought to be sheer fantasy and a new excuse for getting out of work.
"Screw it, ya got me, are ya happy? My modem went down on Friday and I couldn't get on the Internet so I took a four-day weekend." Mr. Howard, unable to explain why a failed Internet connection would keep him from showering all weekend, quickly and thankfully disappeared back to his low-rent duplex and muttered something about getting out more news.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
January 26th: Movies: "The Dukes of Hazzard"
The difficulty in writing a review of a movie like Warner Brothers recent DVD release “The Dukes of Hazzard” is that as soon as you say something obvious like “this movie stinks worse than a dead hooker” a cadre of rabid stinky-movie apologists will come crawling out from under large rocks and proclaim that the reviewer is just too serious and does not “get” the humor in the film or the point of remaking a bad television show for the big screen. The unintentional boot lickers for the corrupt studio heads responsible for the film go on and on about how “it’s just a fun movie, man, it doesn’t have to like win a Golden Globe or a Grammy or nothin’.” True, but just because a movie has lower standards for production than Brittany Spears has for sexual partners doesn’t mean it has to be awful. “The Dukes of Hazzard” is, of course, awful.
Granted, the movie was never intended to be good in a conventional sense: no one wrote the screenplay, there was no director hired, and the “actors” were allowed to tape performances on cell phone cameras and upload them over the Internet to an editing guy at Warner’s main studio. But even so, most movie-goers expect something for the forty-eight dollars spent on a movie ticket or DVD rental. No plot? Fine, but Jessica Simpson as Daisy Duke had best spend most of the movie in the shower learning the embarrassing joy of a pulsating shower head. Action not great? Okay, but Sean William Jingle Heimer Schmidt (or whatever his name is) as Bo or Luke Duke had best be mangled by a bear or something equally cool. Since a used sausage casing (Burt Reynolds) is playing the villain, he need do nothing more than stand around and wiggle a little, but that is the only part of the movie that needn’t be changed. Something, anything, should be funny at least once in the film to justify the inclusion of the movie in the “comedy” section at the local video hut. A viewer does not need to “get” that dialogue like “Common Luke, let’s fix Boss Hog! Yeah, we gonna fix him!” is not funny… unless Boss Hog is actually a female Golden Retriever and then it’s ironic comedy. Nothing in the film comes close.
Sadly, as bad as the wooden acting, absent direction, lame action sequences, and ho-hum score were, the movie as a whole was not even over-the-top horrible enough to make it unintentionally funny like “Glitter” or “Three Men and a Baby”. Obviously the cast (which is at least enjoyable to watch) was having fun making the movie and that comes across clearly in their constant on-screen smirks (either that or they couldn’t stop staring at Jessica Simpson’s smokin’ hot ass, hard to tell). But all those drooling flunkies reminding reviewers that the film was “fun” are just suffering from a sort of “Stockholm Syndrome” for movie renters where they have come to love the people beating the crap out of them. Sad.
In all fairness, at least to the DVD, there is a “special features” section that makes the disk worth owning. The outtakes are humorous and the music video of Jessica Simpson “singing” a remake of “These Boots Were Made for Walking” will make even post-menopausal heterosexual women card-carrying members of the carpet munchers set. Just don’t expect more than that, and when you “get” it pray they have a cream that will make it go away.
TDQ Staff Writer
Granted, the movie was never intended to be good in a conventional sense: no one wrote the screenplay, there was no director hired, and the “actors” were allowed to tape performances on cell phone cameras and upload them over the Internet to an editing guy at Warner’s main studio. But even so, most movie-goers expect something for the forty-eight dollars spent on a movie ticket or DVD rental. No plot? Fine, but Jessica Simpson as Daisy Duke had best spend most of the movie in the shower learning the embarrassing joy of a pulsating shower head. Action not great? Okay, but Sean William Jingle Heimer Schmidt (or whatever his name is) as Bo or Luke Duke had best be mangled by a bear or something equally cool. Since a used sausage casing (Burt Reynolds) is playing the villain, he need do nothing more than stand around and wiggle a little, but that is the only part of the movie that needn’t be changed. Something, anything, should be funny at least once in the film to justify the inclusion of the movie in the “comedy” section at the local video hut. A viewer does not need to “get” that dialogue like “Common Luke, let’s fix Boss Hog! Yeah, we gonna fix him!” is not funny… unless Boss Hog is actually a female Golden Retriever and then it’s ironic comedy. Nothing in the film comes close.
Sadly, as bad as the wooden acting, absent direction, lame action sequences, and ho-hum score were, the movie as a whole was not even over-the-top horrible enough to make it unintentionally funny like “Glitter” or “Three Men and a Baby”. Obviously the cast (which is at least enjoyable to watch) was having fun making the movie and that comes across clearly in their constant on-screen smirks (either that or they couldn’t stop staring at Jessica Simpson’s smokin’ hot ass, hard to tell). But all those drooling flunkies reminding reviewers that the film was “fun” are just suffering from a sort of “Stockholm Syndrome” for movie renters where they have come to love the people beating the crap out of them. Sad.
In all fairness, at least to the DVD, there is a “special features” section that makes the disk worth owning. The outtakes are humorous and the music video of Jessica Simpson “singing” a remake of “These Boots Were Made for Walking” will make even post-menopausal heterosexual women card-carrying members of the carpet munchers set. Just don’t expect more than that, and when you “get” it pray they have a cream that will make it go away.
TDQ Staff Writer
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
January 25th: Health and Beauty: "Scientists Discover New Orgasm Flashback"
Roiters:
Government scientists at the oddly, but somehow poetically named Robert "Grand Wizard" Byrd Memorial Institute for the Study of Flashback in Orgasm today discovered, appropriately, an orgasm flashback. Starting with funding and hoping to discover something fun but not useful, the Institute in 1982 started exploring the question: "Why do we have drug flashbacks and flashbacks to bad skiing accidents but not cool flashbacks like from orgasms or really tasty Mexi-melts from Taco Bell?" Spending the first 15 years and 48 billion dollars the Institute finally cast aside the study of Taco Bell and arrived at the orgasm flashback.
"I think we really nailed this one," ejaculated lead researcher Clip "All Hands" Suffield when asked about the newfound heretofore unrecognized transient condition. "It's been out there, I guess, for a long time but we finally proved it in a lab where it counts most to the taxpayers."
Citing a soon-to-be-published brief on the discovery in "Jugs", Director of the Staff at Large William "One-Eye" Shmidt claimed that the money was not a waste and further funding was important because he needed this job. "You can't put a price tag on information like this and you can't just stop because you found what you were looking for. People need to know more about the orgasm flashbacks they are having if they are to put an end to them... or have more, whatever those perverts want."
Other unnamed and disgruntled workers claimed, however, that it was all rather obvious and more than a little nasty considering most of the test subjects were transients and people you wouldn't want to have sex with anyways. Requesting anonymity and a small cash payment, one researcher was recorded as saying, "I'm sure some of those losers made up the sex stories; no guy that drives a Nissan Sentra really screws a model in an airplane bathroom, please."
Details of the actual condition were still sketchy however one scientist claimed in a naughty voice, "If you had one, oh yeah baby, you would know."
Verification of the findings were easy and the condition quite common in the general populace. Security guard Ken Squirt affirmed when asked about the flashbacks, "Sure, I had one today right before I threw out one of those homeless freaks who keep urinating on the lab floor. It hit me pretty fast, but I wanted to dry off with a towel after, so I'm pretty sure it was from my quick pull in the shower this morning and not from that chic I met at the bar last Friday."
Noting that not all flashbacks were of the same caliber secretary Elaine Scone reasoned with, "I started having one and it was alright, but it was from a time I faked it I'm positive because I just wanted it to be over so he could get off and then get off me if you know what I mean." When pressed for details Scone added, "The flashback started good but it just wasn't there, you know, and so I started pounding my hands on my desk and yelled 'yes, yes' until my co-worker said 'I'll have what she's having' and I went back to my work."
Thirty-nine states have signed emergency legislation to prohibit the lewd bio-behavioral memories in public and the FDA issued warnings today on the new street drug designed to stimulate episodes named "CumBack" and another oft misquoted copy, "CumAgain?"
TDQ Staff Writer
Government scientists at the oddly, but somehow poetically named Robert "Grand Wizard" Byrd Memorial Institute for the Study of Flashback in Orgasm today discovered, appropriately, an orgasm flashback. Starting with funding and hoping to discover something fun but not useful, the Institute in 1982 started exploring the question: "Why do we have drug flashbacks and flashbacks to bad skiing accidents but not cool flashbacks like from orgasms or really tasty Mexi-melts from Taco Bell?" Spending the first 15 years and 48 billion dollars the Institute finally cast aside the study of Taco Bell and arrived at the orgasm flashback.
"I think we really nailed this one," ejaculated lead researcher Clip "All Hands" Suffield when asked about the newfound heretofore unrecognized transient condition. "It's been out there, I guess, for a long time but we finally proved it in a lab where it counts most to the taxpayers."
Citing a soon-to-be-published brief on the discovery in "Jugs", Director of the Staff at Large William "One-Eye" Shmidt claimed that the money was not a waste and further funding was important because he needed this job. "You can't put a price tag on information like this and you can't just stop because you found what you were looking for. People need to know more about the orgasm flashbacks they are having if they are to put an end to them... or have more, whatever those perverts want."
Other unnamed and disgruntled workers claimed, however, that it was all rather obvious and more than a little nasty considering most of the test subjects were transients and people you wouldn't want to have sex with anyways. Requesting anonymity and a small cash payment, one researcher was recorded as saying, "I'm sure some of those losers made up the sex stories; no guy that drives a Nissan Sentra really screws a model in an airplane bathroom, please."
Details of the actual condition were still sketchy however one scientist claimed in a naughty voice, "If you had one, oh yeah baby, you would know."
Verification of the findings were easy and the condition quite common in the general populace. Security guard Ken Squirt affirmed when asked about the flashbacks, "Sure, I had one today right before I threw out one of those homeless freaks who keep urinating on the lab floor. It hit me pretty fast, but I wanted to dry off with a towel after, so I'm pretty sure it was from my quick pull in the shower this morning and not from that chic I met at the bar last Friday."
Noting that not all flashbacks were of the same caliber secretary Elaine Scone reasoned with, "I started having one and it was alright, but it was from a time I faked it I'm positive because I just wanted it to be over so he could get off and then get off me if you know what I mean." When pressed for details Scone added, "The flashback started good but it just wasn't there, you know, and so I started pounding my hands on my desk and yelled 'yes, yes' until my co-worker said 'I'll have what she's having' and I went back to my work."
Thirty-nine states have signed emergency legislation to prohibit the lewd bio-behavioral memories in public and the FDA issued warnings today on the new street drug designed to stimulate episodes named "CumBack" and another oft misquoted copy, "CumAgain?"
TDQ Staff Writer
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
January 25th : Headlines: "Daily Quotidian Doubles Content by Adding Second Post!"
After consulting with several leading thinkers, all located conveniently in a bathroom stall, the editors of "The Daily Quotidian" voted to establish a format for the wildly popular but heretofore unheard of new, but instant classic, internet publication. In the vein (sic) of such eminent dailies as "The Onion" and other things like but not all that similar to "The Onion" both real and imagined, "The Daily Quotidian" will have posts organized thusly:
1. by date (wherein date refers to the date)
2. by section (which will approximate the sections in a real newspaper but probably not)
3. by article (that may be in first person narrative or any other grammatical way)
So for example: August 15th: Style Section: "Why Underwear as Outerwear is Wearing on Me" might be a headline. Keep in mind no such article exists yet, as it is either not yet August 15th, or it has been many times in the past but let's face it, underwear as outerwear is sexy and it would definitely not wear on me.
Unlike any real publication with a staff, talented writers, a budget, or a point, "The Daily Quotidian" will rarely contain more than one or two sections unlike the imaginary paper on which it is based which usually has coupons and painfully lame cartoons. The editors, attempting to cover for their own inadequacies both in and out of the bedroom, would simply like the reader to imagine picking up only part of a paper on the subway and only reading a few choice items on the way to work before being interrupted by an unplanned mugging.
TDQ Editorial Staff
1. by date (wherein date refers to the date)
2. by section (which will approximate the sections in a real newspaper but probably not)
3. by article (that may be in first person narrative or any other grammatical way)
So for example: August 15th: Style Section: "Why Underwear as Outerwear is Wearing on Me" might be a headline. Keep in mind no such article exists yet, as it is either not yet August 15th, or it has been many times in the past but let's face it, underwear as outerwear is sexy and it would definitely not wear on me.
Unlike any real publication with a staff, talented writers, a budget, or a point, "The Daily Quotidian" will rarely contain more than one or two sections unlike the imaginary paper on which it is based which usually has coupons and painfully lame cartoons. The editors, attempting to cover for their own inadequacies both in and out of the bedroom, would simply like the reader to imagine picking up only part of a paper on the subway and only reading a few choice items on the way to work before being interrupted by an unplanned mugging.
TDQ Editorial Staff
A Forced Confession
As seemingly provocative yet somehow lame and familiar in a dirty way as "A Forced Confession" is as a title, I promise that this blog is not about an infamous child abuse case, a child-abusing Catholic Bishop, or a Soviet-era potboiler (whatever that may be) about child abuse. In fact, I promise never to mention children again if I can at all help it because like a dancer in an upscale strip club on karaoke night, they should be seen, not heard. I also promise not to continue with that analogy because it is dangerous, maybe criminal, to equate kids with strippers. I should have used dogs in my example except they are awful at karaoke.
Which brings me to my "Forced Confession": I like karaoke.
Actually, that wasn't it at all and instead it is this: although I have written for publications, electronic and printed, in the past I have never written a blog.
So although I imagine my blog to be something like a cross between "The Onion", "EOnline", and "The Drudge Report" I must realize the limitations of my technical ability and beg patience from anyone unlucky enough to read what I have to say about movies, music, politics, love, and gluttony (which are really all the same thing if you think about it).
I refuse to say something like "This blog is a snapshot of life as I see it" because I just ate and I prefer that my intestines, not my carpet, receive the benefit of my efforts to obtain nutrition. This blog is life as I wish to see it, not actually what I observe. That I will make comments on the ridiculous and real (especially in movies) is simply a way of getting to my point on how I would rule the world if given the keys to the global car of humanity.
I promise to mix metaphor until it's a frozen margarita of virtue, humor, and good old-fashioned horse-sense rolled into one erudite buffet for the soul.
I cannot promise, however, that any of it will be worth being seen... unlike a karaoke-singing child dog-stripper in a Soviet-era pot boiler, whatever that may be.
Roark
Which brings me to my "Forced Confession": I like karaoke.
Actually, that wasn't it at all and instead it is this: although I have written for publications, electronic and printed, in the past I have never written a blog.
So although I imagine my blog to be something like a cross between "The Onion", "EOnline", and "The Drudge Report" I must realize the limitations of my technical ability and beg patience from anyone unlucky enough to read what I have to say about movies, music, politics, love, and gluttony (which are really all the same thing if you think about it).
I refuse to say something like "This blog is a snapshot of life as I see it" because I just ate and I prefer that my intestines, not my carpet, receive the benefit of my efforts to obtain nutrition. This blog is life as I wish to see it, not actually what I observe. That I will make comments on the ridiculous and real (especially in movies) is simply a way of getting to my point on how I would rule the world if given the keys to the global car of humanity.
I promise to mix metaphor until it's a frozen margarita of virtue, humor, and good old-fashioned horse-sense rolled into one erudite buffet for the soul.
I cannot promise, however, that any of it will be worth being seen... unlike a karaoke-singing child dog-stripper in a Soviet-era pot boiler, whatever that may be.
Roark
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)