I'm done for. My admiration for Cary Tennis is officially a full-blown, swoony, nerdy crush. There, I've said it. His advice is the best sort of balm for the problems that people bring to him. He acknowledges the person's humanity, embraces them in a "you're human; we are all human" sort of blanket, shushing them, and then carefully, respectfully, gives it to them straight. And there is very little so powerful as strong words from a gentleman. He excels in this arena. From today's column, in which a mother worries that her friend's son is displaying signs of autism:
This brings me to the subject of bullshit, the rampant bullshit that passes for knowledge, the arrant bullshit that passes for conversations on airplanes and in bars and restaurants. There is such a difference between knowledge and bullshit. Bullshit is just the stuff that comes out of our mouths. It's the stuff we believe we know. It's stuff like, "Well, the black bears are the dangerous ones." I'm down in Florida and I'm just hearing guys talk. I'm thinking, how the fuck do you know black bears are the dangerous ones? Are you a wildlife behavior specialist? That's what I mean about bullshit. We believe things about ourselves and about our children. That doesn't make them so.
Ever the fangirl, I sent Mr. Tennis a note a couple of weeks ago to tell him that I think he's fantastic. I even shared with him -- and if you aren't sitting, may I recommend that you do so? -- the fact that I think of him as the Neil Finn of advice. (I know! Nobody has ever earned that title before!) His response was as gracious and personable as one would imagine. (I suspect he doesn't hold Mr. Finn in the same swirly, hushed regard I do, but seemed to understand what the title meant.)
Some people make the world a better place in small ways, every day. I think it's nice to let them know when you notice it.
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Cheapie Xmas Wrapping!
Apartment Therapy LA has a great piece about alternatives to wrapping paper -- there are a couple of fun, easy options I hadn't considered. Check it out!
Friday, November 14, 2008
In which we all have a laugh
This photo makes me giddily happy. Sure, Gervais is no baby coyote, but just look at him! Delightful.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
The Day Blue Won
Mind you, this may well be the first time I've ever said this.
Today I'm proud to be American.
Today I'm proud to be American.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Inner City Pressure
Dear People and Marketing Machines Everywhere:
Stop using "Olé!" as a catchall/cutesy non-sequitur anytime something of or related to Mexico comes up. (Especially recipes. For some reason it especially burns me up to see "Olé!" at the end of some recipe that's got "Mexican" in its name because Betty Sue decided to throw some corn in it.) Just stop it. Following are a few reasons why:
1) "¡Olé!" is an expression from Spain, not Mexico.
2) Spain is actually a different country. This means it is not Mexico.
3) John McCain may be ignorant of this fact, but you don't have to be: Spain is actually in Europe (an entirely different continent, it turns out!).
4) Mexico is our immediate neighbor to the south. In fact, Mexico is two hours south of Los Angeles (which does sort of explain a lot of the place names here, doesn't it? Like "Los Angeles."). The preponderance of Mexican culture evidenced, oh, EVERYWHERE AROUND SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, should be enough evidence alone to curb the use of "Olé!" in U.S. advertising and editorial. Cause, you know, you could ask somebody. If you aren't sure. You know.
5) Because it makes me almost as furious as:
- "Cheese quesadilla" ("Quesadilla" being a word based on "queso," this is not unlike saying "hair wig" or "iPod mp3 player.")
- "Tortilla roll" (Taco. It's a taco. With a few glaring exceptions you can probably think of on your own, anything in a tortilla is a taco.)
- "Tortilla wrap" (See above.)
6) Because it's as asinine as that one fruit vendor on Flight of the Conchords who wouldn't sell fruit to Bret and Jemaine because he thought they were Aussies. Only like totally not funny!
Thanks.
Love,
Emma
Stop using "Olé!" as a catchall/cutesy non-sequitur anytime something of or related to Mexico comes up. (Especially recipes. For some reason it especially burns me up to see "Olé!" at the end of some recipe that's got "Mexican" in its name because Betty Sue decided to throw some corn in it.) Just stop it. Following are a few reasons why:
1) "¡Olé!" is an expression from Spain, not Mexico.
2) Spain is actually a different country. This means it is not Mexico.
3) John McCain may be ignorant of this fact, but you don't have to be: Spain is actually in Europe (an entirely different continent, it turns out!).
4) Mexico is our immediate neighbor to the south. In fact, Mexico is two hours south of Los Angeles (which does sort of explain a lot of the place names here, doesn't it? Like "Los Angeles."). The preponderance of Mexican culture evidenced, oh, EVERYWHERE AROUND SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, should be enough evidence alone to curb the use of "Olé!" in U.S. advertising and editorial. Cause, you know, you could ask somebody. If you aren't sure. You know.
5) Because it makes me almost as furious as:
- "Cheese quesadilla" ("Quesadilla" being a word based on "queso," this is not unlike saying "hair wig" or "iPod mp3 player.")
- "Tortilla roll" (Taco. It's a taco. With a few glaring exceptions you can probably think of on your own, anything in a tortilla is a taco.)
- "Tortilla wrap" (See above.)
6) Because it's as asinine as that one fruit vendor on Flight of the Conchords who wouldn't sell fruit to Bret and Jemaine because he thought they were Aussies. Only like totally not funny!
Thanks.
Love,
Emma
Saturday, October 25, 2008
The last time I watched Saturday Night Live regularly (which is a slightly less pompous way of saying "The last time I thought Saturday Night Live was funny"), it was about 1994. But this Fey/Palin thing is too fantastic for me to snub. And this clip is hilarious, mainly because it's true.*
*Which is also why it's tragic. But nobody needs a primer on that angle, I reckon.
*Which is also why it's tragic. But nobody needs a primer on that angle, I reckon.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
If you've been trying for years, then we already heard your song
I stumbled across this quote in some high-concept fashion magazine I was leafing through (okay, I'll be straight with you) poring over the other day while waiting for my hair appointment. Brought to you by fashiony fellow (and head of Yves Saint-Laurent) Stefano Pilati, it is as follows:
The last outpost of punk is to accept the situation and work within it individualistically, rather than complain and consider no solution except annihilation.
To be honest, it's been awhile since I've given any serious thought to this type of musing over something so besides the point as clothing, though I do find clothing and its language fascinating, and will admit to agonizing over the silhouette/message/frisson of anything I happen to be wearing.
I totally heard you think that terrible word about me just now as you read that. But that's okay, I understand, under the circumstances.
In any case, I got to thinking about that statement (as I was sitting in a trés chi-chi hair salon in the Hollywood Riviera* anyway, I figured why not?).
Is that really the last outpost of punk? So far as I know, punk died a long time ago, nearly as soon as its voice was heard. Its mission was, if you'll pardon the expression, to shock and awe; it did so, and then it wasn't shocking anymore. So whatever still looks and sounds like punk is a tribute, to put it kindly. Adolescents scream and yell to be heard, and then they are heard, and then they grow up. Or anyway, that's the way it's supposed to work. It's the only logical step; the natural progression of maturity.
Of course fashion is absurd all on its own, yes -- but Pilati's statement struck me as particularly obtuse. No one, save a few of my middle-school aged neighbors, thinks punk is still a thing. And even those of us who were (ahem) paying tribute ten years too late, in our early, awkward, tentative steps to catch up with our future selves, are now in our thirties. So what we're left with is something spoken by a man old enough to know better, saying something obvious about growing up and perhaps attempting to excuse the inevitable softening of his own life. Which is happening, will happen, has happened, to us all. All in a giant pull-quote splashed across a spread several pages long.
Up next: No Santa Claus, grass is green, and drinking water is good for you. I mean, really. Meanwhile, people starve. How thoroughly out of touch can a person be?
But, but, but... I know that I will continue to read these silly rags, because they make me feel like I am twelve years old again, planning my next haircut and next pair of Doc Marten's. It's lovely to take thirty minutes and have a vacation from reality. It's a nice place to visit. I just couldn't forgive myself if I lived there.
*Given that Redondo Beach is a good 25 miles from Hollywood, this nickname strikes me as absurd.
The last outpost of punk is to accept the situation and work within it individualistically, rather than complain and consider no solution except annihilation.
To be honest, it's been awhile since I've given any serious thought to this type of musing over something so besides the point as clothing, though I do find clothing and its language fascinating, and will admit to agonizing over the silhouette/message/frisson of anything I happen to be wearing.
I totally heard you think that terrible word about me just now as you read that. But that's okay, I understand, under the circumstances.
In any case, I got to thinking about that statement (as I was sitting in a trés chi-chi hair salon in the Hollywood Riviera* anyway, I figured why not?).
Is that really the last outpost of punk? So far as I know, punk died a long time ago, nearly as soon as its voice was heard. Its mission was, if you'll pardon the expression, to shock and awe; it did so, and then it wasn't shocking anymore. So whatever still looks and sounds like punk is a tribute, to put it kindly. Adolescents scream and yell to be heard, and then they are heard, and then they grow up. Or anyway, that's the way it's supposed to work. It's the only logical step; the natural progression of maturity.
Of course fashion is absurd all on its own, yes -- but Pilati's statement struck me as particularly obtuse. No one, save a few of my middle-school aged neighbors, thinks punk is still a thing. And even those of us who were (ahem) paying tribute ten years too late, in our early, awkward, tentative steps to catch up with our future selves, are now in our thirties. So what we're left with is something spoken by a man old enough to know better, saying something obvious about growing up and perhaps attempting to excuse the inevitable softening of his own life. Which is happening, will happen, has happened, to us all. All in a giant pull-quote splashed across a spread several pages long.
Up next: No Santa Claus, grass is green, and drinking water is good for you. I mean, really. Meanwhile, people starve. How thoroughly out of touch can a person be?
But, but, but... I know that I will continue to read these silly rags, because they make me feel like I am twelve years old again, planning my next haircut and next pair of Doc Marten's. It's lovely to take thirty minutes and have a vacation from reality. It's a nice place to visit. I just couldn't forgive myself if I lived there.
*Given that Redondo Beach is a good 25 miles from Hollywood, this nickname strikes me as absurd.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Lovely and amazing
This is simply amazing. Titled Project Indigo, it's a concept by artist Jesse van Dijk. In his own words:
Project Indigo (working title): Design of a vertical seaside metropolis
In december 2007 I sketched around a single theme for a while as a personal side project. I tried to envision what a huge -vertical- seaside city would look like in a world were dry land is very precious. This city would be situated on a huge pillar in a 'cavity' in the sea; possibly an inactive volcano crater of some sorts. I assumed a level of technology of western European countries around the seventeenth century. Naturally I had to take some huge liberties with the actual mechanical possibilities of these constraints to make a city in a hole in the sea work, not to mention a vertical city.
As far as technique was concerned, I was not interested in creating pretty pictures, but I wanted to present a more or less solid approach to the theme described above.
I'm completely enthralled by this work, particularly the last four images. My imagination immediately begins burrowing and building...
Project Indigo (working title): Design of a vertical seaside metropolis
In december 2007 I sketched around a single theme for a while as a personal side project. I tried to envision what a huge -vertical- seaside city would look like in a world were dry land is very precious. This city would be situated on a huge pillar in a 'cavity' in the sea; possibly an inactive volcano crater of some sorts. I assumed a level of technology of western European countries around the seventeenth century. Naturally I had to take some huge liberties with the actual mechanical possibilities of these constraints to make a city in a hole in the sea work, not to mention a vertical city.
As far as technique was concerned, I was not interested in creating pretty pictures, but I wanted to present a more or less solid approach to the theme described above.
I'm completely enthralled by this work, particularly the last four images. My imagination immediately begins burrowing and building...
Sunday, April 20, 2008
You're looking at me with some unrighteous intention
It started the way many things in my life do: as a joke. My mom, as perhaps is only right, finds my admiration for Mr. Nick Cave repugnant (as well as the man himself). Naturally, I have made a sport of emailing her truly terrible photos of him*, under guise of actual electronic communication. Late last week she decided to strike back, and began filling my inboxes (even my work account! Cheeky, that.) with random ugly photos of random ugly people, primarily old men making terrible faces.
Enter my co-worker J., a graphic artist. She heard me squealing at my computer on Friday, and when I told her what was going on she expressed a great interest in contributing. And so this was volleyed to my mom's inbox:
The photo was met with great enthusiasm, which my mom conveyed to me via email:
I'm going to leave work, come over right now, and wash your brain out with soap. After I pick my bleeding eyes up off the floor. And sterilize them.
I found all of this quite hilarious, so I forwarded both the photo and my mother's response to my friends T. and H., the latter of whom responded with his own work of art (that is me at age 16):
I found all of THAT quite hilarious, so I forwarded the photo to my mother.
She skipped the middle man and went right to the source:
Dear H.,
You and the photoshop you rode in on are both grounded. For life.
~An Irate Mother.
Clearly, no friend of mine would give up at that point, while the getting is so good. Thus, H. responded both in words and in art:
Dear Irate Mother,
I understand your irateiness but before you yell at me and say that "irateiness" isn't even a word I submit to you this recent picture taken at a Nick Cave show where you can easily see who the "bad seed" is that has steered your innocent easily led daughter into the arms of that mad Aussie crooner. I will accept an apology from you of course after this evidence is viewed.
H. Ramos
The third party in that photo is my friend T. I laughed for the better part of the day. ("That will teach her not to cross an unemployed Mexican with Photoshop," H. said [at this rate, I will be sad when he finds a job.].) I called my mom and urged her to go to her inbox. She laughed so hard that I could hear the tears streaming down her face. And she ended the whole affair in her typically lovely way:
Mis respetos. [Spanish--literally, my respects.] I laughed until I cried. And then I laughed again.
xoxo
p.s. T., we need to talk.
p.p.s. H., your apology is graciously accepted.
*Like this charming shot, which even makes me tired:
Enter my co-worker J., a graphic artist. She heard me squealing at my computer on Friday, and when I told her what was going on she expressed a great interest in contributing. And so this was volleyed to my mom's inbox:
The photo was met with great enthusiasm, which my mom conveyed to me via email:
I'm going to leave work, come over right now, and wash your brain out with soap. After I pick my bleeding eyes up off the floor. And sterilize them.
I found all of this quite hilarious, so I forwarded both the photo and my mother's response to my friends T. and H., the latter of whom responded with his own work of art (that is me at age 16):
I found all of THAT quite hilarious, so I forwarded the photo to my mother.
She skipped the middle man and went right to the source:
Dear H.,
You and the photoshop you rode in on are both grounded. For life.
~An Irate Mother.
Clearly, no friend of mine would give up at that point, while the getting is so good. Thus, H. responded both in words and in art:
Dear Irate Mother,
I understand your irateiness but before you yell at me and say that "irateiness" isn't even a word I submit to you this recent picture taken at a Nick Cave show where you can easily see who the "bad seed" is that has steered your innocent easily led daughter into the arms of that mad Aussie crooner. I will accept an apology from you of course after this evidence is viewed.
H. Ramos
The third party in that photo is my friend T. I laughed for the better part of the day. ("That will teach her not to cross an unemployed Mexican with Photoshop," H. said [at this rate, I will be sad when he finds a job.].) I called my mom and urged her to go to her inbox. She laughed so hard that I could hear the tears streaming down her face. And she ended the whole affair in her typically lovely way:
Mis respetos. [Spanish--literally, my respects.] I laughed until I cried. And then I laughed again.
xoxo
p.s. T., we need to talk.
p.p.s. H., your apology is graciously accepted.
*Like this charming shot, which even makes me tired:
Friday, April 04, 2008
I hear it in my head, real low
Taken from a discussion on GoodReads: change one letter in a book title, and--bam!--completely different concept. The last five are mine (she typed, proudly), and the seven before that are a friend’s contributions. Some are slightly edited for clarity/style. Add your own in the comments!*
Mein Krampf - A certain failed Austrian artist drones on about his bodily ailments.
The Right Stiff - Tom Wolfe explores the growing phenomenon of space burial.
Infinite Pest - A talented author loses all control of his manuscript and the footnotes go on forever.
Lady Windermere’s Fin - Inbreeding in Victorian England.
Lady Windermere’s Fat - Mr. Wilde draws attention to the dramatic increase in obesity in Victorian England.
Eyes on the Pride - A group of tourists on safari are separated from their jeep.
The Brothels Karamazov - Heidi Fleiss meets Dostoevski.
In the Miso Soap - Ryu Murakami’s horror about a failed Japanese entrepreneur who creates miso-flavored bath products.
The Toad - Cormac McCarthy’s searing apocalyptic novel about a man and his pet frog.
Chime and Punishment - Roskolnikov gets confused and ends up in a Victor Hugo novel ringing church bells.
James and the Giant Perch - Roald Dahl’s children’s version of Moby Dick.
Stranger in a Strange Band - Michael Smith finds happiness as the new drummer for the Rolling Stones.
The Gropes of Wrath - The Joad family history as told by Henry Miller.
All’s Hell That Ends Well – The pessimist’s guide to life.
How Green Was My Galley – A famous Naval cook’s recipes for the rough North Atlantic crossing.
Bender Is The Night -- Essays by alcoholics.
The Old Man and the Spa - An old fisherman, after a weary day, decides to treat himself to a day at the spa, where he gets Dead Sea salt rubbed on his back to recuperate.
Farewell to Army - Hemingway’s protagonist, instead of ditching his comrades, gets kicked out when they discover he is homosexual.
The Snogs of Kilimanjaro - Harry falls in love with a hyena as he lays dying on the mountain and dies sweetly in its embrace.
Tender is the Right - An old primer for compassionate conservatism.
Rove and Consequences - A thoroughly fact-checked non-fiction account of evil, power, and evil.
The Snobs of Kilimanjaro - Tanzania becomes a playground for the nouveaux riche.
Harry Potter and the Giblet of Fire - Trainee wizard laid low by appendicitis.
To Kill A Mockingbard - William Shakespeare finds himself the target of a madman.
The Thongs They Carried - Wandering fetishists search for their place in a cruel world.
Lord of the Rungs - An epic gymnastic trilogy.
Lard of the Rings - Fitness-challenged hobbit discovers the downside of elven cakes.
Gone With She Wind - Tragic tale of love lost due to flatulence.
Homeo and Juliet - Love and death in the ghetto
Grates of Wrath - Angry drainage workers’ lives during the depression
Homlet - An embryonic leader gets eggsactly what he deserves [oh man, kill me.]
The Buble - Really long historical novel about the rise and fall of a populist singer
The Adventures of Furious George: When Animals Attack
The Round and the Fury - Historical fiction based on Al Gore’s life after the White House, leading up to his aggressive anti-global-warming efforts.
Midnight in the Garden of Food and Evil - The life and times of a bulimic vampire.
The Princess Cride - Popular 1980s tale retold in a combination of modern and archaic English.
That Was Then, This Is Cow - How to cope with the onslaught of absurd children’s names
*If you’re one of the clever devils who came up with any of these titles, and you’d like for me to either remove yours or add your name to it/them, please let me know!
Mein Krampf - A certain failed Austrian artist drones on about his bodily ailments.
The Right Stiff - Tom Wolfe explores the growing phenomenon of space burial.
Infinite Pest - A talented author loses all control of his manuscript and the footnotes go on forever.
Lady Windermere’s Fin - Inbreeding in Victorian England.
Lady Windermere’s Fat - Mr. Wilde draws attention to the dramatic increase in obesity in Victorian England.
Eyes on the Pride - A group of tourists on safari are separated from their jeep.
The Brothels Karamazov - Heidi Fleiss meets Dostoevski.
In the Miso Soap - Ryu Murakami’s horror about a failed Japanese entrepreneur who creates miso-flavored bath products.
The Toad - Cormac McCarthy’s searing apocalyptic novel about a man and his pet frog.
Chime and Punishment - Roskolnikov gets confused and ends up in a Victor Hugo novel ringing church bells.
James and the Giant Perch - Roald Dahl’s children’s version of Moby Dick.
Stranger in a Strange Band - Michael Smith finds happiness as the new drummer for the Rolling Stones.
The Gropes of Wrath - The Joad family history as told by Henry Miller.
All’s Hell That Ends Well – The pessimist’s guide to life.
How Green Was My Galley – A famous Naval cook’s recipes for the rough North Atlantic crossing.
Bender Is The Night -- Essays by alcoholics.
The Old Man and the Spa - An old fisherman, after a weary day, decides to treat himself to a day at the spa, where he gets Dead Sea salt rubbed on his back to recuperate.
Farewell to Army - Hemingway’s protagonist, instead of ditching his comrades, gets kicked out when they discover he is homosexual.
The Snogs of Kilimanjaro - Harry falls in love with a hyena as he lays dying on the mountain and dies sweetly in its embrace.
Tender is the Right - An old primer for compassionate conservatism.
Rove and Consequences - A thoroughly fact-checked non-fiction account of evil, power, and evil.
The Snobs of Kilimanjaro - Tanzania becomes a playground for the nouveaux riche.
Harry Potter and the Giblet of Fire - Trainee wizard laid low by appendicitis.
To Kill A Mockingbard - William Shakespeare finds himself the target of a madman.
The Thongs They Carried - Wandering fetishists search for their place in a cruel world.
Lord of the Rungs - An epic gymnastic trilogy.
Lard of the Rings - Fitness-challenged hobbit discovers the downside of elven cakes.
Gone With She Wind - Tragic tale of love lost due to flatulence.
Homeo and Juliet - Love and death in the ghetto
Grates of Wrath - Angry drainage workers’ lives during the depression
Homlet - An embryonic leader gets eggsactly what he deserves [oh man, kill me.]
The Buble - Really long historical novel about the rise and fall of a populist singer
The Adventures of Furious George: When Animals Attack
The Round and the Fury - Historical fiction based on Al Gore’s life after the White House, leading up to his aggressive anti-global-warming efforts.
Midnight in the Garden of Food and Evil - The life and times of a bulimic vampire.
The Princess Cride - Popular 1980s tale retold in a combination of modern and archaic English.
That Was Then, This Is Cow - How to cope with the onslaught of absurd children’s names
*If you’re one of the clever devils who came up with any of these titles, and you’d like for me to either remove yours or add your name to it/them, please let me know!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Somebody said they saw me (again)
For those [many, many] of you who came here by typing "Somebody said they saw me swinging the world by the tail" into your search engine, I'd like to provide this link. That there is the album for which you are looking, and the song is called Killing the Blues. I'm guessing most of you have heard the song via the new JC Penney commercials? Anyway, it's a great song. I hope this helps. (Bonus: if you scroll down to read the first review, you'll see what is arguably the single best opening sentence in the history of music reviews: Perhaps only the fantasy duo of King Kong and Bambi could be a more bizarre pairing than Robert Plant and Alison Krauss. WOW.)
Sunday, January 06, 2008
I oughta give you a shot in the head for making me live in this dump
Another day, another film. Today's selection was There Will Be Blood. The oil tycoon movie, yes. Truth is I don't really care what it's about when DD-L is involved; there are only two of his movies I've not seen. One is The Crucible, because, well, no thanks... and the only other not-for-television film in his oeuvre I've not enjoyed watched is something called Nanou. (Yes, this means I sat through the wretchedly bad Eversmile, New Jersey. There was a brief period of time during which I was seventeen years old and completely obsessed, let's just say.) In any case, I was not prepared for the film to kick off with a tension level of 10 and then never ease up, save for a few short clippy scenes of about 60-90 seconds during which the tension sinks down to about a 9.5 before ratcheting back to 10 again. Sweet heaven, it was painful and disturbing and exhausting. And DD-L needs an Oscar for it. I'd like to shake his hand, and then follow that up with a good slap (there is a lot of slapping in the film, I reckon he won't mind too much) for punitive damages.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
On allergies and an evening out.
My nose dripped without ceasing. I had no tissues at the ready, and my purse was a new one -- too new to contain an errant coffee shop napkin. And yet I could not leave my seat for the lobby, where the napkins were plentiful, so riveting was Letters From Iwo Jima. Thusly did my tank top become my de facto handkerchief. I'm not proud, but I am glad at not having missed any of this masterpiece.
PS, I am only slightly ashamed of having suggested that the movie should have been named "Sexy Time" because of Ken Watanabe. Disrespectful, I know. I'm sorry.
PS, I am only slightly ashamed of having suggested that the movie should have been named "Sexy Time" because of Ken Watanabe. Disrespectful, I know. I'm sorry.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Thoughts on the Golden Globes
1. Clint never doesn't make me cry. Ever. How much did you love his silvery-bronzy bowtie? And the gallant reference he made to Meryl Streep's being "ageless... but Jack and Clint? That remains to be seen." And the way he said he needed to "pay my respects to the great Ken Watanabe" -- oh, Clint. Every time he speaks, the tears roll down my face.
2. Were Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore making out backstage just before presenting the award for best soundtrack? I can't think of any other reason for their hairstyles, or lack thereof. (Ugh, I typed "Hugh Laurie" by mistake. Drew had better not touch him.)
3. Why was Drew Barrymore there?
4. Smooth move, Timberlake. You'd be nobody without Prince, but that has probably never occurred to you. PS, I've been meaning to say this for months now -- thanks for bringing sexy back! What a relief that's been.
5. Why was Jennifer Love Hewitt there?
6. Yay, America Ferrera!!! There were no dry eyes in my house.
7. I never cease to be amused by the way people are seated at these things. "Over on the left, we have Table of Latins. Sexy Latins! Latins from all corners of the globe! Salma, Penelope, America, Jimmy Smits, Jennifer Lopez, Marc Anthony and muchos, muchos otros! Muy sexy! On the right, African-American folk. Eddie Murphy, Beyoncé, Jada and Will, Prince, Jamie Foxx, Terence Howard, and all the rest! They're keepin' it real, yo! Over in the corner, the pasty white Brits: Jeremy Irons, Helen Mirren, That Girl From The Devil Wears Prada, Sienna Miller (okay, those last two, not so pasty), Ben Kingsley (he's kind of tan as well -- well, he did play Gandhi) and several other people with accents that make the rest of us feel stupid. Finally, front and center, we have the Old [White] Guard: Meryl Streep, crazy old Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty and Annette Bening, et cetera, et cetera, and so on. Wait, what? Oh yes, the random Asians. Uh... stick them with Eastwood."
I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the actual conversations regarding seating never stray very far from that.
8. Dear Tom Hanks, don't ever say "balls" FIVE times in a row, when referring to Warren Beatty's anatomy. Also, your hair sucks them. The balls, I mean. Please do something about that.
9. Sorry about that last one. But Tom Hanks drove me to it. Also, it's true about his hair. Come on.
10. Jeremy Irons' shirt was awesome. Those were Red Hots he was using for buttons, weren't they? Well, he looks amazing every single time. He's like a big sexy cat.
11. Did I just say a big sexy cat? Well, he is.
12. Speaking of sexy: Terence Howard. Fiiiiiine. I only say this because I know some of you were worried that I may have changed my stance on this since last year's Oscars. I can assure you: I have not.
13. Bill Nighy is Jarvis Cocker from the future.
14. Special message to Warren Beatty: just stop talking.
15. I'm turning it off now, as there's not much of if left that I care about. Also, because while Hugh Laurie was accepting his award, I was upstairs trying to convince my son to sleep. I'd like to thank God for YouTube.
2. Were Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore making out backstage just before presenting the award for best soundtrack? I can't think of any other reason for their hairstyles, or lack thereof. (Ugh, I typed "Hugh Laurie" by mistake. Drew had better not touch him.)
3. Why was Drew Barrymore there?
4. Smooth move, Timberlake. You'd be nobody without Prince, but that has probably never occurred to you. PS, I've been meaning to say this for months now -- thanks for bringing sexy back! What a relief that's been.
5. Why was Jennifer Love Hewitt there?
6. Yay, America Ferrera!!! There were no dry eyes in my house.
7. I never cease to be amused by the way people are seated at these things. "Over on the left, we have Table of Latins. Sexy Latins! Latins from all corners of the globe! Salma, Penelope, America, Jimmy Smits, Jennifer Lopez, Marc Anthony and muchos, muchos otros! Muy sexy! On the right, African-American folk. Eddie Murphy, Beyoncé, Jada and Will, Prince, Jamie Foxx, Terence Howard, and all the rest! They're keepin' it real, yo! Over in the corner, the pasty white Brits: Jeremy Irons, Helen Mirren, That Girl From The Devil Wears Prada, Sienna Miller (okay, those last two, not so pasty), Ben Kingsley (he's kind of tan as well -- well, he did play Gandhi) and several other people with accents that make the rest of us feel stupid. Finally, front and center, we have the Old [White] Guard: Meryl Streep, crazy old Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty and Annette Bening, et cetera, et cetera, and so on. Wait, what? Oh yes, the random Asians. Uh... stick them with Eastwood."
I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the actual conversations regarding seating never stray very far from that.
8. Dear Tom Hanks, don't ever say "balls" FIVE times in a row, when referring to Warren Beatty's anatomy. Also, your hair sucks them. The balls, I mean. Please do something about that.
9. Sorry about that last one. But Tom Hanks drove me to it. Also, it's true about his hair. Come on.
10. Jeremy Irons' shirt was awesome. Those were Red Hots he was using for buttons, weren't they? Well, he looks amazing every single time. He's like a big sexy cat.
11. Did I just say a big sexy cat? Well, he is.
12. Speaking of sexy: Terence Howard. Fiiiiiine. I only say this because I know some of you were worried that I may have changed my stance on this since last year's Oscars. I can assure you: I have not.
13. Bill Nighy is Jarvis Cocker from the future.
14. Special message to Warren Beatty: just stop talking.
15. I'm turning it off now, as there's not much of if left that I care about. Also, because while Hugh Laurie was accepting his award, I was upstairs trying to convince my son to sleep. I'd like to thank God for YouTube.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
How I know he's really my son
Luke is standing, with my help, on my left leg. He hears a commotion coming from the TV. It's a commercial for Pale Rider. Luke giggles excitedly and reaches his arm out toward the screen.
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