Tidbits, and mini-Paddlin'

First, to the Paddlin':

Sarah Palin - quitter. Wuss. But I am psyched to see that she still can't avoid the press, and continues to sound like an idiot. Man, the 2012 Presidential race can NOT come fast enough.

Congress - again with the pussiness. Pussyness? Pussitude? Either way, they're a bunch of mincing little girls. You knew about the torture of innocent civilians, you greenlighted an entire war based on little or no evidence, and yet somehow the idea of giving the middle class better healthcare is beyond your reach? All 535 of you are as useless as Pope Hat condoms, contraception for Catholics. Jerkweeds. Pikers.

House Hunters: Wife watches this show. I can't figure out why. Maybe it's watching Iowans choose between McMansion A, B, or C, all for under $55,000. After all, who doesn't love feeling superior once in a while? But it's on more often than Law & Order and CSI: Whatever put together, and she can't get enough. You know who I want to see buy a house? Nobody. I. Just. Don't. Care.

Limes: You're not fooling anyone, you know. I see right through you. You have exactly one use - stuck in the bottle of a Corona to make it taste less like pee (seriously, have you ever drunk a Corona without a lime? It has to be Mexican urine. I'm convinced. I don't know what this means about sticking a lime in there and drinking it anyway, but those ads are just so compelling!). But Lime-ade? Wrong. False. Incorrect.

You are a garnish! Lemon won this war, like, centuries ago. You had your chance. You could have been lemon. But you blew it. We all know the old story of the Last Supper: Jesus had you on one side, and lemon on the other. And what did you do? You made some crack about his beard, and he went with lemon, the silent and tastier citrus. Then you sold out lemon to the Romans, and they crucified him.

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore, but my point is, shut the fuck up, lime. Go wait by the Corona.

Fantastic new Scientology ads: these have been popping up on my RSS feeds, and I have to say these are misplaced on the Paddlin' list, because they are hilarious.



Awesome! Hooray L.Ron Alien Man!

Recently I've noticed that I really want to be Scottish. This isn't new - I've been obsessed since I saw Braveheart for the first time. It's the accent, the liquor, the opportunity to wear plaid skirts without being a Catholic school girl (although if I do get reincarnated, not a bad choice, if you're listening, Hindu gods...).

But mostly, it's the music. Idlewild, Reindeer Section, Broken Records, Frightened Rabbit - but not Belle & Sebastian. I'm wussy enough as it is - if I started listening to them I'd probably have to start wearing eyeliner and keeping a dream journal.

Finally, a Turducken update: I have mastered the boning - that is, de-boning - or the removal of all bones, there, that's completely empty of bestial innuendos - of a chicken. What I found is that you just have to suck it up and dive in. Just get in there deep, using your fingers to probe around, and find the sweet spots. Crap, I let the sexual innuendo back in, didn't I?

Oh well. Next up - duck. I'm not going to do a practice turkey, because it's expensive, and Wife doesn't like turkey, so I'd be eating the damn thing myself. And I just don't like white meat.

Hey, at least I posted, right? Maybe next time you'll get some sort of structure, or focus.

Why yes, this IS a copout

Some of you may have noticed that I don't write so often. I've made excuses before, but when you get right down to it I'm just lazy. Too lazy to create the funny, too uninspired to dream up the haha. And I apologize for making you wait for my random flashes of brilliance: you deserve better.

I was thinking this as I read the Great Ali's recent post, which kindly offered to provide interview questions, per these rules:

If you would like to participate in the ME interview, here are the rules.

1. If you want to be interviewed, leave me a comment that says “Interview me”.

2. I will respond by emailing you 5 questions (I get to choose the questions).

3. Update your blog with the answers to the questions and let me know when you have posted it.

4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When other comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

And like I said, I've been grossly delinquent in my own originality, so I'm swiping Ali's who swiped someone else's, and so on. Plus, who doesn't love to be interviewed about themselves? Probably the Dalai Lama, but he's disqualified because he spends too much time with Richard Gere, who loves to talk about the Lama. It's all "Lama this," and "Buddha that." Get a room, Ricky and Lama!

Here then, Ali's questions, and my answers:

1. What is your favorite movie?? Now tell us the one we REALLY want to know...the movie that you are embarrassed to admit that you love and can watch over and over and over?

Pulp Fiction, and here's a little story by way of illustration:

The first time I saw this movie I was in Boston, visiting some friends from my summer Israel trip and checking out colleges. This girl invited me to stay at her place for the weekend (clue no. 1), and we hung out, going out with her friends, giving each other backrubs (clue no. 2) and generally having a good time. But I was stupid, and so I made no move in any sort of romantic/boob-ish direction. The last night I was there, we went to go see Pulp Fiction. I hadn't seen anything like it in my entire life. The dialogue, the blood, the music, the sodomy - it was genius. Sometime during the movie, I felt a hand on my upper thigh (clue no. 3). My friend had abandoned subtlety.

What did I do? Here were the thoughts in my head:

"Wait, did she? Oh man, she did. That's her hand, and it's on my thigh. It's up there, man. Oh my god, is Zed raping Marcellus Wallace? Um, I have to make out with this girl right now. Or do I? I'm staying at her house, we're going there right after this. Do I say anything? Is there anything I could say that wouldn't sound like I'm rejecting her very generous and insistent offer? Maybe if I say nothing, and act like I don't notice her hand, which is now pretty much massaging my hip, and moving ever closer to - holy crap, that was HILARIOUS! Man, Samuel L. Jackson should be in like, every movie from now on. OK, just play dumb, and watch the rest of the movie, and you can hook up at her place, where there's a bed, and it'll be more comfortable anyway."

Only your favorite movie would compel you to put off the perfect hookup situation. Or maybe your especially screwed-up priorities. Did I mention how few girls I dated in high school? No, fewer. Fewer. Yeah, that's about right.

As for the movie I'm embarrassed to love? There is no shame in loving Say Anything... because John Cusack is awesome. On the other hand, there is a little shame in having a strange fixation on Ryan Reynolds, and being able to watch any movie he's in. Van Wilder? Funny. Waiting? Strangely absorbing, and hilarious. Definitely, Maybe? Unconscionable. And yet I cannot turn away.

2. If you could have any superpower, what would you choose? And what would your superhero name be? any ideas what your costume might look like?

The power to kill a yak from 200 yards away, with mind bullets. That's telekinesis, Kyle.

My name would be Motion, and I would wear no cape. My logo would be a stencil of me kicking Isaac Newton in the crotch as he sits under his apple tree. Where's your equal and opposite reaction to that, bitch? That's what you get for taking credit for gravity. Are we supposed to believe that it didn't exist before the 18th century? Screw you and your stupid wig.

3. What is your biggest pet peeve? What is one thing that you do that might drive other people crazy?

I hate being reminded to do something I already know that I have to do. It's not that I don't know I'm supposed to replace the garbage bags in the garbage can - I just don't care enough to do it right now.

And since I have always believed I know more than I actually do, this pretty much extends to anyone telling me to do anything. I could be lying in a pool of my own vomit, and you could come by and say "Hey, you should roll over, otherwise you're going to choke to death." My immediate internal response will be to inhale puke, just to spite you. See? Now I'm dead. That's what you get for trying to help me, dickface.

What might drive people up a wall is when I don't do things I'm supposed to do. It might be even more aggravating when I snap in response to your demand that I stop being so oblivious. That might bother people. Like Wife. Possibly. One can never really know for sure.

4. Choose one moment in your life you could go back and do over...what would you do differently?

I'm guessing your first suggestion would be the Pulp Fiction scenario mentioned above. But I've got a least 6 or 7 of those puppies in my past, so how to choose one? I could choose the day I decided against going to Michigan and to go to YU. I could choose the day I decided to stay in business school and not switch to English. I could choose any number of screwed up interviews, or professional decisions. Or how about the time I spent a summer at this other camp because a girl convinced me to come, only to get there and find out she was already dating the guy who is now her husband?

We'll go with the summer I spent in Israel, because I blew not one, not two, not three, but six different hookup opportunities in less than 9 weeks. Because I am the MASTER, that's how.

5. Create the playlist you would choose if you could hijack a radio station and be a dj for an hour:

"This or That" - Black Sheep

"10 A.M. Automatic" - Black Keys

"The Wolves (Act I and II)" - Bon Iver

"The Teeth Collector" - Pretty Girls Make Graves

"God" - The Dodos

"What?" - Tribe Called Quest

"Looking for Astronauts" - The National

"Da Mystery of Chessboxin'" - Wu-Tang

"Holland, 1945" - Neutral Milk Hotel

"Boom" - The Roots

"You're No Rock'n'Roll Fun" - Sleater Kinney

"All Fires" - Swan Lake

"Definition" - Black Star

"Gun Street Girl" - Tom Waits

"The Greatest Man that Ever Lived" - Weezer

"New Partner" - Bonnie "Prince" Billy

"The Bleeding Heart Show" - New Pornographers

Because I'm a snob.

So then, if you'd like to be interviewed, say so in a comment, and verily I shall ask you 5 questions. Kindly post them on your blog, or if you have none, write them on a postcard in lipstick and mail it to me, and I'll do my best to transcribe it here.

Saul Williams makes me want to buy some Nikes and curse my evil white heritage

If you haven't seen it already, this is Nike's commercial for its new cross-trainers:



The song is by Saul Williams, called "List of Demands (Reparations)." I don't know about you, but it makes me want to go out and run suicides, or buy some overpriced athletic shoes.

The song is awesome, and obviously Saul Williams authorized its use in the commercial, but don't you think someone who looks and thinks like this, wouldn't he be a little hesitant about allowing a company to use what is effectively a protest song, in such a way? Or is that simply my white guilt, projecting my discomfort onto him?

Either way, badass song, right?

Thunderdome: Brett & Jumaine vs. Jables & KG - sexy time all around?

A few years ago an acoustic rock duo exploded onto HBO, sending rock and sexy mansweat spewing everywhere. Jack Black and Kyle Gass, united as Tenacious D, used hair metal as a weapon against evil, and a dangerously powerful aphrodisiac (how many power duos have no problem sucking on toes?).

Then, last year, a shot was fired across their overweight bow. Out of New Zealand, the 4th-ranked digi-folk parodists duo Flight of the Conchords proclaimed that looking like Andy Samberg and loving David Bowie makes you the nuts.

Now, for the first time anywhere, we who Wear Pants pit them against each other in the Thunderdome. "Two men enter, one man leaves."


Origins:

The D: spawned from the pits of Hell and vomited upon this land in LA, where they play small clubs and fight about whether cock pushups make you ready to rawk.

Conchords: Fom New Zealand, which is awesome, because the only other things from New Zealand are Peter Jackson, hobbits, kiwis, and sheep. Lots of sheep. So it's fitting Brett & Jumaine moved to Brooklyn.

Advantage - The D, by a nose (New Zealand is cool, but Hell is hot.)


Appearance:

The D: jolly fat men who wear white socks pulled high. JB's hirsuteness (hirsute-ity?) makes up for Kyle's baby-like absence of hair. Like Donal Logue in The Tao of Steve, their girth does not prevent them from wooing the ladies.

Conchords: Andy Samberg, without the weirdly thick neck or Jewish nose. Hipster uniform, as required by Brooklyn residency statutes. Jumaine has fantastically thick lips, stretching from his chin almost up to his indie-rock plastic-framed glasses. Brett wears sweaters.

Advantage: The D, because you need extra calories if you're going to bring the rock. And because KG, if he lived in a place with snow, could pass as a snowman. He's a double scoop of vanilla on twin popsicle sticks.


Vocals:

The D: quality harmonies, and surprising range for the round mounds of sound. Add that to Jack's Dokken-esque roar, and they're pretty versatile.

Conchords: Jumaine can hit the lows and the highs, and Brett's just all over. Plus, there's the kiwi accent, and the Pants Wearer loves accents.

Advantage: Conchords.


Music:

The D: focusing on the rock, they do what they do well. But beyond an occasional love ballad about the D and the double team, that's about it. Their secret weapon is Dave Grohl, who shows up to play drums. But this is a 2 on 2, so he doesn't count.

Conchords: From hip hop to folk to Marvin Gaye-esque protest ballads about love being like cellar tape, they can do it all. Plus, their Bowie in space is better than Bowie actually being in space. Dig that.

Advantage: Conchords


Shows/movies:

The D: The show was great, and had the benefit of great cameos, like John C. Reilly playing Sasquatch. Disadvantaged because their show was only 15 minutes long. Made up for it by making a movie, but it kinda sucked. The Pick of Destiny will forever sully the memory of the D on screen.

Conchords: haven't made a movie, but their show is amazing. Their support cast - manager, obsessed fan, random building guy - is also a whole lot better than the D's. Could not, however, exist or flourish without the D having blazed the trail before them.

Advantage: Push


Secret identities/powers:

The D: AKA Wonder Boy and Nastyman. How about the power of flight? That's levitation, homes. And killing a yak with mindbullets? Telekinesis, Kyle.

Conchords: Hip Hopapotamus and the Rhymenocerus. The Hip Hopapotamus - his lyrics are bottomless. The Rhymenocerus raps about reality, like there ain't not party like his Nana's tea party (hey, ho).

Advantage on powers: The D, in a blowout.
Advantage on hilarity: Conchords, because New Zealand sometimes trumps all.

The winner: There is no winner, because the Pants Wearer is many things, but sometimes being decisive is not one of them. So there you have it. A tie. If I had a sister this is what it would feel like to kiss her. But given the joy that both groups provide the world, aren't we really all winners?

Notwithstanding, Michael Cera is the nuts

Twee, as a musical genre, also as a word, really, is pretty much indefensible. It's precious, tinny, poorly-produced saccharine tripe that will rot your teeth in mere seconds. And yet, here I sit, a few days after Wife and I saw Juno, feverishly downloading Kimya Dawson and the Moldy Peaches. I don't have to steal anything by Tilly and the Wall - so cutesy their percussion comes from a tap dancer - because my iPod is already stocked with them. The sight of Michael Cera and Ellen Page harmonizing to "Anyone Else But You" provoked Wife's gag reflex - although 38 weeks of pregnancy didn't help - and compelled me to dream of simpler times, when none of the girls over whom I obsessed knew anything about good music, let alone how to play an instrument, and how much cooler it would have been if they did.

Cheesy? Um, a little. Embarrassing? Thoroughly. So why am I posting this information here of all places, where you can all read and mock me?

Because it's not my fault. It's the Fetus. All of a sudden sentimentality is acceptable to me? What's that about? I'm supposed to root for couples to get together at the end of movies, instead of one of them turning out to be a zombie? Somehow I got roped into watching Love Actually, and some guy in the movie proclaims his love for his best friend's wife, and everyone watching with me - Wife, Brother A, and the Minyan Makers - seemed to think this was sufficient. And I argued - ARGUED, vehemently - that he should have pursued her further, that he was pussing out.

Who gives a gigantic Indian food crap? It's cheesy nonsense! I should have been rooting for more boobs, or for someone to be revealed as an alien, or maybe a brainwashed assassin. But no, I'm getting upset because I didn't get closure. And this is Fetus' fault.

And don't think this will be the first thing I'll blame on the little sucker. If you see me months from now, and I'm critiquing, expertly, an inferior stroller or swaddling blanket (and admitting I know what swaddling blankets are for), it won't be my fault. Fetus - soon to be renamed Baby - has already sucked the cool from my brain. It's disappeared into the gaping maw of Wife's ever-distending belly button.

For those of you who cluck your tongues, and remember certain events that might suggest the Fancy Pants were always and forever somewhat substantially less than cool, let me remind you that I know where all the bodies are buried. I know who Amanda was, and what she did By Night. I remember clearly Mrs. S' unnatural and startling fixation on a certain large, uncouth, spaghetti-making golfer. So keep your snickers to yourself, if you know what's good for you.

Remixed by DJ Hackett...

On my dope, whacked out new album, these are the folks I want dropping 16 bars on some hot waxed tracks:


For the social conscience songs, that speak to the soul of the streets:

1) Lauryn Hill (vague anti-Semitism be damned)
2) Mos Def
3) Boots Riley
4) Killer Mike (you know, he's a college graduate)
5) Common, for the white folks
5a) El-P


For the gangsta style, when I want to glamorize slinging rock in the ghett-o:

1) Snoop
2) Nas
3) Wu-Tang, in this order:
a) Ol Dirty Bastard
b) Method Man
c) Ghostface Killah
d) the Genius
e) Rza
f) Raekwon
g) Masta Killa
4) Eminem
5) Nate Dogg

For the crizzizzay nutty business:

1) Busta Rhymes
2) Pharaoh Monche
3) Andre 3000
4) MF Doom

Tuesday List: …That’s a Paddlin’

“FTW.”

“That is all.”

No-longer-obscure Simpsons quotes

Not having the common decency to switch lanes if the H on my badass Civic has pressed itself into your rear bumper. I’m tailgating you for a reason, lady.

Encouraging young women to dress appropriately and modestly: Pure Fashion

Serving paint chips instead of potato chips. Sure, there’s no trans fats, but there is an extra slice of stupid, courtesy of Slate.com Getting the Lead Out

Not fulfilling your potential before tossing your life away over some puppies. Real men cock fight, Vick.

Believing that cock fighting involves birds, and there is no other subtext. Not at all.

Ring tones. Congratulations, anonymous older woman. Now I know, merely from hearing your phone ring “Umbrella,” that if your husband hasn’t cheated on you, within a week he’ll be all over his secretary.

Zac Effron associated with actual music. But who deserves the paddlin’? It’s not Zac’s fault he’s an androgynous mannequin with caterpillars on his forehead, paid ungodly sums to sing vacuous Disney melodies. And Rolling Stone has to report on the musical zeitgeist as it is, regardless of value judgments. So the paddlin’ goes to Walt Disney’s frozen undead head. Zombie racist son of a bitch.

Rodrigo y Gabriela’s version of “Stairway to Heaven.” Because no one should be allowed to show up Jimmy f’in Page on a guitar, not on this song. And yet there they go, innocent Mexicans, flying in the face of tradition. You’re supposed to be washing dishes, dammit.

It's the Questions...

Questions that have tormented me ever since no one would tell me what “Smurfing” was (and no, I can’t find answers to these on Wikipedia.):

- Inspector Gadget. The Claw, Gadget’s nemesis. The Claw had a cat. What is the cat’s name?

- The Breakast Club. Judd Nelson crawling in the ceiling, tells a joke. “Naked woman walks into a bar with a 12-inch salami under one arm, and a poodle under the other. Bartender says, ‘I guess you won’t be needing a drink.’ Naked woman says’” and that’s where he falls into the library. WHAT? What does she say?

- Q-Tip can’t get off his ass and make another record? What else is he doing?

- Is it so hard to produce another You Can’t Do That on Television? I miss Moose, and Alastair, and wondering why Canadians can’t speak proper English.

- You’ve got the greatest defense in history. The best running back ever (until LT retires). A complete madman at QB. One of the best mustaches on a coach, ever. And a catchy theme song. How exactly were the Bears only able to squeeze out one Super Bowl win? Come on, the Giants? Joe “I get manicures because toenails are yucky” Montana?

- Lorne Michaels was able to produce the bizarre and awesome Kids in the Hall while presiding over the often mediocre SNL. No thoughts of a crossover? What exactly did Dana Carvey have over Dave Foley?

- Does it make me a bad Jew if I prefer Colbert to Stewart, and believe that Woody Allen is a whiny ugly pedophile, and that Johnnie was a cooler Ramone than Joey, and that Ben Stiller isn’t nearly funny enough to be in 7 or 8 movies each year?

Progress is for suckers

The Brothers are done with CD’s. My friend the Crocodile hasn’t bought an album in years, but he also has his own sitar and recording studio, so we’ll put him over…there. None of the other Pantsy Pals care enough about music to purchase any, so I’m stuck with no role models who remain loyal to the fragile, easily-scratched medium of the not-so-compact disc. Am I reaching my own tipping point? I don’t know what other cliché to use to describe the situation in which I find myself. Rock and a hard place? Rubber meets the road? One hand clapping?

Wife’s opinion, appropriate for a pregnant lady, is paradoxical: CD’s are still worthwhile, but I shouldn’t buy any more because we don’t have any more room, even though we just moved into a palatial 2-bedroom (and comparable to a palace in that it has more than one bathroom).

As in all other instances, I will probably concede to a portion of Wife’s demand. I won’t buy CD’s right now. But this month the New Pornographers come out with a new album, so we’ll have to make room. There are all sorts of plants that take up all sorts of room, but Wife isn’t on me to throw them out, is she? Although maybe that’s because all she has to do is wait a month or two, and they’ll have died. For Krazy, who asked us to plant-sit – that’s what you get for leaving the country. Jerk.