If you're all of a sudden gripped with a powerful urge to give me a wedgie and take my lunch money during this post, maybe you should skip it and come back some other time.
I'm just warning you now.
Okay then.
Here I go.
I saw G.I. Joe last night, and it confirmed my worst fears. Because, you see, it wasn't completely terrible.
I mean sure, Stephen Sommers can't direct traffic, let alone a movie, and his action scenes could have been so much sweeter. And Channing Tatum, the Mumbling Doofus, is a terrible Duke (and plotwise, he was a terrible character - always screwing up, letting the enemy escape...hell, Marlon fucking Wayans as Ripchord was a bigger hero, and he was the comic relief!). But the explosions were bright and shiny, and the effects were pretty sweet. Even the ninja fights were cool (especially the little kid ones - tiny psychopathic killers are the cutest!). No, it wasn't the footage or even the inane dialogue that killed it for me - it was what they did to Snake Eyes.
For G.I. Joe nerds, Snake Eyes is the Man. Silent, deadly, and a super fantastic ninja, he's the pinnacle of nerd love, for those of us who don't get down with superpowers. So when I first heard there would be a G.I. Joe movie, my first gut reaction was, "Great. How are they going to mess with Snake Eyes?" Just a further example - when I linked above to the Snake Eyes Wikipedia page, I first had to read it all, and then close my office door and perform ninja moves until I calmed down. Snake Eyes is AWESOME.
So he's all scarred, and had this thing with Scarlett, and that's why he doesn't talk and is all supercool. So what does Stephen "Moronface" Sommers do? He gives Snake Eyes a vow of silence, and hooks up Scarlett and Ripchord, who was most recently seen in Norbit and Little Man. And for this, I will never forgive Moronface. God, I hate him so much.
Showing posts with label goodbye innocence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goodbye innocence. Show all posts
Monday, August 17, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
I punched myself in the self-respect
4/6 of the Fancy Family came to visit last week, to play with Child and take pictures of Child and look at Child and smile at Child and to carry Child around on a golden throne, fanning him with gigantic fern leaves. I have no idea how they got those things past security on the plane, but there they were.
Brother Z also brought with him a book. He finished it while he was in town, and since he laughed repeatedly while reading it, I thought it would be worthwhile to spend the 2 or 3 hours it would take me to read it.
I was wrong.
If you don't know who Tucker Max is, you're a better person for it. Not because he's a debauched individual with no morals whatsoever - those people are hilarious, and necessary for any decent party. No, it's because he's a terrible writer, and not funny at all. The parts of the book that made me laugh out loud were when he quoted his friends, who are evidently much funnier than he is, even with their crappy nicknames (Slingblade? Really? That had a shelf-life of about 3 minutes).
Max has a website, and a devoted fan following of date-rapists and people who are too stupid to get Bill Simmons jokes. I won't link to it here, because it's easy enough to find if you want to make yourself dumber, or if you want your girlfriend to dump you. Which hey, that's your call.
I guess the real concern is that I knew who Tucker Max was before I read the book. I knew what I was getting into. So why in G-d's name did I read it? I think less of myself now for having it in my house. I hid it from our babysitter last night, so she wouldn't think I hated women and minorities and myself. I refuse to let Wife read it - even the funny parts - because I want her to keep believing that men, for the most part, are decent, and not vile talking penises. Which they are, but most have a few more scruples about keeping it under wraps (no pun intended - my G-d, it's even got me making puns. I'm going to go stick forks in my eyes now).
Why did I read this book? Why haven't I burned it? Well, because it's not my book, and Brother Z may want it back. But I read it because...
Nope. I got nothing. I can't deny this concerns me. A little, but still.
Brother Z also brought with him a book. He finished it while he was in town, and since he laughed repeatedly while reading it, I thought it would be worthwhile to spend the 2 or 3 hours it would take me to read it.
I was wrong.
If you don't know who Tucker Max is, you're a better person for it. Not because he's a debauched individual with no morals whatsoever - those people are hilarious, and necessary for any decent party. No, it's because he's a terrible writer, and not funny at all. The parts of the book that made me laugh out loud were when he quoted his friends, who are evidently much funnier than he is, even with their crappy nicknames (Slingblade? Really? That had a shelf-life of about 3 minutes).
Max has a website, and a devoted fan following of date-rapists and people who are too stupid to get Bill Simmons jokes. I won't link to it here, because it's easy enough to find if you want to make yourself dumber, or if you want your girlfriend to dump you. Which hey, that's your call.
I guess the real concern is that I knew who Tucker Max was before I read the book. I knew what I was getting into. So why in G-d's name did I read it? I think less of myself now for having it in my house. I hid it from our babysitter last night, so she wouldn't think I hated women and minorities and myself. I refuse to let Wife read it - even the funny parts - because I want her to keep believing that men, for the most part, are decent, and not vile talking penises. Which they are, but most have a few more scruples about keeping it under wraps (no pun intended - my G-d, it's even got me making puns. I'm going to go stick forks in my eyes now).
Why did I read this book? Why haven't I burned it? Well, because it's not my book, and Brother Z may want it back. But I read it because...
Nope. I got nothing. I can't deny this concerns me. A little, but still.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
I'm more European than an English Muffin
I talk a lot of junk about hippies, and the Commies. But deep down, my heart bleeds for endangered fluffy bunnies and Mother Earth. And for our neighbors to the North, I give you guys some crap, but sometimes I think I wouldn't be better as a Canadian.
You see, I was born without a profit motive. As for money I just...I just don't care. So when it comes to corporations I'm at best ambivalent. Sure, they can do some good, but since they have no reason to exist other than to provide their shareholders with a return, sometimes they're downright evil.
So when I read Naomi Klein's (Canadian Jew!) The Shock Doctrine, it confirmed my paranoia. Klein has a real bone to pick with Milton Friedman, seemingly mild-mannered economist and sworn enemy of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his New Deal.
Friedman took a psychological experiment using electro-shock therapy and turned it into the dominant economic and political theory of the last 60 years. The idea is to shock a country or region into disorientation, either through natural disaster or war or some other traumatic event. With the public reeling, the government needs a quick fix. So Friedman trained economists from all over the world to step in and offer lessons in privatization, and corporate-friendly labor laws and taxes. He started in Chile with Augusto Pinochet, then moved through South America privatizing Argentina, Brazil, and Bolivia following the coups that occurred there. His acolytes promised new wealth, freedom, and democracy.
The only problem is that the coups were often funded and provoked by the CIA. And once the wildly unpopular economic plans were announced, and citizens were a little upset when their healthcare and wage protections were revoked, the governments invariably arrested and killed thousands of dissenters.
The privatizations allowed a few to become wildly rich, and the vast majority to become fantastically poor. Friedman's theory was tested in South America, and then unleashed in Indonesia, Poland, Russia, and Great Britain. The World Bank and the IMF were created to provide funding for underdeveloped countries, and they used that opportunity to make the loans contingent on extensive privatization. Eventually natural disasters were exploited, like the 2004 tsunami and Hurricanes Mitch and Katrina. In most cases either Friedman's students or corporate officers themselves who drafted the new economic regulations.
And then there was that whole Iraq thing. Friedman's followers are responsible for the incredible amount of contracting going on in Iraq, as well as in many other areas of the US government. Guys like Grover Norquist, who said that "I don’t want to abolish government. I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub." This is Grover Norquist, president of Americans for Tax Reform, invaluable adviser to Bush, and co-drafter of Newt Gingrich's 1994 Contract with America. For a guy who hates government so much, he sure has an awful lot to do with it. Although how are we supposed to take a guy named Grover seriously?
So aside from all that, the book was HILARIOUS. You'll laugh until you cry. And if you live in Canada, you'll probably drink yourself silly, comforted in the knowledge that your trip to the hospital for alcohol poisoning and cirrhosis will be paid for by a bunch of snooty Quebecois.
I guess my point is, hoooooooooray for capitalism.
You see, I was born without a profit motive. As for money I just...I just don't care. So when it comes to corporations I'm at best ambivalent. Sure, they can do some good, but since they have no reason to exist other than to provide their shareholders with a return, sometimes they're downright evil.
So when I read Naomi Klein's (Canadian Jew!) The Shock Doctrine, it confirmed my paranoia. Klein has a real bone to pick with Milton Friedman, seemingly mild-mannered economist and sworn enemy of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his New Deal.
Friedman took a psychological experiment using electro-shock therapy and turned it into the dominant economic and political theory of the last 60 years. The idea is to shock a country or region into disorientation, either through natural disaster or war or some other traumatic event. With the public reeling, the government needs a quick fix. So Friedman trained economists from all over the world to step in and offer lessons in privatization, and corporate-friendly labor laws and taxes. He started in Chile with Augusto Pinochet, then moved through South America privatizing Argentina, Brazil, and Bolivia following the coups that occurred there. His acolytes promised new wealth, freedom, and democracy.
The only problem is that the coups were often funded and provoked by the CIA. And once the wildly unpopular economic plans were announced, and citizens were a little upset when their healthcare and wage protections were revoked, the governments invariably arrested and killed thousands of dissenters.
The privatizations allowed a few to become wildly rich, and the vast majority to become fantastically poor. Friedman's theory was tested in South America, and then unleashed in Indonesia, Poland, Russia, and Great Britain. The World Bank and the IMF were created to provide funding for underdeveloped countries, and they used that opportunity to make the loans contingent on extensive privatization. Eventually natural disasters were exploited, like the 2004 tsunami and Hurricanes Mitch and Katrina. In most cases either Friedman's students or corporate officers themselves who drafted the new economic regulations.
And then there was that whole Iraq thing. Friedman's followers are responsible for the incredible amount of contracting going on in Iraq, as well as in many other areas of the US government. Guys like Grover Norquist, who said that "I don’t want to abolish government. I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub." This is Grover Norquist, president of Americans for Tax Reform, invaluable adviser to Bush, and co-drafter of Newt Gingrich's 1994 Contract with America. For a guy who hates government so much, he sure has an awful lot to do with it. Although how are we supposed to take a guy named Grover seriously?
So aside from all that, the book was HILARIOUS. You'll laugh until you cry. And if you live in Canada, you'll probably drink yourself silly, comforted in the knowledge that your trip to the hospital for alcohol poisoning and cirrhosis will be paid for by a bunch of snooty Quebecois.
I guess my point is, hoooooooooray for capitalism.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Yo Joe!/Hey, Brother
Today I offer two forms of shame, arising from opposite ends of my life. Shame and excitement. Shame, excitement, and apprehension. Shame, excitement, apprehension, and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope. No, wait, that's the Spanish Inquisition.
Anyhoo, there are two filmic events that both excite me and scare the bejesus out of me (shouldn't it be beJesus? Who knows. Jesus might, I guess).
The first is G.I. Joe. As a liberal who hates military fascism and moral absolutes tied to nationalities, it's embarrassing to admit that I used to love this show. I read the comic books, I bought the toys, I staged hundreds of epic battles between the Joes and COBRA, a ruthless terrorist organization determined to rule the world. COBRA, if you were curious, had fantastically better characters and vehicles, and the Terror Drome was badass. On the other hand, G.I. Joe had Snake-Eyes, who made up most of the difference. But I digress. As ashamed as I am to have loved - and, evidently, still have strong feelings for - the hyperpatriotic Joes, I was thrilled to hear they were going to do a live action movie.
Then I heard it was going to be directed by this guy, and I broke out in hives. What if it blows? Who am I kidding, of course it's going to be terrible! Destro doesn't even have a chrome mask! This is the sort of trauma that ruins childhood memories. And yet...still, there is a fluttering in my soul. Against all odds, it may not suck old man balls. Right? Right?
The other end of this admittedly unique spectrum is Arrested Development. Holy mother of magnificence is it going to be fantastic.
So where, you ask, is the shameful component? Here it is: I only watched maybe half a season when it was first run on TV.
You see? I, an ordinarily loyal member of my demographic, should have scheduled my weeks around the show, should have been shouting from the rooftops odes to its absurdist glory, and devoted hours to dissecting and memorizing each episode. Not only that, but now, having rented and pored over the scant few episodes, I proclaim its glory to every one I know. I truly believe, guilt notwithstanding, that Arrested Development is the funniest show ever. It beats Seinfeld, Cheers, The Simpsons, Family Guy, South Park, The State, Mr. Show, Larry Sanders, 30 Rock, and The Office (even the British one).
Despite all that wonderfulness, just as I am culpable for Weezer sucking (an explanation of which will be a future post), I am responsible for the cancellation of Arrested Development. There. Ah, the confession feels good, like ripping a Band-Aid off.
But let us forget the past. Both movies are going to be glorious, and I will weep tears of joy just to see them brought to the big screen.
Anyhoo, there are two filmic events that both excite me and scare the bejesus out of me (shouldn't it be beJesus? Who knows. Jesus might, I guess).
The first is G.I. Joe. As a liberal who hates military fascism and moral absolutes tied to nationalities, it's embarrassing to admit that I used to love this show. I read the comic books, I bought the toys, I staged hundreds of epic battles between the Joes and COBRA, a ruthless terrorist organization determined to rule the world. COBRA, if you were curious, had fantastically better characters and vehicles, and the Terror Drome was badass. On the other hand, G.I. Joe had Snake-Eyes, who made up most of the difference. But I digress. As ashamed as I am to have loved - and, evidently, still have strong feelings for - the hyperpatriotic Joes, I was thrilled to hear they were going to do a live action movie.
Then I heard it was going to be directed by this guy, and I broke out in hives. What if it blows? Who am I kidding, of course it's going to be terrible! Destro doesn't even have a chrome mask! This is the sort of trauma that ruins childhood memories. And yet...still, there is a fluttering in my soul. Against all odds, it may not suck old man balls. Right? Right?
The other end of this admittedly unique spectrum is Arrested Development. Holy mother of magnificence is it going to be fantastic.
So where, you ask, is the shameful component? Here it is: I only watched maybe half a season when it was first run on TV.
You see? I, an ordinarily loyal member of my demographic, should have scheduled my weeks around the show, should have been shouting from the rooftops odes to its absurdist glory, and devoted hours to dissecting and memorizing each episode. Not only that, but now, having rented and pored over the scant few episodes, I proclaim its glory to every one I know. I truly believe, guilt notwithstanding, that Arrested Development is the funniest show ever. It beats Seinfeld, Cheers, The Simpsons, Family Guy, South Park, The State, Mr. Show, Larry Sanders, 30 Rock, and The Office (even the British one).
Despite all that wonderfulness, just as I am culpable for Weezer sucking (an explanation of which will be a future post), I am responsible for the cancellation of Arrested Development. There. Ah, the confession feels good, like ripping a Band-Aid off.
But let us forget the past. Both movies are going to be glorious, and I will weep tears of joy just to see them brought to the big screen.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Erasers - ever so much cooler than dumb old stickers
When the Pants Wearing Family left Boston, we didn't actually have a house or apartment waiting for us. Instead we moved into Wife's parents' house, where Wife insisted we live in her old bedroom. Obviously a certain amount of decluttering was involved - Luke Perry posters trashed, bus notes from old boyfriends tossed into a pile and ritualistically set aflame - which reawakened all kinds of Wife's memories and experiences.
"Hey, there's my Grateful Dead concert ticket! That was a great show...I think."
"Do I have to throw Luke away? Look at those eyes, that hair, those tight jeans...here, I'll just put him by my pillow, you won't even see him. It. The picture. Not Luke Perry, obviously, ha ha! He's not actually here. But if I wish it, with all my heart...what? No, I said I was fishing for, um, a dart. Yeah, I had this dartboard, and I lost a dart, and now that I'm cleaning my room, I'm looking for it. Like fishing. But no pole. I love you Lu- Pants Wearer!"
One hidden treasure was truly unique, dare I say more unique than the rest of Wife's collected doodads: her eraser collection, stored lovingly and carefully in a set of tiny plastic drawers on top of her bureau. Needless to say, this discovery prompted several questions. Here, then, for your edification, the Eraser Interview:
Pants Wearer: So, why erasers?
Wife: I don't know, I guess cause it was different than other people, who did stamps, or stickers, or whatever. Those are dumb. Erasers are much cooler. What? You know they are. Don't make that face. They are so cool.
P: I didn't say anything. So how many erasers are there, exactly?
W: I don't remember (walks to the shelves). Wow, I DO have a lot. Over 30, easy. And not boring old red ones, for math homework. Boooo, math!
P: Absolutely. What do you mean boring?
W: For example, look at this moose. It's a moose! How much fun is it to bring that out in class?
P: I honestly wouldn't know. But it doesn't look like you used it.
W: Of course I didn't use it, that would kill its value.
P: It's trading value?
W: Yup. Who wants a nasty old moose, streaked with black graphite? Gross! Ooooh, check this one out, it's a piece of coal! Or this one - would you like a rubber cookie? It's delicious!
P: I didn't think it was possible to have this much fun with erasers.
W: Well, not all of them. Look at this stupid sailboat. Blah.
Suddenly Wife's eyes lit up, as she reached for a drawer. Slowly bringing it out, she carefully carried it over to me, and presented her most precious eraser.
W: Look at this...isn't she gorgeous?
P: Is that a Cabbage Patch doll?
W: Uh, yeah (rolls her eyes). Not only that, she's exactly like my Cabbage Patch doll! Hair, and clothes, and everything!
P: That is...special.
W: She gets her own drawer, because I know how to take care of my erasers. See this one?
P: Is that a gun?
W: It used to be, before Brother T ruined it. He used it, like, every day. And now look at it. Yuck. Look! I could serve a whole eraser meal! Strawberries, a hamburger, lollipop... this is so fun! What other cool stuff do I have in here?
And on it went. More revelations about Wife's past, including her time as a bouncer, and her summer as a maker of fine jellies, and maybe some other ones that actually happened, came out as we made our way through the rest of her room. But knowing what I know now, about Wife, and her erasers...I'm just glad she doesn't know about my collection of ceramic bunnies.
I'll tell her, eventually. When she's ready.
"Hey, there's my Grateful Dead concert ticket! That was a great show...I think."
"Do I have to throw Luke away? Look at those eyes, that hair, those tight jeans...here, I'll just put him by my pillow, you won't even see him. It. The picture. Not Luke Perry, obviously, ha ha! He's not actually here. But if I wish it, with all my heart...what? No, I said I was fishing for, um, a dart. Yeah, I had this dartboard, and I lost a dart, and now that I'm cleaning my room, I'm looking for it. Like fishing. But no pole. I love you Lu- Pants Wearer!"
One hidden treasure was truly unique, dare I say more unique than the rest of Wife's collected doodads: her eraser collection, stored lovingly and carefully in a set of tiny plastic drawers on top of her bureau. Needless to say, this discovery prompted several questions. Here, then, for your edification, the Eraser Interview:
Pants Wearer: So, why erasers?
Wife: I don't know, I guess cause it was different than other people, who did stamps, or stickers, or whatever. Those are dumb. Erasers are much cooler. What? You know they are. Don't make that face. They are so cool.
P: I didn't say anything. So how many erasers are there, exactly?
W: I don't remember (walks to the shelves). Wow, I DO have a lot. Over 30, easy. And not boring old red ones, for math homework. Boooo, math!
P: Absolutely. What do you mean boring?
W: For example, look at this moose. It's a moose! How much fun is it to bring that out in class?
P: I honestly wouldn't know. But it doesn't look like you used it.
W: Of course I didn't use it, that would kill its value.
P: It's trading value?
W: Yup. Who wants a nasty old moose, streaked with black graphite? Gross! Ooooh, check this one out, it's a piece of coal! Or this one - would you like a rubber cookie? It's delicious!
P: I didn't think it was possible to have this much fun with erasers.
W: Well, not all of them. Look at this stupid sailboat. Blah.
Suddenly Wife's eyes lit up, as she reached for a drawer. Slowly bringing it out, she carefully carried it over to me, and presented her most precious eraser.
W: Look at this...isn't she gorgeous?
P: Is that a Cabbage Patch doll?
W: Uh, yeah (rolls her eyes). Not only that, she's exactly like my Cabbage Patch doll! Hair, and clothes, and everything!
P: That is...special.
W: She gets her own drawer, because I know how to take care of my erasers. See this one?
P: Is that a gun?
W: It used to be, before Brother T ruined it. He used it, like, every day. And now look at it. Yuck. Look! I could serve a whole eraser meal! Strawberries, a hamburger, lollipop... this is so fun! What other cool stuff do I have in here?
And on it went. More revelations about Wife's past, including her time as a bouncer, and her summer as a maker of fine jellies, and maybe some other ones that actually happened, came out as we made our way through the rest of her room. But knowing what I know now, about Wife, and her erasers...I'm just glad she doesn't know about my collection of ceramic bunnies.
I'll tell her, eventually. When she's ready.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Some thoughts while sitting in the hospital watching Child sleep
Of all the unnerving aspects of the birthing process - and there are so, so many - the one that tops the list, and was most unexpected, was the sheer volume of knowledge I got about my mother-in-law's pregnancys and subsequent biological quirks. For instance, did you know that, 30 years ago, they shaved the hair around the birthing area? I put it delicately because you're not old enough to understand, but ask your older brother, he'll be more than happy to explain it with charts and videos. Aren't you glad you know this?
Science lied to me once again. And all you people who mocked me for disbelieving the whole baby-hoohaa connection can suck a lemon. It turns out there is a different method for removing children from inside mothers - through the gut. What, is the real story not gruesome enough to release to the general public? Got to scare everyone with tall tales of pooping and baby-sized babies squeezing through hoo-haa-sized hoo-haas? I'll never believe anything science has to say, ever again. Which is why Child had his first pastrami sandwich tonight - because milk goes on cereal.
Also, hospital food isn't terrible. What was it, People Who Make Up Old Sayings, you didn't have time to try the vegetable soup? I wish everyone would stop lying to me.
I never knew that I would see literally dozens of men and women come into my room, brazenly whip out Wife's boob, and start massaging it, and I wouldn't punch any of them. She's like an exhibit in a museum, she is.
Hospital wifi is a revelation. How better to mess with your friend's heads than by e-mailing them while Wife recovers from delivery? The key, though, guys, is to wait for your wife to fall asleep. If she's awake, it will not end well for you.
Science lied to me once again. And all you people who mocked me for disbelieving the whole baby-hoohaa connection can suck a lemon. It turns out there is a different method for removing children from inside mothers - through the gut. What, is the real story not gruesome enough to release to the general public? Got to scare everyone with tall tales of pooping and baby-sized babies squeezing through hoo-haa-sized hoo-haas? I'll never believe anything science has to say, ever again. Which is why Child had his first pastrami sandwich tonight - because milk goes on cereal.
Also, hospital food isn't terrible. What was it, People Who Make Up Old Sayings, you didn't have time to try the vegetable soup? I wish everyone would stop lying to me.
I never knew that I would see literally dozens of men and women come into my room, brazenly whip out Wife's boob, and start massaging it, and I wouldn't punch any of them. She's like an exhibit in a museum, she is.
Hospital wifi is a revelation. How better to mess with your friend's heads than by e-mailing them while Wife recovers from delivery? The key, though, guys, is to wait for your wife to fall asleep. If she's awake, it will not end well for you.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Ow, they broke my childhood's leg!
When I first heard of the new Knight Rider movie, I was excited, and nervous. And I saw this:
which made me even more anxious, because his name's not Mike, dammit, it's Michael. Show David Hasselhoff some respect, stupid car. But I thought certain things were sacrosanct, untouchable. Obviously the new KITT would be a Pontiac Firebird, and speak in a fey British accent that made you feel that your annunciation was sorely lacking.
I was wrong. The new Kitt is in no way similar to the old one.
How do they want me to react? Like everything is ok? As if I would understand that certain updates were necessary, and frankly if the new car was also going to be the same model that the new David Hasselhoff would also have to have a curly, flowing mullet? And who's going to replace Hasselhoff, the German Wonder, anyway? Who is sufficiently masculine? Who has the guts to put himself out there like this:
or this:
or this?
How do you top that? You don't. All you do is sully the memory, and my memory is sufficiently sullied. So when my child, who won't be able to speak when the new Knight Rider appears, but will question me with his/her eyes, wonders what happened to the old Knight Rider, I shall say to him/her, "I'm sorry, my child. Michael Knight got ripped on uppers and blow, and crashed KITT into an orphanage. Let us never speak of this again."
which made me even more anxious, because his name's not Mike, dammit, it's Michael. Show David Hasselhoff some respect, stupid car. But I thought certain things were sacrosanct, untouchable. Obviously the new KITT would be a Pontiac Firebird, and speak in a fey British accent that made you feel that your annunciation was sorely lacking.
I was wrong. The new Kitt is in no way similar to the old one.
How do they want me to react? Like everything is ok? As if I would understand that certain updates were necessary, and frankly if the new car was also going to be the same model that the new David Hasselhoff would also have to have a curly, flowing mullet? And who's going to replace Hasselhoff, the German Wonder, anyway? Who is sufficiently masculine? Who has the guts to put himself out there like this:
or this:
or this?
How do you top that? You don't. All you do is sully the memory, and my memory is sufficiently sullied. So when my child, who won't be able to speak when the new Knight Rider appears, but will question me with his/her eyes, wonders what happened to the old Knight Rider, I shall say to him/her, "I'm sorry, my child. Michael Knight got ripped on uppers and blow, and crashed KITT into an orphanage. Let us never speak of this again."
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