Comes packaged with a Mercury Morris mixtape featuring the blistering dis tracks, "Ether Wasn't Shit Compared To This", "Fins Forever", and "Brady Ain't Manning Enough".
NFL New England Patriots Super Bowl
Monday, February 4, 2008
The Must-Have Book of the Century
Comes packaged with a Mercury Morris mixtape featuring the blistering dis tracks, "Ether Wasn't Shit Compared To This", "Fins Forever", and "Brady Ain't Manning Enough".
NFL New England Patriots Super Bowl
Sunday, February 3, 2008
You're in the Super Bowl, Charlie Brown
I geniunely don't care about the Super Bowl this year. Bragging rights go to the sports-loving citizens of either Boston or New York City. Says it all right there.
AIRDATE: 1/18/94
STORY: There are actually two stories here, with the A story involving a Pass and Punt competition that will net the winner a spot in the finals to be held at that years Super Bowl. The B story tells the unlikely saga of a team of birds coached by a beagle on their way to the AFL (Animal Football League) Championship.
Pretty much every Peanuts kid enters the comp, none more driven than Linus. While chucking the pigskin with best pal Charlie Brown, the insecure wunderkind catches a glimpse of some "new" girl in the neighborhood, shyly watching them, her red hair done up Princess Leia-style. Her name? Melody-Melody. Over sundaes, Linus tells her of the upcoming contest and really bigs himself up to "the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Linus' performance is spectacular, and he seems destined for a place at the worlds foremost scalpers convention when the final kid steps onto the field. Yep, it's Melody-Melody, who obliterates the other contenders for the win and breaks a young boys heart. This is supposed to be somewhat tragicomic, but I know that whenever I see or hear of a girl whose personal triumph also involves the thoughtless shattering of some fragile male ego, I smile inside. 9
MUSIC: David Benoit gets credit for composition and arrangement, but as the credits clearly state, the program consists of reimagined Guaraldi originals. As a tribute to the late great Dr. Funk, it's fantastic. As the soundtrack to a football show, it works very well, with blaring horns and relentless keys suggesting nothing less than the Big Game played in the Big Easy. 9
ANIMATION: It's a mid-90s special, meaning the overall look could stand to be a bit crisper around the edges and brighter in the middles. It suffices, but it could have thrived. 8
VOICES: I think it's lame that Franklin and Pig Pen are drawn but not voiced here. If they got treated any more ghetto, they'd be shown going into a Wings-n-Things.
The kids do good here, with no one falling flat. Jim Guardino and Crystal Kuns do average jobs as Charlie Brown and Melody-Melody, respectively, earning an 8 apiece. Linus as brought to life by John Graas is probably the most childish-sounding that character's ever been voiced, but his earnest yearning fits the storyline. 9
Another 9 for the play-by-play announcer heard over the AFL games, courtesy of Steve Stoliar. Yes, it's an actual coherent adult voice in Peanuts, and he sounds like Howard Cosell trying to sell discount mattresses.
The remaining three voice actors get 10's. Haley Peel and Nicole Fisher voice Peppermint Patty and Marcie and give on-head readings; those two characters bring out the best in whoever recites their lines. Haley Peel in particular gives good tussle in the fight against oncoming puberty. Probably the best overall is Molly Dunham's Lucy, one of the very few times that a kid can be said to have nailed this notoriously slippery young girl. Her voice sounds just like pretty purple frosting gleaming down the sides and curling around the edges of a yellow cake with white icing. The sweetest evil.
THE COMPETITION
AIRDATE: 1/18/94
STORY: There are actually two stories here, with the A story involving a Pass and Punt competition that will net the winner a spot in the finals to be held at that years Super Bowl. The B story tells the unlikely saga of a team of birds coached by a beagle on their way to the AFL (Animal Football League) Championship.
Pretty much every Peanuts kid enters the comp, none more driven than Linus. While chucking the pigskin with best pal Charlie Brown, the insecure wunderkind catches a glimpse of some "new" girl in the neighborhood, shyly watching them, her red hair done up Princess Leia-style. Her name? Melody-Melody. Over sundaes, Linus tells her of the upcoming contest and really bigs himself up to "the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Linus' performance is spectacular, and he seems destined for a place at the worlds foremost scalpers convention when the final kid steps onto the field. Yep, it's Melody-Melody, who obliterates the other contenders for the win and breaks a young boys heart. This is supposed to be somewhat tragicomic, but I know that whenever I see or hear of a girl whose personal triumph also involves the thoughtless shattering of some fragile male ego, I smile inside. 9
MUSIC: David Benoit gets credit for composition and arrangement, but as the credits clearly state, the program consists of reimagined Guaraldi originals. As a tribute to the late great Dr. Funk, it's fantastic. As the soundtrack to a football show, it works very well, with blaring horns and relentless keys suggesting nothing less than the Big Game played in the Big Easy. 9
ANIMATION: It's a mid-90s special, meaning the overall look could stand to be a bit crisper around the edges and brighter in the middles. It suffices, but it could have thrived. 8
VOICES: I think it's lame that Franklin and Pig Pen are drawn but not voiced here. If they got treated any more ghetto, they'd be shown going into a Wings-n-Things.
The kids do good here, with no one falling flat. Jim Guardino and Crystal Kuns do average jobs as Charlie Brown and Melody-Melody, respectively, earning an 8 apiece. Linus as brought to life by John Graas is probably the most childish-sounding that character's ever been voiced, but his earnest yearning fits the storyline. 9
Another 9 for the play-by-play announcer heard over the AFL games, courtesy of Steve Stoliar. Yes, it's an actual coherent adult voice in Peanuts, and he sounds like Howard Cosell trying to sell discount mattresses.
The remaining three voice actors get 10's. Haley Peel and Nicole Fisher voice Peppermint Patty and Marcie and give on-head readings; those two characters bring out the best in whoever recites their lines. Haley Peel in particular gives good tussle in the fight against oncoming puberty. Probably the best overall is Molly Dunham's Lucy, one of the very few times that a kid can be said to have nailed this notoriously slippery young girl. Her voice sounds just like pretty purple frosting gleaming down the sides and curling around the edges of a yellow cake with white icing. The sweetest evil.
THE COMPETITION
Other than the twist ending, the most enjoyable part of the Punt-Pass competition was seeing the Peanuts kids all decked out in NFL gear.
I'm going to hold out hope that the team of Schulz-Melendez-Mendelson (or some combo thereof) did not appoint these unis haphazardly. Here Linus is wearing a Rams jersey while Charlie Brown is donning some modified 49ers gear (oh the irony). The Rams and Niners have had a topsy-turvy rivalry since the formers inception into the NFL as the Los Angeles Rams, and in this show, Linus and Charlie Brown are amicable combatants for the heart of Melody-Melody, who's watching from the sidelines.
Despite wearing the silver-and-black of the Raiders, Lucy still manages somehow to suck the worst of every competitor!
Well, I suppose I can let slide the lack of yak for Franklin when he gets the chance to represent Warren Moon. (Fanatic note: Per the announcer, Franklin's last name is "Armstrong". However, Charles Schulz never gave Franklin a last name, and these shows are not considered canon, so the correct answer to "What is Franklin's last name?" would be "None".)
There's no lascivious connection to be made between broncos and lesbians. Believe me, I Googled the shit out of it to make sure. Closest I found was this. Seeing Marcie in Redskins attire only makes me very sad. She is far too great a young lady, far too insightful, far too sensible, far too civil and decent, to wear the burgundy and gold. (Okay, now that I've said all that--congrats Art Monk, the only Redskin I've ever liked in the history of ever.)
Just like Franklin, Marcie is given a last name for this show ("Johnson") that has to be discarded in Peanuts lore.
Pigpen is drawn wearing a rejected Packers uniform design from the early 90s. Interesting.
As if trampling Linus' desire in the turf wasn't enough, Melody-Melody is catapulted to infinite heights of unsympathetic by walking out onto the field representing the Dallas Cowboys. Ugh. This is kinda killing my inner girl-power smile!
AND IN A STUNNER, THE NEW YORK GIANTS DEFEAT THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS!
--"You get a seal here! And a seal here!"
--Snoopy did a fantastic job coaching the Birds to the title. They ran through the Cats, the Dogs and the Bison, all while depending on a playbook drawn up strictly off the last minute of the Cal-Stanford game in '82.
(And you have to think the Dogs game was the most hard-won. Think about it, you're a dog, okay, and you're facing a team of birds coached by a dog. One of your own!)
--The bird squad is chock fulla some of the best names ever: Kowalski, Grabowski (Steve?), Unitas, Csonka, Van Buren, Buchanan. (But no mention of Woodstock.)
--"Don't fret it, Cat. There's a home for you on the Vikings secondary."
--For my money, this special has a top 3 "football trick" of all-time. Charlie Brown is ready to have the ball pulled from him yet again when Peppermint Patty runs, bringing news of the competition. Soon, a gaggle of young'uns are gathered 'round, and Chuck sees a golden opportunity.
Oh noooooooooooooooooooooo! Statue of Liberty in yo' face!
OH WHO AM I KIDDING? PATRIOTS BY 35
--Marcie calls it the "Splendid Bowl". Okay, maybe she was tailor-made for that Skins jersey, then.
--Simultaneously melancholy, pathetic and reeking of vengeance...Linus' lament at his loss.
"Charlie Brown, I was in love with that girl!"
------------------------------------------------------
Friday on ESPN is boxing night, which also means its the one day a week Bert Sugar is allowed on television. Bert Sugar is older than any documented deity in world history; he remembers when baseball was played professionally using egg cartons for bases, glued toothpicks for bats and severed cat heads for balls. There is nothing this man loves more than forcing the blood to circulate throughout his body by endless retellings of the time Charlie "No Flaps" Box led the Pittsburgh Potato Sacks past the St. Louis Organ Grinder Monkeys in the World Series.
This particular night he happened to be babbling about something occuring not only this century, but in the very same week: the Super Bowl. It seems that three out of eight times that there have been knockouts in the heavyweight division with the title changing hands the previous year, the NFC champ won. Four times when there were no knockouts in heavyweight title bouts with the title changing hands the previous year, the AFC division champion has won. I know I shouldn't put faith in this silliness, but jeez...Bert Sugar, y'all. Funniest thing he ever saw was Moses dropping tablets on Mt. Sinai.
I don't like making sports-related guarantees. Too much chance for epic egg on pale face. So lemme keep it no-brainer: You're In the Super Bowl, Charlie Brown will be a much better watch than this years Super Bowl.
EDIT: Okay..I was half-right. That was only the greatest Super Bowl ever played. And Charlie Brown had a starring role in the greatest Super Bowl commercial ever.
Super Bowl Charlie Brown Snoopy Peanuts NFL
I'm going to hold out hope that the team of Schulz-Melendez-Mendelson (or some combo thereof) did not appoint these unis haphazardly. Here Linus is wearing a Rams jersey while Charlie Brown is donning some modified 49ers gear (oh the irony). The Rams and Niners have had a topsy-turvy rivalry since the formers inception into the NFL as the Los Angeles Rams, and in this show, Linus and Charlie Brown are amicable combatants for the heart of Melody-Melody, who's watching from the sidelines.
Despite wearing the silver-and-black of the Raiders, Lucy still manages somehow to suck the worst of every competitor!
Well, I suppose I can let slide the lack of yak for Franklin when he gets the chance to represent Warren Moon. (Fanatic note: Per the announcer, Franklin's last name is "Armstrong". However, Charles Schulz never gave Franklin a last name, and these shows are not considered canon, so the correct answer to "What is Franklin's last name?" would be "None".)
There's no lascivious connection to be made between broncos and lesbians. Believe me, I Googled the shit out of it to make sure. Closest I found was this. Seeing Marcie in Redskins attire only makes me very sad. She is far too great a young lady, far too insightful, far too sensible, far too civil and decent, to wear the burgundy and gold. (Okay, now that I've said all that--congrats Art Monk, the only Redskin I've ever liked in the history of ever.)
Just like Franklin, Marcie is given a last name for this show ("Johnson") that has to be discarded in Peanuts lore.
Pigpen is drawn wearing a rejected Packers uniform design from the early 90s. Interesting.
As if trampling Linus' desire in the turf wasn't enough, Melody-Melody is catapulted to infinite heights of unsympathetic by walking out onto the field representing the Dallas Cowboys. Ugh. This is kinda killing my inner girl-power smile!
AND IN A STUNNER, THE NEW YORK GIANTS DEFEAT THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS!
--"You get a seal here! And a seal here!"--Snoopy did a fantastic job coaching the Birds to the title. They ran through the Cats, the Dogs and the Bison, all while depending on a playbook drawn up strictly off the last minute of the Cal-Stanford game in '82.
(And you have to think the Dogs game was the most hard-won. Think about it, you're a dog, okay, and you're facing a team of birds coached by a dog. One of your own!)
--The bird squad is chock fulla some of the best names ever: Kowalski, Grabowski (Steve?), Unitas, Csonka, Van Buren, Buchanan. (But no mention of Woodstock.)
--"Don't fret it, Cat. There's a home for you on the Vikings secondary."--For my money, this special has a top 3 "football trick" of all-time. Charlie Brown is ready to have the ball pulled from him yet again when Peppermint Patty runs, bringing news of the competition. Soon, a gaggle of young'uns are gathered 'round, and Chuck sees a golden opportunity.
Oh noooooooooooooooooooooo! Statue of Liberty in yo' face!
OH WHO AM I KIDDING? PATRIOTS BY 35
--Marcie calls it the "Splendid Bowl". Okay, maybe she was tailor-made for that Skins jersey, then.
--Simultaneously melancholy, pathetic and reeking of vengeance...Linus' lament at his loss.
"Charlie Brown, I was in love with that girl!"
------------------------------------------------------
Friday on ESPN is boxing night, which also means its the one day a week Bert Sugar is allowed on television. Bert Sugar is older than any documented deity in world history; he remembers when baseball was played professionally using egg cartons for bases, glued toothpicks for bats and severed cat heads for balls. There is nothing this man loves more than forcing the blood to circulate throughout his body by endless retellings of the time Charlie "No Flaps" Box led the Pittsburgh Potato Sacks past the St. Louis Organ Grinder Monkeys in the World Series.
This particular night he happened to be babbling about something occuring not only this century, but in the very same week: the Super Bowl. It seems that three out of eight times that there have been knockouts in the heavyweight division with the title changing hands the previous year, the NFC champ won. Four times when there were no knockouts in heavyweight title bouts with the title changing hands the previous year, the AFC division champion has won. I know I shouldn't put faith in this silliness, but jeez...Bert Sugar, y'all. Funniest thing he ever saw was Moses dropping tablets on Mt. Sinai.
I don't like making sports-related guarantees. Too much chance for epic egg on pale face. So lemme keep it no-brainer: You're In the Super Bowl, Charlie Brown will be a much better watch than this years Super Bowl.
EDIT: Okay..I was half-right. That was only the greatest Super Bowl ever played. And Charlie Brown had a starring role in the greatest Super Bowl commercial ever.
Super Bowl Charlie Brown Snoopy Peanuts NFL
Thursday, January 31, 2008
More Toys! More I Say!
So yeah, the amazing quest to collect all 8 Snoopy toys from Burger King continues.
Pretty damn cool, if I do say so myself. All that's left to complete the circle of life are the surgeon, the soccer star, and the wily detective.
Snoopy Burger King
Pretty damn cool, if I do say so myself. All that's left to complete the circle of life are the surgeon, the soccer star, and the wily detective.
Snoopy Burger King
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The Atypically Mega-Occupied Weekend
I decided to break down the goings-on of the past weekend categorically rather than chronologically. A little more interesting to me, and I hope for you as well.
STAYING INDOORS
FRIDAY
Patrick retrieved me from work and we headed down to Olney. He forewarned me of the weakened condition currently unenjoyed by his 12-year-old Maltese Kirby, due to a swollen right eye. This saddened me; Kirby and I have always had a cool bond goin' on.
This was the only of the three days spent together in which we did not 22 skiddoo our asses out of the cushy confines of the home on Olney Mill Road. Time was much better spent munching carryout Thai (pad tofu for 'trick, pad ka pow for the author) and drinking Coors Light. Conversation with Patrick's parents flowed from collegiate shenanigoats, war, and the importance of passing on family history, to how the Irish are a forsaken lot of drunk dunderheads condemned to be mocked eternally by exploitative suds-profferers here and in England.
Attempts by all parties to defeat me at guessing artists on those "radio" style TV channels were futile, less it was Bobby Vinton or some shit. (Trivial Pursuit was admittedly trickier.)
"This is 'Stormy', by Classics IV. Their other hit was 'Spooky'. So pretty much, they were good so long as they had a song that began with an 's' and ended with a 'y'."
"What about 'Sunny'?" Patrick's mom mildly slurred.
"Bobby Hebb", I answered without hesitation.
"How do you know that?!"
"My mind is fulla trivial crap like 'at."
SATURDAY
We unwound the yarn of time slowly. There was the NHL All-Star Skills Competition, where the bestest hockey players who weren't injured or uninterested showed off their speed, accuracy and creativity. All it really confirmed was that Alexander Ovechkin is Christ on Skates. Dude was trying to hit the puck like a baseball.
The Japanese once again enriched us as we huddled 'round the laptop campfire to watch classic Downtown Batsu game videos.
SUNDAY
I exercised to Gang of Four while Patrick sprawled on the couch, awaiting an airing of the 1985 children's classic Follow That Bird. Big Bird leaves Sesame Street and then tries to go back! (Amazing in retrospect that Elmo only had a nonspeaking role.) I eventually joined 'trick on the couch, our bodies lain parallel. Sleep was inevitable. I awoke to find I had dribbled on the cape of a vampire Snoopy I was using for a pillow. Ewww.
At 8, we switched to a new episode of The Simpsons. Given the description--Homer and Marge-centered flashback wherein we discover how Marge inadvertently created "grunge music"--the expectations were dire. Shockingly, the show was hilarious.
"Homer, did you know that every president has been a straight white male?"
"Even Walt Disney?"
The much-dreaded "grunge" plot was actually great--after losing Marge to a hyper-lefty associate professor, Homer starts a band called Sadgasm. Their initial outdoor performance inspires an attendee to make a call on a nearby pay phone:
"Kurt, this is Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Cobain. Know that new sound you've been looking for? Listen to this!"
Oh wait, I forgot. The Simpsons haven't been funny for a decade and I'm just a fool holding on to past glories, desperately seeking humor and heart where there simply is none. Oh do cunt off, Family Guy fanatics!
SATURDAY
Up at 10--dear Jesus was it cold. The temp improved but the wind was gnarly throughout the day. Our goal was Downtown Silver Spring, a cavalcade of consumer opportunity for people not quite rich enough to live in DC. The jury was indecisive initially, but eventually the 12 good men and women tried and true returned a verdict exonerating the day and sparing it death by lethal disenchantment.
Trips to Borders and the Mall were let-downs for sure, tre ghetto without the tre. Only a last-minute pop into Marshalls salvaged the latter trek--I scored a sweet sweater there. The walk around Borders was frustrating, as they didn't have anything I couldn't grab in Hagerstown, and they weren't selling the new Be My Valentine, Charlie Brown deluxe DVD. Also, I managed to strain my left leg there.
It was noon when we decided to eat lunch at Panera Bread. Actually, Patrick had naught but iced green tea, while I supplemented my beverage with a Frontega Chicken Panini. We sat in the rear of the restaurant, one table down from some college student in the throes of intense weekend study: one hand wrapped around a yellow marker, the other planted square across her forehead in intense concentration as she gazed intently at sheet after sheet of stapled paper on the table, the industrial-size bottle of Deer Park dying of loneliness in front of her. With two hours to go before the 2 PM showing of No Country For Old Men, we decided to hit up a couple more shops in an attempt to plunk gold nuggets from piles of horse dung.
American Apparel was a revelation for just getting to see their clothes on racks rather than the taut figures of the website models. I picked up a red-and-gray hoodie and red workout leggings while Patrick gawked the lame attire.
My Brooklyn pal Annie despises AA as a whole for not only the clothes, but the marketing of said product and the fact that the AA store 'round her way is populated by insufferable hipster kids who, given access to a time machine, would go back to the 70s to be Studio 54 doormen. Thankfully, the Silver Spring location is free of these type folk, appealing more to the more low-key high-maintenance. The most arresting figure there was the woman at the register, whose look so screamed "I can't wait for the next Allison Wolfe DJ night at the Black Cat" that Patrick was very tempted to ask her if she preferred Erase Errata with or without Sara Jaffe.
A pair of 10 buck cotton pants from Ann Taylor later, and we were ready for the movies.
MOVIES
SATURDAY
The AFI Silver Theatre is, per Wikipedia, "the most technically advanced Motion Picture exhibition outlet in North America. It features the ability to show 16, 35, and 70mm vertical, HDCAM, Betacam, Betacam SP/SX, DigiBetacam, DVCAM, Mini DV, DVD, VHS, D5, and DVCPRO all in state of the art projectors." Suck that, LA and NYC. Suck that with cheese on it!
The Silver Theatre also has special exhibitions in addition to showing current movies. Starting next month: the complete works of the Coen Bros.
How was No Country? Deserving of every accolade it has and will receive. I'm a sucker for ensemble performance, and this is a classic one, bringing to life the suspenseful, serpentine, bittersweetly reflective script. The violence went jarring to mundane--by the filmmakers design, mind--till the controversial conclusion seemed inevitable. I hope the Cormac McCarthy novel is comparably awesome source material, as I'm going to order it shortly.
SUNDAY
We saw our second Best Picture nominee in as many days with a noon showing of Juno at the Olney 9 Theatre. Patrick had seen it once before. Unlike No Country, the theater was sparsely-populated--seven people. Sometimes that's cool; I still remember seeing Pulp Fiction late in its theatrical run with my best friend, two of only 5 people in the audience for a 10:30 PM showing. We were laughing at unabashed volume and parroting dialogue to the oblivious screen.
I enjoyed Juno greatly. It had heart, wit, and superlative performances from JK Simmons and Allison Janney as the parents. It also had moments were the wit fell flat, where you could feel the screenwriter had a pathological inability to let situations be organically amusing. The music stuff? I about peed myself to hear the Melvins namedropped, and Sonic Youth are so embedded in my DNA that the references to them (positive and negative) sent my nerve ends atingle (and no, I'm not one of those fans who gives a flying fuck at a rolling donut whether or not people check their music out for the first time ever after this movie; good one on 'em, I just hope they don't hear Confusion is Sex first. 'Cause they're not gonna be ready).
FOOD
SATURDAY
From the movie we drove back to Olney, specifically Sakura, for some exquisite Japanese food.
It must've been the Green Dragon tickling my tongue as it washed over it, 'cause I couldn't shut up. Whether it was the perceived dominance of Asians in the realms of variety shows, pop-punk and baseball, the actual proliferation of these eateries in Japan, or the odds that the annoying kid seated across from us would shriek and vomit pea soup when the chef set the hibachi grill aflame, I was finding reasons to run my mouth.
The chef appeared when there were 6 of us at the teppan: Patrick, me, the little girl, her mom, and two female companions. Practically from the moment they were seated the child had been ornery and prone to slide off mom's lap and run around the place.
"Your tubes are tying themselves right now, aren't they?" Patrick whispered, barely stifling a grin.
Eventually, mama and babe exited.
Patrick ordered a shrimp and chicken meal with fried rice, while I had the steak and chicken with white rice. (The chef, a young lad named Jun, could scarcely believe that I, a young lass named Jenn, wanted my meat well-done; he was similarly scoobied when my awesome boyfriend inquired as to what the individual sauces were called in Japanese.) It was yet again some of the finest stuff I'll ever eat. In addition to being delicious and filling, it also instilled a real sense of pride, as I was able to eat 80% of the meal (yeah, I had a goddamn calculator with me) with chopsticks.
SUNDAY
A sweet Mexican lunch followed later by a Patrick special, authentic Italian spaghetti and meatballs, with mushrooms and sausage beautifying the thick rich sauce. Add in some bread and red wine, and you had the ideal accompaniment to the All-Star Game. Our hero Ovechkin got 2 early goals.
THE UNEXPECTEDLY ERUDITE LEANINGS OF THE J & P SHOW
FRIDAY
Patrick and I had a very involved debate over the use of red and blue in 18th century French poetry.
SATURDAY
Deciding that the culinary and visual representations of Rising Sun comma Land Of needed another point so's to make the trinity holy, Patrick and myself engaged in a passionate, equal parts frustrating and liberating discussion over which of tanka, haiku or shi is the finest example of Japanese poetry.
SUNDAY
Before shuffling off into dreamland, Patrick and I poured out some soy milk and pondered the disparate literary legacies of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.
American ApparelSilver Spring No Country For Old Men Juno
STAYING INDOORS
FRIDAY
Patrick retrieved me from work and we headed down to Olney. He forewarned me of the weakened condition currently unenjoyed by his 12-year-old Maltese Kirby, due to a swollen right eye. This saddened me; Kirby and I have always had a cool bond goin' on.
This was the only of the three days spent together in which we did not 22 skiddoo our asses out of the cushy confines of the home on Olney Mill Road. Time was much better spent munching carryout Thai (pad tofu for 'trick, pad ka pow for the author) and drinking Coors Light. Conversation with Patrick's parents flowed from collegiate shenanigoats, war, and the importance of passing on family history, to how the Irish are a forsaken lot of drunk dunderheads condemned to be mocked eternally by exploitative suds-profferers here and in England.
Attempts by all parties to defeat me at guessing artists on those "radio" style TV channels were futile, less it was Bobby Vinton or some shit. (Trivial Pursuit was admittedly trickier.)
"This is 'Stormy', by Classics IV. Their other hit was 'Spooky'. So pretty much, they were good so long as they had a song that began with an 's' and ended with a 'y'."
"What about 'Sunny'?" Patrick's mom mildly slurred.
"Bobby Hebb", I answered without hesitation.
"How do you know that?!"
"My mind is fulla trivial crap like 'at."
SATURDAY
We unwound the yarn of time slowly. There was the NHL All-Star Skills Competition, where the bestest hockey players who weren't injured or uninterested showed off their speed, accuracy and creativity. All it really confirmed was that Alexander Ovechkin is Christ on Skates. Dude was trying to hit the puck like a baseball.
The Japanese once again enriched us as we huddled 'round the laptop campfire to watch classic Downtown Batsu game videos.
SUNDAY
I exercised to Gang of Four while Patrick sprawled on the couch, awaiting an airing of the 1985 children's classic Follow That Bird. Big Bird leaves Sesame Street and then tries to go back! (Amazing in retrospect that Elmo only had a nonspeaking role.) I eventually joined 'trick on the couch, our bodies lain parallel. Sleep was inevitable. I awoke to find I had dribbled on the cape of a vampire Snoopy I was using for a pillow. Ewww.
At 8, we switched to a new episode of The Simpsons. Given the description--Homer and Marge-centered flashback wherein we discover how Marge inadvertently created "grunge music"--the expectations were dire. Shockingly, the show was hilarious.
"Homer, did you know that every president has been a straight white male?"
"Even Walt Disney?"
The much-dreaded "grunge" plot was actually great--after losing Marge to a hyper-lefty associate professor, Homer starts a band called Sadgasm. Their initial outdoor performance inspires an attendee to make a call on a nearby pay phone:
"Kurt, this is Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Cobain. Know that new sound you've been looking for? Listen to this!"
Oh wait, I forgot. The Simpsons haven't been funny for a decade and I'm just a fool holding on to past glories, desperately seeking humor and heart where there simply is none. Oh do cunt off, Family Guy fanatics!
The All-Star Game ended dramatically, with the game winner coming with only 21 seconds left. The Screen Actors Guild Awards were cool; Alec Baldwin and Tina Fey won for their work on the greatest damn show on TV, 30 Rock, and we learned that Charles Durning has been in a fuck of a lotta films.
SHOPPING
SHOPPING
SATURDAY
Up at 10--dear Jesus was it cold. The temp improved but the wind was gnarly throughout the day. Our goal was Downtown Silver Spring, a cavalcade of consumer opportunity for people not quite rich enough to live in DC. The jury was indecisive initially, but eventually the 12 good men and women tried and true returned a verdict exonerating the day and sparing it death by lethal disenchantment.
Trips to Borders and the Mall were let-downs for sure, tre ghetto without the tre. Only a last-minute pop into Marshalls salvaged the latter trek--I scored a sweet sweater there. The walk around Borders was frustrating, as they didn't have anything I couldn't grab in Hagerstown, and they weren't selling the new Be My Valentine, Charlie Brown deluxe DVD. Also, I managed to strain my left leg there.
It was noon when we decided to eat lunch at Panera Bread. Actually, Patrick had naught but iced green tea, while I supplemented my beverage with a Frontega Chicken Panini. We sat in the rear of the restaurant, one table down from some college student in the throes of intense weekend study: one hand wrapped around a yellow marker, the other planted square across her forehead in intense concentration as she gazed intently at sheet after sheet of stapled paper on the table, the industrial-size bottle of Deer Park dying of loneliness in front of her. With two hours to go before the 2 PM showing of No Country For Old Men, we decided to hit up a couple more shops in an attempt to plunk gold nuggets from piles of horse dung.
American Apparel was a revelation for just getting to see their clothes on racks rather than the taut figures of the website models. I picked up a red-and-gray hoodie and red workout leggings while Patrick gawked the lame attire.
My Brooklyn pal Annie despises AA as a whole for not only the clothes, but the marketing of said product and the fact that the AA store 'round her way is populated by insufferable hipster kids who, given access to a time machine, would go back to the 70s to be Studio 54 doormen. Thankfully, the Silver Spring location is free of these type folk, appealing more to the more low-key high-maintenance. The most arresting figure there was the woman at the register, whose look so screamed "I can't wait for the next Allison Wolfe DJ night at the Black Cat" that Patrick was very tempted to ask her if she preferred Erase Errata with or without Sara Jaffe.
A pair of 10 buck cotton pants from Ann Taylor later, and we were ready for the movies.
MOVIES
SATURDAY
The AFI Silver Theatre is, per Wikipedia, "the most technically advanced Motion Picture exhibition outlet in North America. It features the ability to show 16, 35, and 70mm vertical, HDCAM, Betacam, Betacam SP/SX, DigiBetacam, DVCAM, Mini DV, DVD, VHS, D5, and DVCPRO all in state of the art projectors." Suck that, LA and NYC. Suck that with cheese on it!
The Silver Theatre also has special exhibitions in addition to showing current movies. Starting next month: the complete works of the Coen Bros.
How was No Country? Deserving of every accolade it has and will receive. I'm a sucker for ensemble performance, and this is a classic one, bringing to life the suspenseful, serpentine, bittersweetly reflective script. The violence went jarring to mundane--by the filmmakers design, mind--till the controversial conclusion seemed inevitable. I hope the Cormac McCarthy novel is comparably awesome source material, as I'm going to order it shortly.
SUNDAY
We saw our second Best Picture nominee in as many days with a noon showing of Juno at the Olney 9 Theatre. Patrick had seen it once before. Unlike No Country, the theater was sparsely-populated--seven people. Sometimes that's cool; I still remember seeing Pulp Fiction late in its theatrical run with my best friend, two of only 5 people in the audience for a 10:30 PM showing. We were laughing at unabashed volume and parroting dialogue to the oblivious screen.
I enjoyed Juno greatly. It had heart, wit, and superlative performances from JK Simmons and Allison Janney as the parents. It also had moments were the wit fell flat, where you could feel the screenwriter had a pathological inability to let situations be organically amusing. The music stuff? I about peed myself to hear the Melvins namedropped, and Sonic Youth are so embedded in my DNA that the references to them (positive and negative) sent my nerve ends atingle (and no, I'm not one of those fans who gives a flying fuck at a rolling donut whether or not people check their music out for the first time ever after this movie; good one on 'em, I just hope they don't hear Confusion is Sex first. 'Cause they're not gonna be ready).
FOOD
SATURDAY
From the movie we drove back to Olney, specifically Sakura, for some exquisite Japanese food.
It must've been the Green Dragon tickling my tongue as it washed over it, 'cause I couldn't shut up. Whether it was the perceived dominance of Asians in the realms of variety shows, pop-punk and baseball, the actual proliferation of these eateries in Japan, or the odds that the annoying kid seated across from us would shriek and vomit pea soup when the chef set the hibachi grill aflame, I was finding reasons to run my mouth.
The chef appeared when there were 6 of us at the teppan: Patrick, me, the little girl, her mom, and two female companions. Practically from the moment they were seated the child had been ornery and prone to slide off mom's lap and run around the place.
"Your tubes are tying themselves right now, aren't they?" Patrick whispered, barely stifling a grin.
Eventually, mama and babe exited.
Patrick ordered a shrimp and chicken meal with fried rice, while I had the steak and chicken with white rice. (The chef, a young lad named Jun, could scarcely believe that I, a young lass named Jenn, wanted my meat well-done; he was similarly scoobied when my awesome boyfriend inquired as to what the individual sauces were called in Japanese.) It was yet again some of the finest stuff I'll ever eat. In addition to being delicious and filling, it also instilled a real sense of pride, as I was able to eat 80% of the meal (yeah, I had a goddamn calculator with me) with chopsticks.
SUNDAY
A sweet Mexican lunch followed later by a Patrick special, authentic Italian spaghetti and meatballs, with mushrooms and sausage beautifying the thick rich sauce. Add in some bread and red wine, and you had the ideal accompaniment to the All-Star Game. Our hero Ovechkin got 2 early goals.
THE UNEXPECTEDLY ERUDITE LEANINGS OF THE J & P SHOW
FRIDAY
Patrick and I had a very involved debate over the use of red and blue in 18th century French poetry.
SATURDAY
Deciding that the culinary and visual representations of Rising Sun comma Land Of needed another point so's to make the trinity holy, Patrick and myself engaged in a passionate, equal parts frustrating and liberating discussion over which of tanka, haiku or shi is the finest example of Japanese poetry.
SUNDAY
Before shuffling off into dreamland, Patrick and I poured out some soy milk and pondered the disparate literary legacies of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.
American ApparelSilver Spring No Country For Old Men Juno
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Facing the Consequences and Throwing Up on Them
It's awesome that ESPN anchor Dana Jacobsen has been suspended by the network and dragged through the mud by the Catholic League for her comments at a roast for fellow ESPN employees Mike Greenberg and Mike Golic, wherein she trashed the thoroughly hateful Notre Dame and concluded with "Fuck Jesus".
Alan King would vomit in rage, were he not already dead.
Freedom of speech...with consequences! No mitigating factors! Now wait, before you go rolling your eyes and say the fact that Jacobsen was clearly inebriated (according to "eyewitness accounts", anyway) is no excuse, please listen. I beg you. Dana Jacobsen was not just drunk. She was--again, according to those who were there--drinking vodka straight from the bottle.
Update--photo evidence confirms that she ain't no amateur at this.
Anyone who chugs the clear nectar with hand wrapped firmly around the neck of the bottle is to be excused anything (except driving drunk, no passes ever for that stupidity). Sticking your tongue down a strangers throat? Telling the lame-ass DJ to play some Def fuckin' Lep? Breakdancing on the kitchen table? Admitting your most prurient sexual fantasies to family members? Speaking blasphemously as you tell those gold-helmeted assholes that the University of Georgia bulldog is 10 times cooler than they'll ever be? That's what happens! I know these things. With women, the propensity for outrageousness is even greater. Any female who will neck vodka is an uber-being to be simultaneously admired, feared, respected, and asked to every party within 50 miles of their residence.
Such is the allure of women too impatient to be bothered with a glass that the media takes note when a female celeb is spotted in the throes of "bottle bliss", as if she's one step closer to ruin. Beyonce, Lindsay Lohan and Bjork all have recently been called out. Braaaaaaavo!
The Catholic League is unbelievable. I say the entire religion should be called out and its touchstones derided until they treat their own rampant, perverse internecine tendencies. So what the man they worship got a playground insult tossed his way? I say, Young Hova either sets up a time to kick ass after class or it's a non-issue. I don't go into paroxysms of transparent justice-seeking when someone makes a comment about my mother, and she's closer to a right-here-and-now embodiment to the ideals of Christ than anyone in this ridiculous story.
ESPN Dana Jacobsen
Alan King would vomit in rage, were he not already dead.
Freedom of speech...with consequences! No mitigating factors! Now wait, before you go rolling your eyes and say the fact that Jacobsen was clearly inebriated (according to "eyewitness accounts", anyway) is no excuse, please listen. I beg you. Dana Jacobsen was not just drunk. She was--again, according to those who were there--drinking vodka straight from the bottle.
Update--photo evidence confirms that she ain't no amateur at this.
Anyone who chugs the clear nectar with hand wrapped firmly around the neck of the bottle is to be excused anything (except driving drunk, no passes ever for that stupidity). Sticking your tongue down a strangers throat? Telling the lame-ass DJ to play some Def fuckin' Lep? Breakdancing on the kitchen table? Admitting your most prurient sexual fantasies to family members? Speaking blasphemously as you tell those gold-helmeted assholes that the University of Georgia bulldog is 10 times cooler than they'll ever be? That's what happens! I know these things. With women, the propensity for outrageousness is even greater. Any female who will neck vodka is an uber-being to be simultaneously admired, feared, respected, and asked to every party within 50 miles of their residence.
Such is the allure of women too impatient to be bothered with a glass that the media takes note when a female celeb is spotted in the throes of "bottle bliss", as if she's one step closer to ruin. Beyonce, Lindsay Lohan and Bjork all have recently been called out. Braaaaaaavo!
The Catholic League is unbelievable. I say the entire religion should be called out and its touchstones derided until they treat their own rampant, perverse internecine tendencies. So what the man they worship got a playground insult tossed his way? I say, Young Hova either sets up a time to kick ass after class or it's a non-issue. I don't go into paroxysms of transparent justice-seeking when someone makes a comment about my mother, and she's closer to a right-here-and-now embodiment to the ideals of Christ than anyone in this ridiculous story.
ESPN Dana Jacobsen
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I Never Even Liked Luigi That Much
Since Christmas, Super Mario Galaxy (premier game for the Wii console, formerly highest-rated video game in Metacritics history until Xbox fanboys and Zelda nerds conspired to catapult Ocarina of Time back to the top position) has been a fixture of my "off" time. It hasn't cut into my other hobbies, but it helps fill a void I had been unaware of; the void that existed ever since I sold my Nintendo 64 and with it, Super Mario 64, AKA "the greatest video game in history".
I spent so many glorious hours playing that game. Wasted time? Oh no. I hardly see how defeating that fiery bastard Bowser whilst collecting 120 stars on the way to some grand Princess Peach cake party in the sky is anything but time brilliantly savored. Even that goddamn lava level had some redeeming qualities. Like, the fact it ended. Eventually you got every star you could and that's that. That always brought a smile to my face.
The Mario series is the pinnacle of video game platforming. To run, to jump, to bounce, to swim, to shoot flame, to walk on water, to defy physics...the littlest plumber who could has provided ready and willing gamers all the excitement they could handle since the original captivated Japan and North America in 1985. Endless sequels have been spawned on various Nintendo consoles, the appeal of rescuing the Princess seemingly never dying.
Then, in 2002, Super Mario Sunshine came out for the Gamecube.
In and of itself, removed from the context of a legendary title, Sunshine is nowhere near bad. Nor is it outstanding. For the sake of comparison, let's go to the world of music. My favorite band, the one the only the Sonic Youth, have not released a truly horrible album. 2000's NYC Ghosts and Flowers is the least impressive of them all; the band's knack for innovation seems to have deserted them and little of the material is genuinely memorable. Nor is much of it genuinely horrible. It is an album that just is. For a band of such stature, such a resume bursting with classic music that literally changed lives and created movements within the culture, to release some record that is "okay" is to wonder if further trips to the well will prove inutile.
The makers of the Mario franchise created such a beautiful universe that anything less than revolution was a letdown. After Sunshine and its "Small Flowers Crack Concrete" camera work, the gaming world was hungry still for a truly worthy successor to the beloved Mario 64. A game that boasted more stunning graphics, even more epic music, and gameplay seemingly beyond human imagination.
Super Mario Galaxy was thus released to much fanfare and slobbering. The gameplay utilized the Wii's unique dual controllers to maneuver Mario on a star search through the colorful cosmos, sometimes revisiting classic environments familiar to fans (desert, ice, lava), other times plopping him down onto spheres with inconsistent gravitational pull that forced the gamer to acclimate themselves to prolonged periods of moving an upside-down character. The music is nothing short of fantastic, a mix of orchestral numbers and remixed versions of beloved tunes throughout the history of the series (who didn't levitate off their ass the first time they landed on Sweet Sweet Galaxy?) Overall, a CPR-trained platformer that I personally vouch for as worthy of all accolades bestowed.
What the hell does my opinion matter? Well, I've nabbed 95 of 120 available stars at this point, and I feel that meets "give a shit what I say" qualifications. I've had some moments of triumph so grandly exhilirating that my heartbeat became palpable and shrieks of delight were squelched only by an innate sense of decorum: Bouldergeist's Daredevil Run, The Fate of the Universe, any level with that rolling ball so God forsaken I've nicknamed it "Jersey Ball". On the other mitt, of course, I have had some spectacular failures. Of these, only one can be likened to the Hindenburg bouncing off the Challenger shuttle then crashing into the Titanic just as all the passengers were settling in for a nice relaxing episode of "Cop Rock".
I speak of the only blight on the otherwise charming "Toy Time Galaxy". I speak of...Luigi's Purple Coins.
Here, you must collect 100 of 150 available coins and make your way back to the start to collect the Power Star. It takes strategy. There are several methods, but all agree that just running through grabbing coins is not the way. (You'll get the needed coins, but leave yourself without a path back.) Best to long jump to an outer edge and deftly leap from coin to coin as the platforms either disappear or begin to move beneath you, never forgetting to adjust the camera accordingly so you actually know where the hell you're going and never ever ever stopping in your tracks to take stock of your surroundings.
I'm not a fool; I have a strategy. Several, in fact. I've seen people on Youtube get all 150 by dint of awesome platforming abilities built over years and years of practice and I pay attention. How to get these coins is common sense. Before the timer starts, I know what I am to do.
But things happen. The long jump goes awry, if it in fact goes at all. The heat of the moment can snap several neural pathways to the brain, leaving me a gooey heap of "what the fuck happened there?" in front of television. The leap and spin can be similarly fatal if mistimed even a nanosecond. Then there is what happened tonight.
I managed to collect 102 coins. And died on the way back to the star. I have not been the recipient of such a user interface unfriendly "fuck you" since the Water Temple in Ocarina of Time. In that situation, I actually gave up on the game. With Galaxy, however, I feel I'm too close to throw up the white flag. So onward I trudge.
Here is a video of someone providing a basic clinic on how to complete Luigi's Purple Coins. If you're interested, search further for videos of gamers who collect every single coin in the level. These are people who no doubt play the game blindfolded with the Wii-mote stuck up their ass just to make it challenging.
Super Mario Galaxy Nintendo
I spent so many glorious hours playing that game. Wasted time? Oh no. I hardly see how defeating that fiery bastard Bowser whilst collecting 120 stars on the way to some grand Princess Peach cake party in the sky is anything but time brilliantly savored. Even that goddamn lava level had some redeeming qualities. Like, the fact it ended. Eventually you got every star you could and that's that. That always brought a smile to my face.
The Mario series is the pinnacle of video game platforming. To run, to jump, to bounce, to swim, to shoot flame, to walk on water, to defy physics...the littlest plumber who could has provided ready and willing gamers all the excitement they could handle since the original captivated Japan and North America in 1985. Endless sequels have been spawned on various Nintendo consoles, the appeal of rescuing the Princess seemingly never dying.
Then, in 2002, Super Mario Sunshine came out for the Gamecube.
In and of itself, removed from the context of a legendary title, Sunshine is nowhere near bad. Nor is it outstanding. For the sake of comparison, let's go to the world of music. My favorite band, the one the only the Sonic Youth, have not released a truly horrible album. 2000's NYC Ghosts and Flowers is the least impressive of them all; the band's knack for innovation seems to have deserted them and little of the material is genuinely memorable. Nor is much of it genuinely horrible. It is an album that just is. For a band of such stature, such a resume bursting with classic music that literally changed lives and created movements within the culture, to release some record that is "okay" is to wonder if further trips to the well will prove inutile.
The makers of the Mario franchise created such a beautiful universe that anything less than revolution was a letdown. After Sunshine and its "Small Flowers Crack Concrete" camera work, the gaming world was hungry still for a truly worthy successor to the beloved Mario 64. A game that boasted more stunning graphics, even more epic music, and gameplay seemingly beyond human imagination.
Super Mario Galaxy was thus released to much fanfare and slobbering. The gameplay utilized the Wii's unique dual controllers to maneuver Mario on a star search through the colorful cosmos, sometimes revisiting classic environments familiar to fans (desert, ice, lava), other times plopping him down onto spheres with inconsistent gravitational pull that forced the gamer to acclimate themselves to prolonged periods of moving an upside-down character. The music is nothing short of fantastic, a mix of orchestral numbers and remixed versions of beloved tunes throughout the history of the series (who didn't levitate off their ass the first time they landed on Sweet Sweet Galaxy?) Overall, a CPR-trained platformer that I personally vouch for as worthy of all accolades bestowed.
What the hell does my opinion matter? Well, I've nabbed 95 of 120 available stars at this point, and I feel that meets "give a shit what I say" qualifications. I've had some moments of triumph so grandly exhilirating that my heartbeat became palpable and shrieks of delight were squelched only by an innate sense of decorum: Bouldergeist's Daredevil Run, The Fate of the Universe, any level with that rolling ball so God forsaken I've nicknamed it "Jersey Ball". On the other mitt, of course, I have had some spectacular failures. Of these, only one can be likened to the Hindenburg bouncing off the Challenger shuttle then crashing into the Titanic just as all the passengers were settling in for a nice relaxing episode of "Cop Rock".
I speak of the only blight on the otherwise charming "Toy Time Galaxy". I speak of...Luigi's Purple Coins.
Here, you must collect 100 of 150 available coins and make your way back to the start to collect the Power Star. It takes strategy. There are several methods, but all agree that just running through grabbing coins is not the way. (You'll get the needed coins, but leave yourself without a path back.) Best to long jump to an outer edge and deftly leap from coin to coin as the platforms either disappear or begin to move beneath you, never forgetting to adjust the camera accordingly so you actually know where the hell you're going and never ever ever stopping in your tracks to take stock of your surroundings.
I'm not a fool; I have a strategy. Several, in fact. I've seen people on Youtube get all 150 by dint of awesome platforming abilities built over years and years of practice and I pay attention. How to get these coins is common sense. Before the timer starts, I know what I am to do.
But things happen. The long jump goes awry, if it in fact goes at all. The heat of the moment can snap several neural pathways to the brain, leaving me a gooey heap of "what the fuck happened there?" in front of television. The leap and spin can be similarly fatal if mistimed even a nanosecond. Then there is what happened tonight.
I managed to collect 102 coins. And died on the way back to the star. I have not been the recipient of such a user interface unfriendly "fuck you" since the Water Temple in Ocarina of Time. In that situation, I actually gave up on the game. With Galaxy, however, I feel I'm too close to throw up the white flag. So onward I trudge.
Here is a video of someone providing a basic clinic on how to complete Luigi's Purple Coins. If you're interested, search further for videos of gamers who collect every single coin in the level. These are people who no doubt play the game blindfolded with the Wii-mote stuck up their ass just to make it challenging.
Super Mario Galaxy Nintendo
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Amazing Feats in Yahoo Search
Looking over my traffic info, I see that someone from Miami searched "nicole chambers sonic youth" on Yahoo search and found my blog. Following this path, I see that such a query brings 17 results, of which this blog accounts for 3.
Nicole is (maybe was) a friend I haven't spoken to in a few years; we met at a Sonic Youth concert and for a time wreaked Pop Tart havoc on the bands official forum. She's for all I know still in the Midwest, trudging in the noize, making tapes, and honing her creativity.
I definitely wouldn't mind hearing from her again, in whatever capacity.
Sonic Youth Nicole Chambers
Nicole is (maybe was) a friend I haven't spoken to in a few years; we met at a Sonic Youth concert and for a time wreaked Pop Tart havoc on the bands official forum. She's for all I know still in the Midwest, trudging in the noize, making tapes, and honing her creativity.
I definitely wouldn't mind hearing from her again, in whatever capacity.
Sonic Youth Nicole Chambers
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