Persiflage

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay & Homer

As if they weren't already fabulous enough, Michael Chabon, Tom Wolfe, Gore Vidal, and Jonathan Franzen are moonlighting on "The Simpsons".

Omine: "Let's continue with Jonathan, because you have to whack Michael with a chair. Some more pain sounds, please."

I quiver with anticipation.

Onward, to the Revolution!

People's list of the industry's most powerful female actresses was released today.  Congrats to Julia Roberts, who tops the slate, raking in $20 million per film.  (How, precisely, this figure was computed is something of a mystery to me, as Julia Roberts wasn't, you know, in any movies in 2005.  But she's lovely, and was also fucking awesome in Closer. We'll leave her be for the moment.)

On to the next victim!  Let us consider the #2 moneymaker this year, Nicole Kidman.

<Pause for dramatic effect.>

Nicole Kidman.  It would make my day, my MONTH (yeah, I don't have a whole lot going on), if whomever was responsible for designating Our Nic a style icon would stand up and confess to the transgression.   Someone must accept liability for this travesty!

Not only is Nicole famous for fashion decisions which can only be described as "tragic,"  she's also begun to resemble a space alien.  (Compare to this 1997 pic.)

Open them in separate tabs in Mozilla so you can toggle back and forth.  Normal girl, space alien.  Normal girl, space alien.  Normal girl!  Space alien!  I blame Tom Cruise for this.  I realize just exactly how much I sound like my mother, but might I suggest some lipstick?  A dab of blush?  An iron supplement, perchance?

I demand the establishment of a committee of concerned citizens to address the issue of Nicole Kidman earning $16 million per movie while honest, diligent, non-transparent American citizens are struggling just to keep their heads above water.  This must cease!

A Voice in the Wilderness

Much like the small child convinced that she is invisible when she covers her eyes, I fervently believe that if I do not hear of something, said event has not transpired.  Today, I am applying this theory to the Monday Night fiasco.  A period of disengagement from the SportsCenter news cycle is imperative, so I'm seeking alternate means of audiovisual stimulation.

Allowing me to visit a video store without a clear and pre-selected objective is akin to allowing a four-year-old to sit shotgun and serve as road trip navigator.  Exasperating and potentially dangerous for you, vexing for the child, likely to lead to temper tantrums, and cataclysmic to any chance of achieving the ultimate goal.  Overwhelmed by the abundance of possibilities, I've been found more than once curled in the fetal position underneath a kiosk of anime porn.

Enter What To Rent, a voice of hope in the wilderness of cinematic excess.  With hard scientific underpinnings!  Select a user name, complete a brief personality questionnaire, and, voila, endless viewing suggestions at your fingertips. 

No email address requested, so you can even create separate identities for each of your multiple personalities. 

A Very Happy Un-Birthday

Here it is, my very own little piece of the internet.  This is just like childbirth!  Except without the gut wrenching pain.  And the screaming...and the blood, the epidurals, and the backbreaking responsibility.  So, um, maybe not quite.

If this blogging enterprise blossoms into a raging success, it was my very own precious brainchild.  If it leads to chaos, havoc, destruction, hangover, rage, methamphetamine abuse, proposing to Kevin Federline, laughing at "Everybody Loves Raymond," and/or prosecution and arrest, it was all the fault of my much beleaguered and long enduring ex-boyfriend S., who suggested the venture.  (The sordid details of our relationship?  Withheld as fodder for the inevitable sitcom-drama.)

Why do I need a blog?  In short, I'm desperately underappreciated.  My perpetually scathing cultural commentary, breathtaking literary critique, ridicule of sportscasters, cutting-edge analysis of all things pop culture, and general hilarious persiflage all result in A Look from my mother.  And this is what that Look says:

"Almost twenty-six years ago, the adoption agency called to say that they had a baby for us.  And we were overjoyed.  Then we laid eyes on you, and we were even MORE overjoyed, because you were tiny and adorable and precious and did not have two heads.  And a little while later, we learned that you were insane.  Our suspicions were first raised when, at the age of two, you found endless hours of amusement in a one-inch piece of Scotch Tape.  But we IGNORED it.  Because we thought you might grow out of it.  But you did NOT.  And now, NOW, when you are laughing maniacally to yourself about something that is BEYOND INCOMPREHENSIBLE, all of my friends THINK THAT YOU ARE ON THE DRUGS.  Yes.  That is what they think!  And I say to myself, at least if I had brought home the two-headed baby, people- not to mention I, myself- would UNDERSTAND what the problem was."

And that's why I need a blog.