Persiflage

DARE To Say Yes

Dear Mom 'n' Dad,

Just wanted to drop you a quick note to let you know that I have decided that I am very happy that I followed your sage advice re: Saying No To Drugs.  Heavy acid, for example.  Because last night....  Wait!  Mom?  Stop crying!  No, no, no!  I am not trying to tell you that I ODed last night.  I promise!  Are you listening to me?  No, I was not in the emergency room.  No, no I am not writing this from rehab.  No...ok, I'm just going to continue to talk while you hyperventilate into that brown paper bag.  In, and out.  IN, and out.  There we go. 

Now, where was I?  Oh, right: last night, I watched the Olympic closing ceremonies on NBC.  And I saw a hundred clowns, in full regalia, play "YMCA" on a hundred trumpets.  In the meantime, thousands of dancers, clad in what I assume was the traditional garb of some indigenous Italian peoples, and looking like the human embodiment of snow, did what could only be termed as an interpretive dance.  Which included, but was certainly not limited to, enthusiastic formation of the relevant body-letters.

Add to that the unlikely overlap of the Venn diagrams for "people on roller-blades" and "people bearing torches," and you have, right there on national television, a massive acid trip.  Why suffer through the risk of arrest and bear the expense related to the consumption of illegal substances when the networks are willing to do it, free of charge, on your behalf!

Because, Mom 'n' Dad, if you taught me nothing else, it was the Value of a Dollar.  You guys are the best.

Love,
Laris

Winning Isn't Is Everything

Even though Americans have won twenty medals in the Torino Olympics, commentators seem to be treating the outcome as a national tragedy of similar magnitude to, say, the  Exxon Valdez debacle.

When are those blasted skiers, sledders, and skaters going to learn?  When you fall down, you are Letting the Terrorists Win.

Brilliant!

The design meeting for the uniforms of the US snowboard team must have gone something like this:

Creative Mind #1: We'll make them look...like convicts!  Escaped convicts.

Creative Mind #2: That's good.  Very good!  But not quite good enough.  What about...hmm.  What about making them look like *patriotic* escaped convicts, by using lettering reminiscent of commemorative Major League Baseball fan jerseys?

Creative Mind #1: Whoah.  You are a design force to be reckoned with, my friend.  But, imagine this: patriotic escaped convicts...IN PAJAMAS!

Creative Mind #2: Sold!

They look absurd.  Even in comparison to other snowboarders.

He Only Hits Out Of Love

This morning, the Boston Red Sox announced their long-anticipated reunion with Theo Epstein.

The statement issued by the team is remarkable for its parallels to the spin campaigns launched by certain of my girlfriends when they abashedly confess, in tearful coffeeshop bullshit and gossip sessions, that they're going to give it another try with with the cretin boyfriend who'd at long last been kicked to the curb the previous month.  The type of boyfriend who finally breaks the camel's back only when he has a threesome in the bathroom at her little sister's birthday party with her best friend and the hired clown while she's upstairs recovering from a nasty case of the gout.  And now that they're reconciling, she wants to talk about how much he's "grown as a person" and how being apart "has really made him come to value our relationship," while I'm frantically corralling every available neuron to prevent myself from tipping her head back and pouring her skim latte down her nostrils.

Here's what the Sox had to say:

   "As you know, we have spoken frequently during the last 10 weeks," the statement said. "We have engaged in healthy, spirited debates about what it will take over the long term for the Red Sox to remain a great organization and, in fact, become a more effective organization in philosophy, approaches and ideals."

   "Ironically, Theo's departure has brought us closer together in many respects, and, thanks to these conversations, we now enjoy the bonds of a shared vision for the organization's future that did not exist on Oct. 31."

Ultimately, the Red Sox should feel even more ashamed and bamboozled than my poor deluded girlfriends, since they're the only ones getting back together with someone who escaped the scene of the breakup in a gorilla suit.

Party Like It's 1997

Tonight, my beloved and hapless Wolverines take on the Nebraska (motto: "Mediocre is Now a Compliment") Cornhuskers in an Alamo Bowl  reminiscent of the 1997 shared championship.  Oh, how are the mighty fallen!  The play of this year's Wolverines featured inelegant blundering and a pervasive refusal to achieve their full potential.  (I can't utter that phrase without envisioning the stony face of my first grade teacher, who did not share my philosophy on the superfluousness of sentence diagramming and word problems.)  This was a team that did Homer Simpson proud based solely on the ratio of d'ohs uttered to minutes of playing time.

The only shining moments of this season were the last-second victory over Penn State, (which no one's really savoring, since Michigan fans despise so many other people that they find it difficult to work up any real frothing hatred for JoePa and the gang) and eluding the calamity of losing to each of their Big Three rivals by sending State into a tailspin after they opened their season to surprising success and much acclaim for, what, the 72nd straight year?

Love Michigan.  Watch Michigan.  Cheer for Michigan.  Lloyd needs something positive to take into spring workouts.  Anything.

Boxing Day: Putting the Holidays Back in the Box

I've finally returned from celebrating the holidays the orgy of rum balls and Shiraz required to cope with a long weekend of Family Togetherness.  My crowning moment of glory this year was my come-from-behind victory in our annual Trivial Pursuit tournament (what, you think I ended up like this without some intensive nerd nurturing?)  even though we play with the Genus V edition, which references only events that happened prior to my birth.  And includes answers like, "East Germany."  It troubles me a bit that a significant portion of my knowledge base comes from having memorized large quantities of these questions circa 1988.  It troubles me further that this state of affairs has never caused me any noticeable difficulties, academic or otherwise.

Say what you will (or what I will) about my family, I find it endearing that, despite the fact that I am almost 26 years old, have received a bachelor's in history from the Ivy League and a J.D. from a top-10 law school, my dad still attempts to give me breaks when questions are "too hard."

Some reflections upon resurfacing:

...I am beyond thrilled by the timely news that Gwen Stefani is reproducing.  Timely, because each year at the holiday season, I will be able to calm my tumultuous emotions by the reflection that, no matter what Christmas cataclysm is occurring at my house, things will be even more dysfunctional at chez Stefani.  I'd tell Baby Stefani that I'd save some rum balls for him/her, but I assume that the children of crackheaded B-list rocker parents rebel by growing up to become ultra-conservative Bible-thumping Republicans.  Or, in this case, Amish.

...Grown women?  Should not celebrate their birthdays at FAO Schwartz.

...I think I've discovered a payola-esque conspiracy surrounding the network television New Year's celebrations.  Let's explore.  Fox is offering us the star-studded lineup of Regis Philbin, Nick Cannon, Tyler Hilton, and John O'Hurley.  So, two guys I had to look up on IMDb, one obnoxious blustering blowhard, and...well, I can't in good faith ridicule John O'Hurley.  We'll leave it at that.  ABC counters with the dream team that is Dick Clark, Ryan Seacrest, and Hilary Duff.  Clark is pretty much oozing embalming fluid these days, and neither of the other two could find their way out of a paper bag.  With a joint effort.  And a map.  NBC takes the charity route, fostering Carson Daly's delusions that he has a career.  I postulate that the alcohol lobby, in a pervasive effort to ensure that everyone under the age of 82 hits the bars, has contrived to create this assault to the eyes and ears of America.  Nothing else could so efficiently account for this race to the bottom of the abyss of tastelessness.

...Tomorrow is S.'s birthday, which means that I have to be nice to him for 24 consecutive hours.  In preparation, I need to purge all of my obnoxious antagonism today.  S., consider yourself on notice of these scores and this picture.  Little commentary is required.  Renounce the dark side!  We'll help you heal.  I'll even throw a Terrible Towel into your birthday care package for good measure!

And In Right Field....Linda Evans!

Excitement began to exude from my every pore when I heard news of the Johnny Damon deal last night.  It was messy, all that excitement.  The lyre string of my glee was plucked not out of any ardor for the Yankees, but at the prospect of spending the rest of the winter demanding that S. and other rabid fans explain how this player, whom they've defamed, vilified, discredited, and calumniated for a decade has suddenly, in their eyes, been transformed into the Second Coming.  To the extent that they seem to be suggesting that Christmas was created and scheduled over 2000 years ago in anticipation of celebrating this moment.  Ah, fodder for provocation.  The universe couldn't conspire to give me a more treasured holiday bestowal.

All this seems just a little bit like luring away your enemy's boyfriend after hearing that she's been named as the primary heir in Uncle Percival's will and ALSO stole the deed to the Westmacott estate out of your jewelry box.  Which leaves me wondering whether the Yanks haven't gotten a little confused regarding the actualization of their goals.  To clarify: you should be trying to create a dynasty , not Dynasty.

Varsity Red, White, & Blues

ESPN reports that next week, after the BCS matchups are announced, a House subcommittee will convene to investigate the "deeply flawed" calculation formula.  Again.

And, hey, guess what!  They'll probably have to get lots of super-duper-famous football stars to come and testify!  For the sake of veracity, naturally.  To hear all the sides of the story.  Every angle.  No stone left unturned!  And, you know, SOMEONE will have to take those football stars to lunch.  And get their autographs.  For the kids!  Someone...on the committee.  Because they'd be OFFENDED if it wasn't someone on the committee!

It's not the first time Congress has tried to snag some facetime with the giants of the gridiron or the heroes of October; it won't be the last.  I have to wonder, though, whether these particular hearings might be an attempt to mitigate the colossal envy over John Roberts and the gang snagging an appearance by Anna Nicole Smith.