Persiflage

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!

Silver Linings

Hey, Nicole?  Hi.  It's been a week since your breakup, so you've had some time to work through that run-over-by-an-eighteen-wheeler feeling that always... What?  It's a kind of truck, Nicole.  A truck.  You know, those large vehicles?  On the highways?  They transport things?  Ok, never mind.  We'll keep this simple.

Honey, if your most bubbling effusion over your impending nuptials was along the lines of,

"I'm looking forward to marriage. Your name changes, which will be exciting."

then all this might have been for the best.  There, there.  Cry it out.  We'll get through this rough patch, we will.  If it'll make you feel better, we'll take a little jaunt down to the courthouse when you feel up to it.  You can fill out the change-of-name paperwork.  Yes!  You can do that all by yourself!  Or...I can do it for you.  But I have faith in you, Nicole.  You don't need Adam.  An adult nanny and a registered dietitian, perhaps.  But not this man about whom you are so clearly ambivalent.

The Boat, It Has Been Missed

Now is the time when the Jackson family has finally put down their collective foot and decided that Things With Michael Have Gone Too Far?  Really?  Now?  Personally, I'd prefer my intervention to be staged before the wholescale loss of my nose (take note, friends and family!), but to each his own.

Okay, Jackson Family.  You and I share a common Indiana heritage, so I will use a down-home adage to explain what is going on here.  This situation?  It is akin to slamming shut the barn door after the horse has gotten loose.  Or, for the Gary variation: it is like locking the garage door after the hubcaps have been stolen. 

You really have to wonder whether the Jacko clan has confused "intervention in Bahrain" with "hedonistic orgy in Bahrain."

Hit Him Baby, One More Time

Britney Spears has been sighted lugging this behemoth furry purse all over town.  What do you think she's got in there?  I'm a tad worried that, in a fit of rage, Britney throttled Kevin and has stashed his lifeless body in that oversized excuse for an accessory.  Has he resurfaced since the kerfuffle last week?  Did he merely drift back to the vermin-infested hovel from whence he originated?   Or is there more to this story?

Oh, wait, did I say "worried?"  I did.  Petty inaccuracy.  Where I said "worried," I in fact meant, "seething with hope."  Would anyone be upset if Brit had saved the world from the blistering cold sore on the lip of humanity that is K-Fed?  The only thing we should worry about is whether she'll be nabbed.   

If Britney is in fact prosecuted, at least she set herself up with an attorney's wet dream of a defense.  Here's a woman so desperate to believe that she's not breastfeeding the Spawn of Scruffy that she transformed her baby's nursery into a live-action nativity scene, starring little Sean as the babe in the manger.  Immaculate conception?  Certainly a more palatable alternative than the truth.  Surely understandable, given the circumstances, but also convincing evidence of a delusional thought process.

In any event, out of sheer gratitude, we should implement some sort of Hands Across America-type effort to save Britney from the long arm of the law.  And to warn her that, pretty soon, that bag's not going to be smelling so springy, no matter how many spritzes of "Curious" she squirts in there.

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!