RevSpork

I wasn't made for these times

While at work yesterday, I was reshelving magazines when I noticed that every (and I mean every) gossip mag had a photo of B******y S****s (sorry, but I simply refuse to print her name) plastered on their cover, with most of the photos portraying her as bug-eyed, freaky, possibly about to eat her children if she still had custody of them. I've never liked her, never thought she had talent, hated seeing her faux-slutty, IQ-less face, and now even *I* think people should leave the little nitwit alone. Ship her back to Louisiana, stick her in a double-wide trailer, teach her how to crochet, and forget about her. Honestly, you'd be doing her a favor. I may be agnostic, but if anyone would benefit from being born again, it's her.

Let's face it: 2008 has had a crappy start. Ludicrously early presidential primaries, winter tornadoes...could it get any worse? Of course! Because what the world needs now...is a teen movie with genital vore. After reading the plot summary, I thought to myself, "Gee, I hope she understands the value of flossing daily."

Honest to God, 2012 could not happen soon enough.

Still kicking

While my wife slaves away on a hot Illustrator file, making my new banner (and yes, I'm putting pressure on you, my sweet - what are hubbies for?), I still exist. Trust me, you'll love the new banner.

Speaking of the wife, while we were waiting for our chicken quesadilla and steak burrito this evening (if you took Gender Studies in college, you'd come to the obvious conclusion that I ordered the phallic steak burrito and she the subtly-vaginalike quesadilla, but really, sometimes a burrito is just a burrito. You'd still be right, but that's only a coincidence) I stared at the television, tuned to Univision. I've watched it before at our local Mexican joint, and the whole experience still boggles my mind.

For one, how can a supposedly-conversative, largely Roman Catholic region show so much cleavage? Telenovelas I can see, but news shows? *Kids* programs? And telenovelas...holy shit. Basically, evil scientists south of the border managed to take an average American soap opera, dumb it down even more, add sound effects (and occasional scripts) from Teletubbies, and belt out the whole shebang in Spanish. And now these soap operas are more popular in the United States than our own. They're making inroads into primetime ratings in the US. They're worldwide hits. And talk about breasts...one of the most popular telenovelas in Latin America, "Sin Tetas No Hay Paraíso" ("Without Breasts There is No Paradise") is being recreated by NBC as an American TV Series. To be fair, the telenovela concept was pretty bleak stuff; God only knows what NBC would do to it if it ever got past the pilot stage.

It's no surprise NBC is tinkering with telenovelas - they air their very own American telenovela, Passions, which has to be one of the most idiotic shows I have ever seen. (They recently moved the show to DirectTV, so I cannot stumble upon it again, thank goodness.) While in Charlotte a couple months ago with the wife, we visited her father and his wife. While the in-laws were cooking, they turned on the TV, which happened to be switched to...this thing. Soap operas make me gag anyway, but...witches? And a toddler witch...defeating some Doctor Who-ish wraith while "speaking" in thought balloons...IN FREAKING COMIC SANS!!! What the FUCK is GOING ON HERE?!?!?!?! THIS is the future of network television? And I thought reality TV was the lowest bar! I swear, I could move to Hollywood, drop my pants, press my naked ass into a camera, fart, and make millions! WHY WAS I CURSED WITH DIGNITY???

Now I have a headache. See what you did? Bah to all of you. Talk to you later.

I love the media's priorities

This article appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times today.

This article also appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times today.

Guess which article was on page 3, and which one on page 16?

I'm aware the Sun-Times' level of prestige, but this is silly.

An open letter to James Berardinelli

While sipping the last of my boxed chardonnay, I checked out James Berardinelli's movie review site, looking for commentary on the Golden Globes show. Berardinelli has been writing movie reviews on the internet since the early 1990s, jumping from Usenet to his own web site in 1996. His reviews are well-written, but my favorite moments are when something, whether a movie or anything else, gets under his skin, and he morphs from "movie reviewer" mode to "salty curmudgeon." (I still read his review of "Freddie Got Fingered" for a good laugh.) So when he described the Oscars in his 17 January edition of Reelthoughts as a "great big circle jerk," I had to respond. I can only hope he isn't offended.

Text of my e-mail is below.

The first 10 episodes of Saturday Night Live

Last week, armed with coupons and some Holiday Rewards Savings, I bought the first season of Saturday Night Live literally for free. I was ecstatic about buying it, because I, along with perhaps 160 million other Americans, have watched SNL sometime during its now 31-year run, and most of us agree as to the suckitude of the current incarnation. In fact, SNL fans can generally be divided over the issue of when the show started to suck. However, most folks say (or are told enough times that they believe it) that the Golden Years of SNL were its first five seasons with the original cast.

That may be true, but based on my viewing of the first ten episodes, I think I can make some firm assumptions. Now, my sense of humor is different from most folks, just like yours or Dick Cheney's. It's an individual thing. Plus, the humor standards of 1975 are very different from today's; what was funny then may very well strike us today as much less so. For example, the mere act of rolling a marijuana cigarette, considered funny in 1975, just doesn't hold up in our less innocent age. On the other hand, having a cartoon Oprah Winfrey's vagina pull out a gun and take hostages, obviously hilarious now, would have struck SNL's 1975 fans as, well, somewhat tacky, especially since they had not yet even heard of Oprah Winfrey. Thankfully, as a former history graduate student dropout, I believe I am more than qualified to understand the humor of different eras of American history and make solid judgments.

So here goes.

Bold truths from cable television

Although I am blessed with a love who does not barge in whilst I'm expelling waste products (however, we will NOT get into her behavior while I'm taking a shower), there are those males cursed with women who believe a bathroom door is an open door. This declaration, pulled from an episode of "Coupling," is an example of a treatise - nay, proclamation - for those cervix-impaired souls suffering...er...suffering...ummmm...

Is it just me, or is "cervix" the most unpoetic word in the English language? It sounds like a Star Trek planet. (Insert your favorite Fallopian joke here.) No wonder hardly anyone uses that word: it instantly kills the art in a sentence. It poisons entire paragraphs with just one mention. Yo, any gynos out there? Let's come up with a new name! I don't care what - you could call it "Betty Lou!" Anything is better than "cervix!" "Now, let's see which diaphram fits your Betty Lou...a 60, no, a 70...80? 105?!? What the hell?! Virgin, my ass! Have you been smuggling Mexican children across the border?"

Anyway, this declaration is for those men suffering from privacy-impaired mates who believe that the bathroom is a perfect place to discuss your relationship, especially if he's doing #2 and trying to read his Sports Illustrated in peace.

We are MEN.

Throughout history we have always needed, in times of difficulties, to retreat to our caves. It so happens, in this modern age, that our caves are fully plumbed. The toilet for us is..... the last bastion......... the final refuge....... the LAST FEW SQUARE FEET of "man space" left to us.

Somewhere to sit, somewhere to read, something to do. And who gives a DAMN about the smell! But that, for us, is happiness. Because we are MEN. We are different. We have only one word for soap. We do not own candles. We have never seen anything of ANY value IN A CRAFTSHOP! We do not own magazines full of photographs of celebrities with all their clothes... ON!

When we have conversations, we actually TAKE IT IN TURNS TO TALK!

We have not yet reached the level of EARTHSHATTERING BOREDOM and INHUMAN DESPAIR where we would have a haircut... RECREATIONALLY!!

We do not know how to get excited about really, REALLY BORING THINGS like ornaments... bath oil... the countryside... vases... small churches. I mean, we do not even know what, WHAT, in the name of GOD'S ARSE is the purpose of POTPOURRI!! Looks like breakfast; smells like your auntie. Why do we need that??

So please..... in this strange and frightening world..... allow us one last place to call our own. This toilet. This.... blessed pot, this...... fortress of solitude.

You girls..... you only go to the toilet in groups of two or more. We do not pass comment. We do not make judgement. That is your choice.

But we men..... will ALWAYS walk the toilet mile.... ALONE!

Indecent Proposal

Ya know, every time I dream of fame, news like this makes me kiss my own obscurity.

By Associated Press
Published December 22, 2005, 6:33 AM CST
SANTA FE, N.M. -- Lawyers for David Letterman want a judge to quash a restraining order granted to a Santa Fe woman who contends the CBS late-night host used code words to show he wanted to marry her and train her as his co-host.

A state judge granted a temporary restraining order to Colleen Nestler, who alleged in a request filed last Thursday that Letterman has forced her to go bankrupt and caused her "mental cruelty" and "sleep deprivation" since May 1994.

Nestler requested that Letterman, who tapes his show in New York, stay at least 3 yards away and not "think of me, and release me from his mental harassment and hammering."

Lawyers for Letterman, in a motion filed Tuesday, contend the order is without merit and asked state District Judge Daniel Sanchez to quash it.

"Celebrities deserve protection of their reputation and legal rights when the occasional fan becomes dangerous or deluded," Albuquerque lawyer Pat Rogers wrote in the motion.

Nestler told The Associated Press by telephone Wednesday that she had no comment pending her request for a permanent restraining order "and I pray to God I get it."

Sanchez set a Jan. 12 hearing on the permanent order.

Letterman's longtime Los Angeles lawyer, Jim Jackoway, said Nestler's claims were "obviously absurd and frivolous."

"This constitutes an unfortunate abuse of the judicial process," he said.

Nestler's application for a restraining order was accompanied by a six-page typed letter in which she said Letterman used code words, gestures and "eye expressions" to convey his desires for her.

She wrote that she began sending Letterman "thoughts of love" after his "Late Show" began in 1993, and that he responded in code words and gestures, asking her to come East.

She said he asked her to be his wife during a televised "teaser" for his show by saying, "Marry me, Oprah." Her letter said Oprah was the first of many code names for her and that the coded vocabulary increased and changed with time.

Her letter does not say why she recently sought a restraining order.

Rogers' motion to quash the order contends the court lacks jurisdiction over Letterman, that Nestler never served him with restraining order papers, and that she didn't meet other procedural requirements.

Obscurity may be forever, as Napoleon once put it, but the obscure never receive restraining orders from women claiming marriage proposals through code words on television.  Those are usually conducted up front, without a middleman, like nature intended.  Boy meets girl, boy immediately proposes to girl, girl freaks out, seeks restraining order, all without the wonder of late-night television.  Personally, I can't wait for the electronic restraining order, where you can just e-mail a judge and have an order within seconds.  Neither you or your harrasser never have to leave the house!  And the harrasser violates the order, he can be e-mailed his arrest order, go to a specially-designed "jail cell" (say, the basement), and serve the time.  If you're an electronic terrorist, you could tie yourself to a chair, lick 9-volt batteries, and force yourself to watch nothing but David Letterman until your sense of humor implodes.  It probably violates the Geneva Convention, but hey, this is Bush Country!  Fuck the Geneva Convention! 

Dave, will marry me?

Spoiler traps everywhere!

I can't get away from them!  Everywhere I go, all over the internet, I trip over a "Harry Potter Spoilers Alert" note, and I have to run away to another part of the info superhighway.  But the spoilers are there, too.   They're EVERYWHERE.  I suspect I'll be on, say, cnn.com next week, and something big will be happening, but they won't be able to resist dumping more spoilers.

President Bush shot!  (Warning: Harry Potter spoilers follow)

I refuse to touch any spoilers until I'm at least reading the sixth book.  As I noted earlier, I'm re-reading the entire series because it's been a long time since I last read any of the books.  I'm midway through Goblet of Fire right now, but it's slow going, mostly because I need to devote some time to my job and my chores.  But I feel like 90 percent of the world population has finished the book, and they can't wait to spill the beans. 

So you folks keep chatting about the book.  I'll turn off my computer, the TV, the radio, close the windows, hide in the closet...

The Harry Potter chore

Like a few zillion others, I picked up my copy of the new Harry Potter book during the weekend.  Unlike zillions of HP fans, I read a dozen pages and stopped.  I had no freaking clue what was going on.  It's not that the book is bad, but it had been two years since I had read the fifth book, and four years since I'd read the fourth book.  So I stopped reading about the Half-Blood Prince and decided to start all over again. 

Soon after I put my copy of the sixth book down, I pulled out my copy of the first book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone(I buy the British editions) and started reading it.  As is my habit when reading HP, I finished it within a few hours.  By Sunday, I had finished Chamber of Secrets and dove straight into Prisoner of Azkhaban.  As of tonight, I'm 150 pages into Goblet of Fire and expect to finish it in a few days.  I suspect I won't be ready for the new HP book until well into next week, so I've had to hide myself from many blogs for fear of spoilers. 

So if you don't see my blog being updated for a week or so, I have good reasons.  No, I'm not cleaning the apartment or saving the earth or doing anything remotely useful.  I got my nose in a book. 

Spit and run

History has not been kind to Jane Fonda, perhaps justifiably so.  But is it really a honorable act to spit tobacco juice in her face during a book signing and run away? 

Let's get this straight, bubba: You spat into the face of an old woman who has openly and repeatedly apologized for her Vietcong photo shoot during the Vietnam War, and ran away?  Whatever happened to standing your ground, shouting some slogans, daring the police to arrest you?  No, you scooted out of there faster than Tom DeLay at an ethics hearing. 

Cowardice is hardly a "debt of honor."  Stick to bitching about Hanoi Jane in your local bar, bubba.