Monday, May 08, 2006
More Lost Reading
The TV show "Lost" continues to encourage reading, although I gotta say, I'm a lot less impressed with this than I was with their promotion of "The Third Policeman."
Stick It
Friday night I went with friends to see "Stick It," a movie which starred breathtaking young women and Jeff Bridges. (Nice going, Jeff--sweet gig.)
My friend and I were, perhaps, overzealous about this movie because a couple of weeks ago we went to see "Take the Lead," that ballroom dance movie starring Antonio Banderas. I've always kind of felt that Antonio Banderas was a joke, but as soon as I saw the previews for this movie I thought, "Hey, someone finally told him." So now Antonio knows he's funny, and we can all laugh with him rather than at him. And I haven't laughed that hard in a long time.
So having had such success with an age-inappropriate and potentially crappy comedy, we were emboldened to try "Stick It." I have to admit, it was entertaining. And I give extra credit to any enterprise that includes a pop-culture reference that will be missed by most people who aren't on furlough from the local nursing home. "Stick It" contains, I kid you not, an homage to Busby Berkeley. (I'm 34, but you should no doubt return me to the home immediately.) It morphs swiftly into a Gap-Ad with leotards, but it was infinitely more entertaining than the usual sports montage.
But the real treasure was seeing the movie with an audience full of teeny boppers. The gasps of disbelief, the boos for the various villains, and the general atmosphere of exuberance fueled by WAY too much energy was intoxicating. And, as we all know, a little intoxication makes any movie more entertaining.
My friend and I were, perhaps, overzealous about this movie because a couple of weeks ago we went to see "Take the Lead," that ballroom dance movie starring Antonio Banderas. I've always kind of felt that Antonio Banderas was a joke, but as soon as I saw the previews for this movie I thought, "Hey, someone finally told him." So now Antonio knows he's funny, and we can all laugh with him rather than at him. And I haven't laughed that hard in a long time.
So having had such success with an age-inappropriate and potentially crappy comedy, we were emboldened to try "Stick It." I have to admit, it was entertaining. And I give extra credit to any enterprise that includes a pop-culture reference that will be missed by most people who aren't on furlough from the local nursing home. "Stick It" contains, I kid you not, an homage to Busby Berkeley. (I'm 34, but you should no doubt return me to the home immediately.) It morphs swiftly into a Gap-Ad with leotards, but it was infinitely more entertaining than the usual sports montage.
But the real treasure was seeing the movie with an audience full of teeny boppers. The gasps of disbelief, the boos for the various villains, and the general atmosphere of exuberance fueled by WAY too much energy was intoxicating. And, as we all know, a little intoxication makes any movie more entertaining.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Walking for Beginners
Is there some kind of mall time warp that I don't know about? Because it seems to me that people walk slower in malls. It also seems like if you go into a mall, your IQ drops precipitously in inverse proportion to your age. Here, for the beginner, are some remedial instructions on walking at the mall.
If there are two or more people in your party, you should arrange yourselves in such a way that others who don't want to walk at the incredibly slow and stupid pace you set can get around you. Do not link arms and walk in a big line, trapping people behind you (unless you're actually staging a protest). Two people can walk abreast. Three if they're skinny and gossiping close together. Any more than that, and you need to move in a compact clump, or I won't be responsible for your welfare.
If you are walking with someone and you know him or her, there is absolutely no need for you to take more than eighteen inches of personal space between you when you're walking. When the government gave that whole "three feet apart" guideline, they meant at work during a flu pandemic, not at the mall with someone you brought with you. Eighteen inches is the max. Twelve would be better. You came here to spend time together. Get to it. Alternatively, walk far enough apart that people may, without social or physical discomfort, pass between you.
If you need to stop, for God's sake, pull over. Do not execute an emergency stop in a space where others are walking. Ever. Not even if the emergency is a really cute shirt.
If you must perform some other activity while walking, such as eating, talking on a cell phone, or chewing gum, you are obligated to arm everyone else in the area with a regulation, executive-retreat caliber paint gun, so that we can take you down if you get in the way. If you're a vegetarian, you can arm us all with tranquilizer darts instead.
If you are so stupid that walking into a mall drops your IQ below zero, you should wear identification, visible from at least 5 yards away. Acceptable stupidity identification might be a really large pointy hat, or a sign that says "I'm with stupid" but points to yourself. Or one of those purses that's entirely covered in reflective gold sequins the size of a quarter. (These are especially recommended for night stupidity.)
Random zig-zaggy movements are not appreciated. Unless you're trying to elude sniper fire (perhaps because someone got tired of you text messaging while walking), zig-zagging is just forbidden.
If there's a girl fight, you should tell me. Because those look like a way better spectator sport than tennis, and I'd like to check it out.
If there are two or more people in your party, you should arrange yourselves in such a way that others who don't want to walk at the incredibly slow and stupid pace you set can get around you. Do not link arms and walk in a big line, trapping people behind you (unless you're actually staging a protest). Two people can walk abreast. Three if they're skinny and gossiping close together. Any more than that, and you need to move in a compact clump, or I won't be responsible for your welfare.
If you are walking with someone and you know him or her, there is absolutely no need for you to take more than eighteen inches of personal space between you when you're walking. When the government gave that whole "three feet apart" guideline, they meant at work during a flu pandemic, not at the mall with someone you brought with you. Eighteen inches is the max. Twelve would be better. You came here to spend time together. Get to it. Alternatively, walk far enough apart that people may, without social or physical discomfort, pass between you.
If you need to stop, for God's sake, pull over. Do not execute an emergency stop in a space where others are walking. Ever. Not even if the emergency is a really cute shirt.
If you must perform some other activity while walking, such as eating, talking on a cell phone, or chewing gum, you are obligated to arm everyone else in the area with a regulation, executive-retreat caliber paint gun, so that we can take you down if you get in the way. If you're a vegetarian, you can arm us all with tranquilizer darts instead.
If you are so stupid that walking into a mall drops your IQ below zero, you should wear identification, visible from at least 5 yards away. Acceptable stupidity identification might be a really large pointy hat, or a sign that says "I'm with stupid" but points to yourself. Or one of those purses that's entirely covered in reflective gold sequins the size of a quarter. (These are especially recommended for night stupidity.)
Random zig-zaggy movements are not appreciated. Unless you're trying to elude sniper fire (perhaps because someone got tired of you text messaging while walking), zig-zagging is just forbidden.
If there's a girl fight, you should tell me. Because those look like a way better spectator sport than tennis, and I'd like to check it out.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Dr. Empathy
A couple of months ago, I had the misfortune to experience a type of pain that I recognized. I won't go into the details, but the last time I had this pain it was followed (none too swiftly or surely) by painful surgery that totally failed to take care of the underlying problem, leaving it dormant under my skin, like the villain that's not quite dead enough ten minutes from the end of a horror movie. I know it's never going to kill me or even make me sick, but it does hurt, and I also know we'll never really kick its ass.
Clearly I needed to take a trip to the doctor, and knowing that in my anxiety I would probably fail to make my point (which was, loosely, "fix it this time you bastards or I'll sue you"), I rehearsed my little speech a few times before I went into the office. I walked into the office, confronted the doctor, delivered my speech, and promptly burst into hysterical sobs.
The doctor, fortunately, is that rare wonder of modern medicine, Dr. Empathy. She totally understood my fear of unnecessary and ineffective surgery, and she gave me lots of Kleenex. She's also a gifted comedienne. I know I read somewhere that doctors are less likely to be sued if they exhibit human emotion, even if they are demonstrably at fault, and boy, this lady essentially has a get-out-of-malpractice-free card. She indulged my concerns, made sure she understood them, and prescribed a treatment plan that she thought would get me better without surgery.
The treatment plan is fine, really, but two days ago the pain was back, and today I went back to see Dr. Empathy again. She sat down and said, "You look really familiar. Let me just pull your records up on the computer and then I'll remember what's going on." I joked, "Oh, I'm surprised I'm not more memorable. Do you want a hint? I'm the one who cried hysterically the last time I was here." That did it. Not only did she remember the whole situation, but she insisted that she was to blame for the fact that I cried the last time. "Watch this. I'll do it again. I just look at you like this, and then I say, `Are you okay?'" And damned if she wasn't right--there were tears in my eyes instantly, like some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion.
Three things occurred to me in rapid succession.
One: How is she doing that? Is she a witch? Is there some course they send doctors on? (Empathy 101 for Physicians, maybe?)
Two: Do I really want to trust a doctor who can make me cry at will? (Hell yes--I want her on my side, where I can keep an eye on her.)
Three: How do I acquire this skill and use it for my own nefarious purposes?
Clearly I needed to take a trip to the doctor, and knowing that in my anxiety I would probably fail to make my point (which was, loosely, "fix it this time you bastards or I'll sue you"), I rehearsed my little speech a few times before I went into the office. I walked into the office, confronted the doctor, delivered my speech, and promptly burst into hysterical sobs.
The doctor, fortunately, is that rare wonder of modern medicine, Dr. Empathy. She totally understood my fear of unnecessary and ineffective surgery, and she gave me lots of Kleenex. She's also a gifted comedienne. I know I read somewhere that doctors are less likely to be sued if they exhibit human emotion, even if they are demonstrably at fault, and boy, this lady essentially has a get-out-of-malpractice-free card. She indulged my concerns, made sure she understood them, and prescribed a treatment plan that she thought would get me better without surgery.
The treatment plan is fine, really, but two days ago the pain was back, and today I went back to see Dr. Empathy again. She sat down and said, "You look really familiar. Let me just pull your records up on the computer and then I'll remember what's going on." I joked, "Oh, I'm surprised I'm not more memorable. Do you want a hint? I'm the one who cried hysterically the last time I was here." That did it. Not only did she remember the whole situation, but she insisted that she was to blame for the fact that I cried the last time. "Watch this. I'll do it again. I just look at you like this, and then I say, `Are you okay?'" And damned if she wasn't right--there were tears in my eyes instantly, like some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion.
Three things occurred to me in rapid succession.
One: How is she doing that? Is she a witch? Is there some course they send doctors on? (Empathy 101 for Physicians, maybe?)
Two: Do I really want to trust a doctor who can make me cry at will? (Hell yes--I want her on my side, where I can keep an eye on her.)
Three: How do I acquire this skill and use it for my own nefarious purposes?
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Tivo Thinks I'm Gay
Okay, well, that's not news. My Tivo has been recording gay-themed entertainment for me for a while now. And Tivo doesn't care who I sleep with--it really doesn't care whether I'm gay or just gay-friendly. So I'm okay with that.
But recently, Tivo got a service update which "improved" its ability to offer suggestions. Like all the Tivo improvements, it's striking me as a wee bit judgmental. Tivo thinks I am made of time. It somehow thinks that in addition to all the stuff I normally watch, I'm going to watch movies. Lots of 'em. I admit it, I like movies. I'm happy it recorded "Young Frankenstein" (one of my favorite movies--good Tivo). And I'm glad it somehow figured I might like "Hoop Dreams," which I've been meaning to watch ever since Ebert and Siskel recommended it in 1994. And who's going to argue with "The Maltese Falcon?" I mean, Humphrey Bogart and Peter Lorre? Now that's a good movie.
But seriously, Tivo, this is not a balanced diet. Where are "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Star Trek" or "The Dick Van Dyke Show?" I don't open the Tivo Suggestions folder because I have two hours to kill. Usually I'm just looking to kill the first twenty minutes of my program so that I don't have to sit through the commercials. And, to misquote Harry, somewhere between twenty minutes and two hours is our problem.
With this new improvement, Tivo has become even more like my mother. My mother combs through every publication that crosses her doorstep, scouring it for articles on or even obscure references to things I like or have ever liked at any point during my 34-year history on this planet. Sometimes she has to highlight the specific word in the article when she sends it to me, which says, in effect, "I think of you EVERY SECOND. Even if I never told you I loved you, you would be able to infer my love from the sheer heft of the envelopes that arrive in your mailbox." And sometimes in with all the love, I see something that says, "You're fiscally irresponsible" or "You'll never be a grownup."
So maybe that's what's happening to my Tivo. Now, in among the messages that say, "I know you love Gene Wilder," or "I saw this Spencer Tracy/Katharine Hepburn movie and I thought of you," I get the message that says, "Your ass is kind of wide--I bet it's all the movies you watch."
Oh, it's so exciting. My Tivo loves me! Excuse me--I have to go buy it a card.
But recently, Tivo got a service update which "improved" its ability to offer suggestions. Like all the Tivo improvements, it's striking me as a wee bit judgmental. Tivo thinks I am made of time. It somehow thinks that in addition to all the stuff I normally watch, I'm going to watch movies. Lots of 'em. I admit it, I like movies. I'm happy it recorded "Young Frankenstein" (one of my favorite movies--good Tivo). And I'm glad it somehow figured I might like "Hoop Dreams," which I've been meaning to watch ever since Ebert and Siskel recommended it in 1994. And who's going to argue with "The Maltese Falcon?" I mean, Humphrey Bogart and Peter Lorre? Now that's a good movie.
But seriously, Tivo, this is not a balanced diet. Where are "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Star Trek" or "The Dick Van Dyke Show?" I don't open the Tivo Suggestions folder because I have two hours to kill. Usually I'm just looking to kill the first twenty minutes of my program so that I don't have to sit through the commercials. And, to misquote Harry, somewhere between twenty minutes and two hours is our problem.
With this new improvement, Tivo has become even more like my mother. My mother combs through every publication that crosses her doorstep, scouring it for articles on or even obscure references to things I like or have ever liked at any point during my 34-year history on this planet. Sometimes she has to highlight the specific word in the article when she sends it to me, which says, in effect, "I think of you EVERY SECOND. Even if I never told you I loved you, you would be able to infer my love from the sheer heft of the envelopes that arrive in your mailbox." And sometimes in with all the love, I see something that says, "You're fiscally irresponsible" or "You'll never be a grownup."
So maybe that's what's happening to my Tivo. Now, in among the messages that say, "I know you love Gene Wilder," or "I saw this Spencer Tracy/Katharine Hepburn movie and I thought of you," I get the message that says, "Your ass is kind of wide--I bet it's all the movies you watch."
Oh, it's so exciting. My Tivo loves me! Excuse me--I have to go buy it a card.
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