Dear God of Vengeance and Horror and Action and an Indian That Turns Into a Wolf,
Please, please, PLEASE, if this world is going to end from a terrorist attack, let it come from Ignignokt and Err.
Please. I will give you oral, I swear.
Let's go get drunk and rip off a ten-speed.
There is a MAJOR SPOILER after the jump about the season premiere of 24, so only click if you don't want to know...
I'm approaching 45 pounds lost under my new, healthy lifestyle. In one sense, it's very liberating. In another sense, I can't believe that I'm still this fat after I've lost 45 pounds. Theoretically, there are ab muscles under there somewhere, but there is an equally plausible possibility that there are just a half dozen Ziploc baggies full of pudding. Top scientists are monitoring.
One of the things that has encouraged me to work out is to watch TV on DVDs when I run on the treadmill at home. I recently rediscovered one of my favorite all-time episodes of television and, as an added bonus, it did an excellent job of promoting bloodflow to my lower extremities as well. This episode aired after the Super Bowl a few years ago, so they needed to make it scream front to back with awesomeness. Easily the best episode of Alias ever. The one thing it didn't have was Fonzie on a motorcycle, but take my word for it, the sharks were in the water.
And if there are any Hollywood producers or directors reading, make this note: Open every episode of every show that you ever do with AC/DC. It's win-win.
Let's face it, our lives are a delicate mix of lust and hatred held together only by the sinewy goo of television. We want to say that we're above the inanity and banality of it all, but 20,000,000 people watched American Idol on a Tuesday last week, so just shut the hell up. Justify it however you want, but you fall into one of three groups:
1) You're an idiot.
B) You enjoy watching idiots.
2X) A little bit o' both.
To that end, I will now impart unto thee some television observations/predictions that you can mark down as the gospel truth.
First, obviously, is American Idol. Not much to say here, other than that I already know that the top three will be: Ace Young ("I walked face first into a mailbox while talking with a love interest."), Paris Bennett ("I'm bilingual and I love Sponge Bob") and Kellie Pickler ("(I) can burp like a man"). Please note that Ace didn't say girlfriend, he said "love interest". Paris Bennett will be known as simply "Paris" before the season is over. Kellie Pickler should always, either out loud or in your head, be pronounced Kiiillee Piklur.
Next, I have made a recent observation about Lost. Haven't they made a fairly blunt point of introducing us (in some way) to each character's father? Last week, in a throwaway line, they mentioned that Sayid's dad was a great military man. I don't read message boards, so maybe this is all old news or obvious to everyone else. Bottom line: Before the season is over, Evangeline Lilly will call me "daddy".
Desperate Housewives is so overdue for a lesbian scene and I cannot believe they haven't gone there yet. Sweeps is coming. Odds are on Edie and/or Gabrielle.
On Survivor: Exile Island, someone will flop out of his/her underwear. Not much of a prediction, as much as a foregone conclusion.
You should be watching Love Monkey on CBS. You know you secretly love Ed and now he's working with John Mayer Jr. and Brandon Walsh and they're making a hell of a TV show. I predict that they will courageously add another white-friendly black character to the show in the near future in a lame attempt to prove that it's not a show for only white people. I suggest Alfonso Ribeiro or Jackée Harry.
The Office needs to do something quick about Jim and Pam. Anyone who watched the British version knows how that whole thing ends up. It was the best possible conclusion. If this show becomes the Jim and Pam Affair, it'll be dead within a year.
The freaking Amazing Race starts next Tuesday, February 28th. I can only say this so many times, people. This is the best television show that has ever been created. It's not even about the race, it's about seeing how people ACTUALLY ACT when nobody is watching. Except that everyone is watching. I mean, look at some of these teams!! It's a train wreck in slow motion. Good god, I'm at 3/4 chub right now.
God, how sad is it that I could go on and on about television shows? I'll tell you how sad: NOT AT ALL!!
Discuss.
Look there. Down the
tracks…just about a mile or so away. See it there? That’s right, it’s
this post. You can see it coming. God help me, you can see it coming.
*****
My filthy lust for television has impaired my ability to reason, at
best, and my equilibrium, at worst.
Among the modern miracles of our society – the polio vaccine, titanium
prosthetics, the iPod – none is grander than High Definition Television. Within the radiating box of finely pixilated
pleasure, I have looked into the soul of God. It is crystal clear.
His soul may take the form of a 350-pound NFL lineman, each rippling
roll of lard detailed with such precision, I can sense the angina.
His soul twists into the kineticism of Indiana Jones’ lightning fast
whip, zipping inches away from me, in ultra-realism.
His soul could take shape in the body of Jennifer Garner (and most
certainly has) as she hurtles across the face of the television screen, mere
millimeters from pulling me into her world.
Regardless, as with all beauty, there's a price to be paid.
I think I know how people get dragged into loving things like Communism and Nazism and Cannibalism. What? They do. Shut up and let me make my point.
Have you noticed the strangely subtle and overt manner in which all forms of advertising are now demanding that you comply? I remember a bygone era wherein people who wanted your business would ask you nicely if you'd like to partake in their product offering and then you'd smile coyly and later you'd make love. Mostly this applied to prostitution, but it could just as easily be toothpaste sales.
Lately, however, in print, radio and television ads, there is a insistence that you ACT NOW! or COME ON DOWN! or DON'T GO AWAY! They aren't asking, like good Christians. They're adamant*.
This has become especially true on television, in the promotion of an upcoming show or, even more shamelessly, in the promotion of the current show. You will hear the announcer constantly voice over your need to STAY TUNED! or STICK AROUND! or TUNE IN FOR THE NEXT...! or DON'T GO ANYWHERE! WE'LL BE RIGHT BACK!
Motherfucker, don't tell me what to do.
I was watching a special on MTV this past weekend entitled True Life: I'm a High School Senior. It tracked the journey of several kids from two different schools through much of their final year of high school.
It was painful to watch.
You know how sometimes you hear that old theme song from your high school prom or look at some locked-in-time photographs of younger days and every memory of the time and place tumbles down upon you and swallows your self-esteem whole?
Okay, maybe you don't.
But I do.
Watching the program made me nauseous. There are feelings that one learns to compartmentalize over time. Traumas, sights, sounds, loves. The mind pushes them to a little room, because though these feelings have built your personality, they shouldn't necessarily ever see the light of day again. But when something triggers the latch on the door to that little room, all of the memories and feelings spill onto the floor like sand. You can't pick them up and put them away fast enough.
As the more astute members of the audience may have gathered, I had a somewhat awkward high school experience. I was neither popular nor unpopular. Neither known nor unknown. Not happy or sad. I was just so ordinary. And I knew it. Feeling ordinary is harder to accept than anything else. It has a certain hopelessness to it.
Why did everything seem like it was absolutely important then? Very nearly the day after I graduated, I came to the realization that none of it mattered. I became the person that I knew I could be. Much more outgoing. Happier. Extraordinary.
But then I see these kids going through the whirlwind. Caught up in it. The monumental, seemingly life-altering twists of fate that tear at you and make you wonder if the world is always going to be so unfair. I want to shake them and tell them that NONE OF IT MATTERS!!
But I guess it does matter. I guess we need that little room in our mind. I guess we need to pass through there to get to here.
I need to go throw up.
Man, that is such a cool title, I wish I was writing something that could live up to it. But, no.
I have many addictions and vices, but of them, television is my greatest. Unlike many people, I think that TV taught me as much as it corrupted me when I was growing up. And if you think about it, television is one of those things that has the ability to immediately bind people with a common thread, similar to shared love of literature or music.
To feed my addiction, I purchased a Direct TV TiVo a couple of months ago. Though I am adding new shows all of the time, I started to notice that my current listing of consistently recorded shows could give you a bit of insight into my personality. Some of you will like me a little more after reading the list, others will be ashamed and saddened. You can all bite me in equal measure.
And now, the list:
Alias
X-Play
South Park
Futurama
Simpsons
Inside the Actors Studio
West Wing
Survivor
Friends
CSI (Caruso-free edition)
Insomniac with Dave Attell
Good Eats
The King of Queens
Nova
Frontline
24
What Not To Wear
The Amazing Race
Scrubs
Dilbert
Project Greenlight
Curb Your Enthusiasm
The Office
Faking It
Monster House
American Chopper
Beg, Borrow and Deal
If ya have any other suggestions, I'm dyin' for a new fix.
Last night on Alias, there was a shot of Jennifer Garner doing sit-ups. Have you ever had one of those moments when all of the synapses in your head fire at once and everything around you goes bright white and the air suddenly smells like cotton candy and you hear the Vienna Boy’s Choir singing Halleluiah at airplane decibels and your pants suddenly get three sizes too small and you feel like God himself is giving you a hug? Yeah, it was a little like that. Sweet. Merciful. God.
When I wasn’t watching Alias, I was watching the Grammy’s. There is some interesting stuff going on in music today. Notice how I said “interesting” and not “good”. Some of the music was okay, but the production itself was horrid. I’ve seen dyslexic spelling bees that were more organized. However, as with every year, there were some Very Special Grammy Moments.
Former Senator Paul Simon and Art Carney were quite good in opening the show with “Like Mrs. Robinson’s Bridge Over Troubled, Silent Water” (Parliament Funkadelic remix). In my humble opinion, it needed half-nekkit back-up singers and a mosh-pit. Ya know, for the kids. As it was, I give it B.
What I remember next is Gwen Stefani and No Doubt. Well, that’s a lie. What I remember is Gwen Stefani. That woman could wear a pair of mud-flaps off of a ’77 Chevy Nova and she’d make it work. All I can think of when I see her is that one of my gay friends once told me in confidence that Gwen Stefani is the only woman in the world that makes him horny enough that he’d have sex with her. Amen, brother. I give her a B+.
Now I am thinking of the performance trio of Vanessa Carlton, John Mayer and James Taylor. Vanessa was just peachy. The trend seems to be to get artists that can actually play the piano to perform. Which is nice. But again, half-nekkit back-up singers couldn’t hurt. She gets a B+.
Okay. John Mayer. Sure, he’s a just a good-looking Dave Matthews knock-off. Sure, he was a tad stiff. But, brother can sing. And instead of his song being called Your Body Is A Wonderland, it should just be called Female Viagra. I guarantee that man is getting more ass than a donkey rodeo. A+, baby.
James Taylor sang some song about his son or daughter or dog or something and we all wept. Blah-blah-blah, singer-songwriter, blah-blah. Dude, your hair is so not brown anymore. I bet you think this review is about you, don’t you, don’t you? It is: C-.
I don’t know how to feel about the Bee Gee’s tribute. N’Sync did a compilation of their songs. It was ok, but what I almost would’ve liked to have seen more was John Travolta introduce the band and then strut off the stage as Justin Timberlake sang Staying Alive. And that is now the gayest thing I’ve said today. However, it was very nice for Robin to have Maurice’s son come up to accept the award. Emotion factor bumps this to an A-.
Nelly then performed both Hot in Herr and Dilemma. It essentially became a train wreck. Some people are better off lip-syncing some songs. But there were half-nekkit back-up singers. B+, due to the ass-cheek factor.
Eminem performed. He said motherfucker and got bleeped. We were all shocked and appalled. Oh the humanity. The performance, however, gets an A-.
The Clash tribute with Dave Grohl, Elvis “Presley” Costello, Bruce Springsteen and Little Steven was lovely. Loud and hard. However, of this performance and his earlier one, I have to say: Bruce, ease up on the intensity or you are gonna blow out one of those neck veins like a clown balloon. Sheesh. B+.
Finally, the big star of the night, Norah Jones. Sweet and wholesome. Especially when she said “Shit” on live TV. That alone earns her an A.
Next year, I have only one request: Show Jennifer Garner doing sit-ups on stage while John Mayer sings Your Body Is A Wonderland. Mmmmmm...
There are not currently calipers available that can measure my level of disappointment in tuning into ABC to see Alias and Jennifer Garner and instead being confronted by The Music Man with Matthew Broderick in a top hat. I will need corrective eye surgery, is all I'm sayin'.
I can’t help thinking one thing whenever I watch Joe Millionaire, Fear Factor, American Idol or many of the other reality shows: How many months til these guys are doing gay porn? I say five, tops.
If NBC was smart, they would advertise Scott Foley’s new comedy, AUSA, with a shot of him just standing there as the announcer says, “This dude is banging Jennifer Garner. If he’s good enough for her, then he’s good enough for you. By the way, he wants you to know that you never had a chance anyway. But, if you watch his damn show, he might show you the wedding night video.” Hell, I’d watch.
We had a storm that blew through our area last night and at one point it sounded like the Mighty Hammer of Thor itself had crashed down upon our roof. But it may have just been a big fuckin’ branch. Either way, Hammer of Thor or Big Fuckin’ Branch, I pretty much shit the bed. Good times.
Google hits that I’m hoping for from this post:
MC Hammer banging Jennifer Garner
Scott Foley doing gay porn
Joe Millionaire dumb as a fucking branch
Thor shits bed (for comic book fetishists)
It’s time for the Tuesday Test again, wherein you must, at some point during the day, voice the following moronic opinion and report back to me on the conversation:
“I think that Scott Stapp is the Jim Morrison of our generation.”
I know that this will be a tough one to say without killing yourself and you may get a severe beating because of it, but I’m not seeing the downside of that, frankly. You exist at my amusement. Go forth, my minions, and wreak havok upon the innocent. Just don’t throw your back out. You know how you get when you go off your meds.
I love the spectacle that is the Super Bowl. Love. It. I watched every second of the game and the commercials (what?! I have a life!) and I have a few observations:
Celine Dion, bless her heart, needs a knob to tune down the emot-o-meter a tad. We know that you believe that God really should bless America, but try not to have an aneurysm over the whole thing, sweetheart.
The Dixie Chicks didn’t drag out the National Anthem for eight hours. They need to be given a Grammy for that alone.
I would kill you and your dog to see the new Matrix movies. Now.
Ditto: The Hulk. The Incredible Hulk was my favorite super hero when I was a kid. I had all of the comic books and action figures and I took horse steroids when I was seven. Okay, that last one isn’t true, but I would’ve. By the way, when is mankind gonna make pants that grow with you when you “expand” to 10 times your normal size, like the Hulk wore? And they sure as hell better be in purple.
John Madden needs to be put down. Seems nice, but I mean, seriously. He did not say anything cogent the entire game. If he’d just get drunk during the game like Harry Caray used to, then we’d have some entertainment.
Did anyone else have the feeling that the audience would’ve been just as satisfied with Shania Twain jumping rope for 20 minutes as opposed to lip-synching her way through whatever country/pop yammering she performed? Also, can anyone stop cringing about the fact that she married a guy that has stuck with the name “Mutt” as an adult? Perhaps his pact with Satan was that he had to go by Mutt, but he gets to bone Shania and produce Back in Black. I guess that’s a fair trade-off.
Sting could come out on stage and read Mein Kampf while slaughtering a baby lamb and punching Barbara Bush* and every woman in America would still want him. And some guys. Possibly me. If he called me Roxanne. But I’ve said too much.
The game, as usual, was inconsequential. I saw people get hit hard and there were plenty of close up shots of players mouthing, “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” to the ref. I always enjoy this, because the announcers are then forced to stammer uncomfortably, with comments such as, “Apparently, he disagrees with that call.” Yeah, no shit.
Finally, I would be remiss if I did not say one final thing: Jennifer Garner, contact me immediately. There is some international espionage going on in my pants and I think you are just the spy to ferret out the evil therein. Please, Jennifer, for the good of the country, help me to stop the uprising. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.
*Note to the Super Bowl planning committee: This would be an awesome halftime show next year.
