samedi, septembre 16, 2006

Hollywood Insider

A situation developed at the Temple Beth El Hospital in southern Orange County (CA), when a crazed Steven Colbert broke into an operating room and absconded with Barry Manilow's double hip replacements, at the very moment doctors were about to install them. Colbert was somehow able to get to the roof, and onlookers gasped as he held the synthetic hips over the edge, proclaiming through a megaphone that "If you ever want to see Barry walk again, this Emmy situation damn well better get rectified!"

Doctors in the operating room kept Mr. Manilow sedated, as they frantically sought a pair of back up hips from storage. The man who brought America so many memorable tunes was admirably brave, and did not wake up from his sedated state.

LAPD terror negotiators arrived on the scene and immediately offered to give Mr. Colbert the Emmy that "that woman from Will & Grace stole." Colbert consented, on the grounds that the nameplate on the award be changed to reflect that he had won the "biggest balls in the biz" award, and demanded to be prosecuted and sentenced in a way that would benefit his burgeoning career. Police agreed, the stand-off ended, and doctors proceeded to replace Manilow's hips.

Just in time for him to be nominated for Best Performance in a Prime-Time News Story.

lundi, septembre 04, 2006

Classic Rock--and other things everybody with a lick of sense HATES

I don't like classic rock. Actually I hate it. I want all those doped up, long haired, sweaty, over sexed free love left over groupie humpers to disappear. I know, I know, they'll all burn in hell forever, writhing in pain as their own endless masturbatory guitar solos torture their swollen eardrums. But I take no comfort in that.

And I don't like dancing.
I love music. I love exercise. I even love to combine the two. And I've seen a few people who can even hold my attention while they dance. But to stand in a crowd, with or without a partner, and flail, or gyrate, or whatever? It's difficult to think of anything more pointless. I still remember the last time I went "clubbing." There I was, surrounded by people dancing--flashing lights, driving beat, the scent of sex clinging to the fake smoke--and suddenly I just stopped. I couldn't figure out what was fun about it. I couldn't justify my presence in that meat market. After a few motionless minutes on the dance floor, I walked off, and never went back. Since then, I've danced, but only under duress. And I hate the people who guilt or jilt me into it every second. It is NOT fun. If you think it is, you're wrong. Enjoy it. But you're wrong.
I don't generally like concerts, either. Occasionally an intimate evening with someone I've admired for years pops up and I'll . . . On second thought: No. It doesn't. Concerts are loud, sweaty, merchandise ridden mob fests. They disgust me. And they should disgust you. Don't give me this crap about somebody having all this great energy or sounding better live. Nobody sounds better live, or they wouldn't bother releasing a studio album. And all that "energy" you talk about is really just jumping around like an idiot three-year-old with adult genetalia that pump caffeinated meth into the brain. I saw Iggy Pop on a DVD, and I swear I almost shot the television. What a truly revolting and infantile display. If I wanted to pay to watch someone have a seizure, I'd give my money to a real epileptic. Iggy Pop is a dog on speed with a microphone. He comes to you with his tongue out, turns you around, bends you over and violates you. And you give him money for it.

It's starting to sound like I have something against gyration. I assure you that isn't the case. And now that I think about it, I'll have to give you my first Tori Amos concert, because it was just her and a piano, no screaming teens and I swear she looked me right in the eye twice and the second time was really intimate. I'll bet she remembers me.
I might also concede They Might Be Giants, because I laughed enough to forget that I was exchanging sweat with a stranger through a thirty dollar T-shirt.

And I don't understand the attraction of the tropics. I love the ocean. I love snorkeling, scuba, the whole bit. But I'm not impressed by palm trees and balmy temperatures. The beach has very little to offer. Who cares about soaking in the damn sun? Maybe if I was born there, or had to work there, I could appreciate it. But going out of my way to vacation in some tropical paradise? Forget it. I love the climate where I am, that's why I live here.
Which brings me to cruises. Everybody talks about a cruise like it's the Holy Grail of vacations. I say go ahead and cram that oversized sardine can full of people who somehow like the idea of overeating, dancing the night away to the "musical stylings" of someone so talented they couldn't get a gig on dry land, tipping flunkies until your kid's college fund is dry and sleeping in a closet. Just leave me the hell out of it. I watched The Love Boat. It was nightmarish. Take your cruise and shove it. Choke on it. Whatever. Just don't talk to me about it.

I also hate protests. Hate them. It is my sincere belief that any crowd that begins a sentence with "Hey Hey! Ho Ho!" and finishes it with "Blah blah blah blah [something that rhymes with 'Ho']!" should be mowed down with a firehose. I'd turn the water on. I MIGHT admire someone who held up a sign that said: "I'm not smart or influential enough to play a real role in our representative republic! I'm politically impotent! But I'm angry and I wanted to share that with random passers by!" But even that is not worth broadcasting, is it? To hell with all of them.

The reader should know that I am a young man. A young man in super hip low slung pants made for women. A happy Gen X-er with a lust for life.

I am not a curmudgeon.

Some things just get my dander up.