Saturday, February 28, 2009
A Bird in the Hand is Worth a Kid in the Bush
I know one mother who isn't getting any gifts on Mother's Day. I feel for those kids. My parents once tried to trade me a baseball card, but the other guy said I wasn't worth an autographed Carl Yastrzemski card, and mom and dad wouldn't throw in my brother to sweeten the deal.
One...Billion...Dollars
Never again will this man make the mistake of filling up his 747 with Super Premium Unleaded. Regular will do just as well, and it might even shave a couple billion off the price tag.
The Will Schultz Cookbook
Rum-Soaked Cake
1. Eat some cake
2. Quickly drink some rum
That ought to do it! Granted, the cake won't actually have a rum flavor unless you have taste buds in your stomach, but come on. Cooking isn't all about taste. It's about art. And this recipe, my friends, is art.
1. Eat some cake
2. Quickly drink some rum
That ought to do it! Granted, the cake won't actually have a rum flavor unless you have taste buds in your stomach, but come on. Cooking isn't all about taste. It's about art. And this recipe, my friends, is art.
The Things They Don't Show You on "Oz"
Man, if only I had one of these "jailhouse litigators" before I did that 10-month sentence for mildly aggravated manslaughter. The article says they offer "a crash course in prison survival." Heck, I could do that, based on what I've cobbled together from watching "Oz" and listening to my roommate watch "Prison Break."
DOs
Do not get raped
DON'Ts
Don't not get raped
That just about covers it. Oh, and DON'T join the Aryan gang if you happen to be a black guy. They just don't mix.
DOs
Do not get raped
DON'Ts
Don't not get raped
That just about covers it. Oh, and DON'T join the Aryan gang if you happen to be a black guy. They just don't mix.
Overheard at a Local Restaurant
Diner #1: I say, quite a jolly good tuck there, what what?
Diner #2: Indeed, indeed. And now here's the bill.
Proprietor: Here you are, gentlemen.
Diner #1: Hmm...antipasti, pasta puttanesca, very good...wait! Three hundred dollars? What on earth?
Proprietor: Is there a problem, sir?
Diner #2: Look here, mister, this bill adds up to three hundred and fifty-nine dollars!
Proprietor: Indeed it does.
Diner #1: It says here I owe $150 for the lasagna! On the menu, the lasagna was $14.95! And the price of the calamari went up by...1000%!
Proprietor: Oh, relax, gentlemen. It's just the latest trend.
Diner #2: Indeed, indeed. And now here's the bill.
Proprietor: Here you are, gentlemen.
Diner #1: Hmm...antipasti, pasta puttanesca, very good...wait! Three hundred dollars? What on earth?
Proprietor: Is there a problem, sir?
Diner #2: Look here, mister, this bill adds up to three hundred and fifty-nine dollars!
Proprietor: Indeed it does.
Diner #1: It says here I owe $150 for the lasagna! On the menu, the lasagna was $14.95! And the price of the calamari went up by...1000%!
Proprietor: Oh, relax, gentlemen. It's just the latest trend.
Sign Me Up for #7
"The 15 Strangest College Courses in America" lists, as you might guess, some very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very strange courses. I could keep writing very until this blog post is longer than "War and Peace," and I still couldn't convey how strange some of these courses are. Or how stupid.
Take #6--please! (Ba-dum-dum) It's "The Science of Harry Potter." Hey, professor, I think I can explain it in one word: magic. You know those flying brooms? Magic. The avada kedavra curse? Magic. The hippogriffs, the goblins, the magic wands and potions and Horcuxes? Magic.
I admit to being a bit attracted to #1, "The Strategy of StarCraft." Please, please, please tell me that among the Course Policies, right beneath "No chewing gum in class," is "No zerg rush 10 min."
Take #6--please! (Ba-dum-dum) It's "The Science of Harry Potter." Hey, professor, I think I can explain it in one word: magic. You know those flying brooms? Magic. The avada kedavra curse? Magic. The hippogriffs, the goblins, the magic wands and potions and Horcuxes? Magic.
I admit to being a bit attracted to #1, "The Strategy of StarCraft." Please, please, please tell me that among the Course Policies, right beneath "No chewing gum in class," is "No zerg rush 10 min."
Double Secret Probation
Sadly, I fear even a toga party might not be enough to solve this problem. But take heart! After all, it wasn't over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor, and it's not necessarily over now! All they need to do is think up some crazy prank to pull on their landlord, and everything will be solved!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Mini-Review: Petra Haden Sings the Who Sell Out
Novelty songs are a dime a dozen. Novelty albums—a bit rarer. But a good novelty album? That, my friend, occurs once every dozen blue moons, and it is a truly special occasion. It ought to be marked by celebration, by feasting and dancing and possibly the sacrifice of an ox or two.
Well, it’s time to break out the oxen, because Petra Haden has achieved the miraculous and made a novelty album that doesn’t set your teeth on edge. No, I’m being too stingy with my praise. It’s a good album, almost a great one. Her “Petra Haden Sings: The Who Sell Out” is the finest a cappella cover of a classic album in at least a decade. I grant that the competition for that title is not at all large, and is most likely non-existent.
Her idea was so simple it was bril…hold on, scratch that. It wasn’t simple at all. “Petra Haden Sings” may be the most needlessly baroque album since Emerson, Lake, and Palmer decided to write a twenty-minute electric concerto about a manticore battling a cyborg. But who says baroque is bad? In today’s music, when less is much, much more, and when the stripped-down sound is a Holy Grail, it’s nice to have something to indulge in. Consider it the aural equivalent of a slice of chocolate cake or a nice, juicy hamburger.
A bit of background: “The Who Sell Out” is one of the most underappreciated albums, not just in the history of The Who, but in the whole history of rock music. It might even be the first concept album—though God knows how many claimants there are to that throne. “The Who Sell Out” is meant to sound like a pirate radio station, complete with commercials and reminders that you’re listening to “wonderful Radio London.”
Petra Haden took a listen, thought a bit, and decided “Well, why not do it as an a cappella album? And more, why bother with anybody else? I’ll just multitrack my voice a couple times, add in some overdubs, and presto!” Presto indeed. It was so crazy that it just did work.
Everything you hear on the album is Petra Haden’s voice. Everything. All the voices, all the instruments—the drums, the guitar, the bass, even the trumpet fanfare that opens the song “Heinz Baked Beans.” It’s been said that no instrument, not the saxophone or synclavier or snare drum, can match the incredible flexibility of the human voice. Haden’s album is Exhibit A in that regard.
Take her cover of “Odorono”—one of the album’s best songs, which happens to double as an ad for deodorant. It begins with a pulsing series of soft “dat da da”s; if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear they were produced by a machine. Then Haden’s voice—again—comes swooping in on the lead, high, almost falsetto, wonderfully human. On the chorus, every vocal part swells to a climax, richer than anything you could wring out of the usual guitar-bass-drums trio.
Haden’s weirdness brings out the weirdness inherent in the album. Everything sounds strange and new when you hear it done with the human voice instead of instruments. You pay more attention, for instance, to what the singer is actually saying, rather than being swept up by the fancy fretwork going on the background. And on “The Who Sell Out,” what’s being said is usually something outrageous. Take the chorus of “Tattoo”:
Welcome to my life, tattoo
I’m a man now thanks to you
I expect I’ll regret you
But the skin graft man won’t get you
Be there when I die…tattoo.
If you think that’s strange, wait’ll you hear it sung 1) by a woman 2) a cappella.
I’ve had some bizarre songs in my time. I once listened to a death metal cover of “Smoke on the Water” where the singer sounded like he had just undergone a tracheotomy performed with a spork; another time, I heard a bluegrass version of AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” But Haden’s album tops them all.
Every song is good, in part because all the songs on the original were good and partly because Haden’s interpretation is so wonderful. My favorites, in no real order: “Odorono,” “Armenia City in the Sky,” “Tattoo,” and “Relax.” My least favorites: Hmmm…well…I’d have to choose “none of the above.”
Go get it! Go listen to it! I don’t expect you’ll hear anything like it soon. Not unless the album inspires a new generation of garage a cappella bands. But I’m sort of doubtful that’s going to happen.
Well, it’s time to break out the oxen, because Petra Haden has achieved the miraculous and made a novelty album that doesn’t set your teeth on edge. No, I’m being too stingy with my praise. It’s a good album, almost a great one. Her “Petra Haden Sings: The Who Sell Out” is the finest a cappella cover of a classic album in at least a decade. I grant that the competition for that title is not at all large, and is most likely non-existent.
Her idea was so simple it was bril…hold on, scratch that. It wasn’t simple at all. “Petra Haden Sings” may be the most needlessly baroque album since Emerson, Lake, and Palmer decided to write a twenty-minute electric concerto about a manticore battling a cyborg. But who says baroque is bad? In today’s music, when less is much, much more, and when the stripped-down sound is a Holy Grail, it’s nice to have something to indulge in. Consider it the aural equivalent of a slice of chocolate cake or a nice, juicy hamburger.
A bit of background: “The Who Sell Out” is one of the most underappreciated albums, not just in the history of The Who, but in the whole history of rock music. It might even be the first concept album—though God knows how many claimants there are to that throne. “The Who Sell Out” is meant to sound like a pirate radio station, complete with commercials and reminders that you’re listening to “wonderful Radio London.”
Petra Haden took a listen, thought a bit, and decided “Well, why not do it as an a cappella album? And more, why bother with anybody else? I’ll just multitrack my voice a couple times, add in some overdubs, and presto!” Presto indeed. It was so crazy that it just did work.
Everything you hear on the album is Petra Haden’s voice. Everything. All the voices, all the instruments—the drums, the guitar, the bass, even the trumpet fanfare that opens the song “Heinz Baked Beans.” It’s been said that no instrument, not the saxophone or synclavier or snare drum, can match the incredible flexibility of the human voice. Haden’s album is Exhibit A in that regard.
Take her cover of “Odorono”—one of the album’s best songs, which happens to double as an ad for deodorant. It begins with a pulsing series of soft “dat da da”s; if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear they were produced by a machine. Then Haden’s voice—again—comes swooping in on the lead, high, almost falsetto, wonderfully human. On the chorus, every vocal part swells to a climax, richer than anything you could wring out of the usual guitar-bass-drums trio.
Haden’s weirdness brings out the weirdness inherent in the album. Everything sounds strange and new when you hear it done with the human voice instead of instruments. You pay more attention, for instance, to what the singer is actually saying, rather than being swept up by the fancy fretwork going on the background. And on “The Who Sell Out,” what’s being said is usually something outrageous. Take the chorus of “Tattoo”:
Welcome to my life, tattoo
I’m a man now thanks to you
I expect I’ll regret you
But the skin graft man won’t get you
Be there when I die…tattoo.
If you think that’s strange, wait’ll you hear it sung 1) by a woman 2) a cappella.
I’ve had some bizarre songs in my time. I once listened to a death metal cover of “Smoke on the Water” where the singer sounded like he had just undergone a tracheotomy performed with a spork; another time, I heard a bluegrass version of AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” But Haden’s album tops them all.
Every song is good, in part because all the songs on the original were good and partly because Haden’s interpretation is so wonderful. My favorites, in no real order: “Odorono,” “Armenia City in the Sky,” “Tattoo,” and “Relax.” My least favorites: Hmmm…well…I’d have to choose “none of the above.”
Go get it! Go listen to it! I don’t expect you’ll hear anything like it soon. Not unless the album inspires a new generation of garage a cappella bands. But I’m sort of doubtful that’s going to happen.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Will Schultz Cookbook
Bailout Bread
1. First, get an egg.
2. Actually, make that two eggs.
3. No, no, four eggs. This is going to be some hefty bread.
4. OK, five eggs, but that’s it, I swear.
5. Then again, while we’ve got the carton out, we might as well take all twelve eggs.
6. And if the bread’s going to be so big, it’d be shame to let those other cartons go to waste…so make it thirty-six eggs.
7. Forty eggs, to make it a nice round number.
8. Forty-one, though, because my friend Gary is coming over, so we need to make sure there’s enough for him.
9. Man, Gary’s a pretty big guy…forty-five eggs, then.
10. Crap, we need to get back up to a round number. Fifty eggs.
11. Do they sell eggs in ten-egg cartons? We might not be able to get to fifty eggs. Let’s see, twelve times five…hmmm…that brings us up to sixty eggs.
12. OK, we done with the eggs? Good. Now, we need some yeast. Let’s see…does any place around here rent dump trucks?
1. First, get an egg.
2. Actually, make that two eggs.
3. No, no, four eggs. This is going to be some hefty bread.
4. OK, five eggs, but that’s it, I swear.
5. Then again, while we’ve got the carton out, we might as well take all twelve eggs.
6. And if the bread’s going to be so big, it’d be shame to let those other cartons go to waste…so make it thirty-six eggs.
7. Forty eggs, to make it a nice round number.
8. Forty-one, though, because my friend Gary is coming over, so we need to make sure there’s enough for him.
9. Man, Gary’s a pretty big guy…forty-five eggs, then.
10. Crap, we need to get back up to a round number. Fifty eggs.
11. Do they sell eggs in ten-egg cartons? We might not be able to get to fifty eggs. Let’s see, twelve times five…hmmm…that brings us up to sixty eggs.
12. OK, we done with the eggs? Good. Now, we need some yeast. Let’s see…does any place around here rent dump trucks?
Let's Give Them a Hand
Congratulations, Jonas Brothers! You're officially the World's Worst Band! Aw, don't feel sad, you little muffinheads. It's not so bad. It's almost an honor!
I mean, think of all the bands that, at one time or another, have been called the Worst Band in the World. Lots of people said the Beatles were the absolute nadir of music; the critics utterly despised Led Zeppelin; and most everybody thought that "The Velvet Underground & Nico" was as musical as a jackhammer.
So chin up! Who knows? Maybe a few decades from now, the critics will be falling over themselves to praise...eh...that hit song you released a few months ago.
Also, if you believe that, I'd like to add that I am a former Nigerian prince who desperately needs your help smuggling millions out of my former country. Can you spare your social security number, brother?
I mean, think of all the bands that, at one time or another, have been called the Worst Band in the World. Lots of people said the Beatles were the absolute nadir of music; the critics utterly despised Led Zeppelin; and most everybody thought that "The Velvet Underground & Nico" was as musical as a jackhammer.
So chin up! Who knows? Maybe a few decades from now, the critics will be falling over themselves to praise...eh...that hit song you released a few months ago.
Also, if you believe that, I'd like to add that I am a former Nigerian prince who desperately needs your help smuggling millions out of my former country. Can you spare your social security number, brother?
People With too Much Time on Their Hands
On the one hand, I'm extremely impressed by the dedicated of this British farmer who has spent three decades making a perfect miniature model of King Herod's Temple.
On the other hand, I'm forced to ask: whatever happened to just doing crosswords, or collecting stamps, or writing angry letters to the editor?
On the other hand, I'm forced to ask: whatever happened to just doing crosswords, or collecting stamps, or writing angry letters to the editor?
What a Mess
Wow. After reading this story, I will never clean my room again. It's not a question of cleanliness--it's one of saving my family's life.
Ow! Ow! Ow!
"Too much PlayStation may cause painful lumps," says the headline from MSNBC. Yes, getting repeatedly smacked in the face for being a nerd who plays too much "Final Fantasy" will do that to you.
Ha ha ha, just joking! Most nerd-related attacks, including wet willies and swirlies, leave no physical marks. This story is actually about "painful lumps" that develop on the hands of people who grip the controller too tightly.
I always feared something like that would happen. That's why I taught myself to use the controller with my feet alone. People laughed at me...but who's laughing now?
Ha ha ha, just joking! Most nerd-related attacks, including wet willies and swirlies, leave no physical marks. This story is actually about "painful lumps" that develop on the hands of people who grip the controller too tightly.
I always feared something like that would happen. That's why I taught myself to use the controller with my feet alone. People laughed at me...but who's laughing now?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Bizarre Google Search...Whatever
"It was late, and I was tired":
HA HA HA HA HA...wait, what the hell?
HA HA HA HA HA...wait, what the hell?
Quick Oscar Reax
I promise a more detailed reaction later, when it's not 1 o'clock in the morning on a school night, but I wanted to jot down a few of my reactions to the Oscar ceremony.
1. Was Hugh Jackman even there? He kept vanishing for long stretches, and when he finally popped again near the end, all I could think was "Hey, where's Cyclops?"
2. The musical numbers were...interesting. Not in a good way. I was compelled to watch them the same way I'm compelled to look at a car accident.
3. Who thought performing ABBA with a drumline would be a good idea? Who was it? Who? I want names! Heavy percussion and Swedish pop mix like peanut butter and mucus.
4. The best speech of the night goes to the Japanese guy who ended by saying "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto."
5. My spell-check things "arigato" should be changed to "rigatoni." Not Oscar-related, but more amusing than most of last night's jokes.
6. OK, Philip Seymour Hoffmann, who dared you to dress up like a disheveled rabbi, and what did you get out of it?
7. "Slumdog Millionaire" proves, once again, that even the smallest movie has a shot at the biggest award, providing all its competition are either 1) boring or 2) terrible.
8. For the love of God, get Steve Martin back as the host!
1. Was Hugh Jackman even there? He kept vanishing for long stretches, and when he finally popped again near the end, all I could think was "Hey, where's Cyclops?"
2. The musical numbers were...interesting. Not in a good way. I was compelled to watch them the same way I'm compelled to look at a car accident.
3. Who thought performing ABBA with a drumline would be a good idea? Who was it? Who? I want names! Heavy percussion and Swedish pop mix like peanut butter and mucus.
4. The best speech of the night goes to the Japanese guy who ended by saying "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto."
5. My spell-check things "arigato" should be changed to "rigatoni." Not Oscar-related, but more amusing than most of last night's jokes.
6. OK, Philip Seymour Hoffmann, who dared you to dress up like a disheveled rabbi, and what did you get out of it?
7. "Slumdog Millionaire" proves, once again, that even the smallest movie has a shot at the biggest award, providing all its competition are either 1) boring or 2) terrible.
8. For the love of God, get Steve Martin back as the host!
The Case of the Secret Closet
When I die--assuming I die, of course, which is a pretty safe assumption--I want to come back as a writer for a British tabloid. First paragraph from this article, about how the new Sherlock Holmes film will portray the super sleuth as a bit...gay:
IT’S shockingly eleMENtary, my queer Watson.
Don't act so surprised. You always knew something was up between those two. Why else would Holmes allow that bumbling medico to tag along on all his adventures? It wasn't just because of his "trusty service revolver." Or then again, maybe it was...nudge nudge, wink wink.
IT’S shockingly eleMENtary, my queer Watson.
Don't act so surprised. You always knew something was up between those two. Why else would Holmes allow that bumbling medico to tag along on all his adventures? It wasn't just because of his "trusty service revolver." Or then again, maybe it was...nudge nudge, wink wink.
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep
And when I do, I hope to lay my head upon one of these pillows. I especially like the book pillow; as someone who regularly konks out in the library, I would really appreciate one of those. It would keep my drool off the desk, at least.
The bacon and salmon pillow are OK, but I'm sure both would be much improved by the addition of realistic scents. Can you imagine drifting off of to dreamland surrounded by the heavenly aroma of bacon? Well, I can, but that's because I stuff my pillow with bacon before I go to sleep every night. It's really not worth it, though. The cockroaches are trouble enough--and don't get me started on the rats.
The bacon and salmon pillow are OK, but I'm sure both would be much improved by the addition of realistic scents. Can you imagine drifting off of to dreamland surrounded by the heavenly aroma of bacon? Well, I can, but that's because I stuff my pillow with bacon before I go to sleep every night. It's really not worth it, though. The cockroaches are trouble enough--and don't get me started on the rats.
Men are From Mars, Women are From...Hell!
According to a recent survey by the Vatican's Sinstitute (not it's actual name, but it ought to be), men and women sin in very different ways. Women, it seems, go in for the softer sins, things like pride, envy and anger. Basically, women are very good at hating other people.
Men, on the other hand, are very good at being fat and lazy. The most popular sins among men are lust, gluttony, and sloth. Strangely, greed is the least common sin committed by men. So...men are lustful and gluttonous, but not greedy? How on earth does that make sense? Can you be gluttonous without being greedy?
"Boy, Jim, you're sure packing that food away. That's what, your fourth turducken tonight?"
"Yeah, but trust me, I don't enjoy it. I eat them out of the principle of the thing."
Another helpful news update from this story: the Vatican has added a couple more sins to the original seven. In addition to the Seven Deadly Sins, we now have the Seven Pretty Bad Sins, the Seven Bad-but-not-Terrible Sins, and Wild Berry Flavor Sins.
Men, on the other hand, are very good at being fat and lazy. The most popular sins among men are lust, gluttony, and sloth. Strangely, greed is the least common sin committed by men. So...men are lustful and gluttonous, but not greedy? How on earth does that make sense? Can you be gluttonous without being greedy?
"Boy, Jim, you're sure packing that food away. That's what, your fourth turducken tonight?"
"Yeah, but trust me, I don't enjoy it. I eat them out of the principle of the thing."
Another helpful news update from this story: the Vatican has added a couple more sins to the original seven. In addition to the Seven Deadly Sins, we now have the Seven Pretty Bad Sins, the Seven Bad-but-not-Terrible Sins, and Wild Berry Flavor Sins.
And eBay Gives You Cancer
Now this is just ridiculous. A study says that social networking sites can "shorten attention spans, encourage instant gratification and make young people more self-centered." Absurd! I've used Facebook for years, and I...ooh, look, a cookie! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! All for me! All for me!
Can We Pin This on Global Warming?
Frightening news from the Nor'east:
"Seal populations continue to explode off New England"
Somebody call the bomb squad, quick! Doesn't anybody realize these animals are endangered?
"Seal populations continue to explode off New England"
Somebody call the bomb squad, quick! Doesn't anybody realize these animals are endangered?
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Dangers of StumbleUpon
StumbleUpon is a wonderful service, but after it recommended this site to me, I have to ask--do you think I'm on acid, StumbleUpon? Seriously, is that what you think? I can think of no other explanation.
Oh well, at least the site is kind of cool. Yes, it's a bit dull on its own, but turn on some music on iTunes and ta-da! You've got your own version of "Fantasia"! Dancing hippos not included, of course.
Oh well, at least the site is kind of cool. Yes, it's a bit dull on its own, but turn on some music on iTunes and ta-da! You've got your own version of "Fantasia"! Dancing hippos not included, of course.
Snake, It's a Snake...
Warning: if you have a fear of hundred-foot long snakes with the head of a dragon and seven nostrils, you might not want to click on this link.
The Story of Art
One day a caveman--or, quite possibly, a cavewoman--discovered he (or she!) could mash up plants, mix them with a little water, and use the resulting goop to make pretty, pretty pictures. He (or she!) thus became the first artist.
Art has come a long way since then. You got your Romans, you got your Renaissance, you got your Rene Magritte, and boom! You're sitting at the front end of the 21st century and wondering what comes next.
I'll tell you what comes next, my friend: iArt. Once again, we make something sound hip and cutting edge by adding i- to the front of it. In this case, though, the finished product is actually quite cool. Take a look at what a few digital age artists were able to do using only their imaginations! And their iPhones, of course.
Art has come a long way since then. You got your Romans, you got your Renaissance, you got your Rene Magritte, and boom! You're sitting at the front end of the 21st century and wondering what comes next.
I'll tell you what comes next, my friend: iArt. Once again, we make something sound hip and cutting edge by adding i- to the front of it. In this case, though, the finished product is actually quite cool. Take a look at what a few digital age artists were able to do using only their imaginations! And their iPhones, of course.
Amen, Brother
Film critic Peter Hartlaub makes an impassioned plea against giving the Best Picture Oscar to "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button." Regular readers of this blog--all two of you--will recalls that I wasn't impressed by "Button."
Has time and distance changed my mind? No, no, and no. Also, no. In fact, my opinion of that exercise in tooth-grinding boredom has only gone down. If my mind were a beach, "Benjamin Button" would be a beached whale. At first, I hated it because it took up too much space. Now it's starting to stink.
Who do I want to win? Not having seen "Slumdog Millionaire," "Milk," "The Reader," or "Frost/Nixon," I'm forced to say...uh..."Wall-E." Failing that, maybe "Slumdog."
Has time and distance changed my mind? No, no, and no. Also, no. In fact, my opinion of that exercise in tooth-grinding boredom has only gone down. If my mind were a beach, "Benjamin Button" would be a beached whale. At first, I hated it because it took up too much space. Now it's starting to stink.
Who do I want to win? Not having seen "Slumdog Millionaire," "Milk," "The Reader," or "Frost/Nixon," I'm forced to say...uh..."Wall-E." Failing that, maybe "Slumdog."
Fatty, Fatty, Two-by-Four
I'd like to coin a new term: flubbernecking. What does it mean, you ask? Rubbernecking, as we all know, refers to the irresistible urge to ogle a car accident as you pass. You can't help looking at the mangled and twisted wreckage, even as your brain tells you to just keep driving.
Flubbernecking, then, is the equally irresistible urge to stare at the dietary equivalent of a car wreck. We can't help but gaze, in equal parts horror and disgust, on things like deep-fried twinkies or corn dog pizzas or meatloaf wrapped in bacon. It's written in our DNA.
This site is a flubbernecker's dream. I warn you: you will see things that could give you cardiac arrest from fifty paces. You will see foods that Marlon Brando would look at and say, "Nope, that's a little too rich for my taste." Among my favorites:
-The bacon cheese pizza burger, a behemothic burger that substitutes two whole pizzas for a bun.
-The beef wellington bacon explosion, which takes the bacon explosion and makes it...worse. God help us all.
-The bacon cheeseburger with chocolate covered bacon, which raises a serious theological question: how could a just God allow something like this to happen?
With a hat tip to the wonderfully readable blog of Dr. Craig Newmark.
Flubbernecking, then, is the equally irresistible urge to stare at the dietary equivalent of a car wreck. We can't help but gaze, in equal parts horror and disgust, on things like deep-fried twinkies or corn dog pizzas or meatloaf wrapped in bacon. It's written in our DNA.
This site is a flubbernecker's dream. I warn you: you will see things that could give you cardiac arrest from fifty paces. You will see foods that Marlon Brando would look at and say, "Nope, that's a little too rich for my taste." Among my favorites:
-The bacon cheese pizza burger, a behemothic burger that substitutes two whole pizzas for a bun.
-The beef wellington bacon explosion, which takes the bacon explosion and makes it...worse. God help us all.
-The bacon cheeseburger with chocolate covered bacon, which raises a serious theological question: how could a just God allow something like this to happen?
With a hat tip to the wonderfully readable blog of Dr. Craig Newmark.
Seeing Eye-to-Eye
List of body parts on which I would least like to get a tattoo:
1. Eardrum
2. Prostate
3. Aorta
4. Tongue
5. Eyeball
I'm curious, in a morbid sort of way. What on earth could you tattoo on your eyeball? A flaming heart? "Mother"? A tinier eyeball? The mind boggles.
1. Eardrum
2. Prostate
3. Aorta
4. Tongue
5. Eyeball
I'm curious, in a morbid sort of way. What on earth could you tattoo on your eyeball? A flaming heart? "Mother"? A tinier eyeball? The mind boggles.
Friday, February 20, 2009
(Drag) Queen for a Day
Oh, George Mason. You're bitter, right? I understand. You got so much attention during your run to the Final Four a few years back, and now you're upset that America is ignoring you again. I sympathize. But that's no reason to act out and pull some crazy stunt like this.
Hey, I've got nothing against this guy. More power to him! But it doesn't say a lot of good things for GMU's female population.
Hey, I've got nothing against this guy. More power to him! But it doesn't say a lot of good things for GMU's female population.
No Blood for Hamster!
The frightening future of the Matrix, where living beings are enslaved and turned into batteries, takes one giant step closer to reality--assuming you're a hamster. And why not? It's a perfectly reasonable assumption to make.
Mini-Review: Puddn'head Wilson
Mark Twain’s “Puddn’head Wilson” should be familiar to anyone who’s ever played Quiz Bowl. It’s prime QB fodder: people know the name of the book, but they’ve never bothered to read it. It’s like “Washington Square,” or “Tender Is the Night,” or “Sons and Lovers.” The names are familiar. The plots we wouldn’t recognize if they came up and slapped us across our culturally illiterate faces.
No more! I’ve joined the ranks of the literary elite. It wasn’t by choice, though; I had to be dragged into it kicking and screaming. The book was assigned for my “Pop Culture in American History Course,” which, despite its name, is actually a serious course. Just because it says Pop Culture doesn’t mean we sit around all day and watch movies! Not yet, at least. The only movie we’ve watched is a minute-long clip from a silent version of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” which isn’t exactly “The Matrix” in terms of excitement.
Sorry, I’m rambling already. I really am an old man. So: “Puddn’head Wilson.” The first thing you should know is that yes, the main character is actually called “Puddn’head.” The second thing you should know is that there’s a reason this book hasn’t passed into the general high school curriculum.
You know how people got all hot and bothered over the “racism” in “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” because the n-word got tossed around a few times? Well, let’s just say that in terms of racial sensitivity, “Puddn’head Wilson” makes “Huckleberry Finn” look like a meeting of the Harvard ethnic studies department. Allow me to give you a sample quote:
Then he laid himself heavily down again, with a groan and the muttered words, “A [CENSORED!]!—I am a [CENSORED!]!—oh, I wish I were dead!”
Or how about this one?
“I’ve knelt to a [CENSORED!] wench!” he muttered. “I thought I had struck the deepest deeps of degradation before, but oh, dear, it was nothing to this……Well, there is one consolation, such as it is—I’ve struck bottom this time, there’s nothing lower.”
If you’re wondering what the censored word is, it rhymes with “bigger,” and it ain’t “chigger.”
“Huckleberry Finn” dealt with race only obliquely, as one of many obstacles Huck runs into while rafting down the Mighty Mississip. “Puddn’head Wilson” tackles race head-on and body-slams it into the ground a few times. The plot is reminiscent of another, more well-known Twain work, “The Prince and the Pauper.”
Twain, you see, had a thing for twins. Stop snickering! That’s not what I meant. “The Prince and the Pauper” was about a pair of look-alikes who swap roles, with amusing consequences for all involved. “Puddn’head Wilson” is about a pair of look-alikes who are swapped against their will, with painful consequences for all involved.
The look-alikes in question are the comically named Thomas a Becket Driscoll, scion of one of the town’s leading families, and a slave boy with the equally amusing name of Valet de Chambres. Slave and master look alike because poor little Valet—or “Chambers,” as he’s called—is only 1/32 black. But that’s enough to land him on the fast track for the auction block.
So Chambers becomes Tom, and Tom becomes Chambers, but there’s not much hilarity involved, both because 1) Twain’s jokes are a bit dry and 2) This sort of racial-based humor was probably a lot funnier in the 1890s than it is today. Sure, it’s funny in the abstract. Looking back, I can just imagine a portly 1890s plutocrat roaring with laughter as he reads about the poor, groveling Chambers and sneaky, shifty Tom.
Unfortunately, I can’t quite get in that mindset. “Puddn’head Wilson” hasn’t aged as well as other Twain novels because it’s much more topical. The themes of “Tom Sawyer” and “Huck Finn”—the pleasures and problems of childhood, growing up and the search for identity—are timeless. The issue of Jim Crow? A bit less relevant today than it was during the Cleveland administration, I would say.
Yes, yes, I recognize the fact that Twain wasn’t a raving racist. I acknowledge that the racial jokes in the novel are meant to tweak the racists, and not the nation’s darker-skinned peoples. That doesn’t help me much. Just because somebody winks at you telling a dirty joke doesn’t make it not dirty. Just because they preface a racist joke by muttering, “Hey, it’s only ironic!” doesn’t completely absolve them. Unless it’s a very good joke, I guess.
“Puddn’head Wilson” is quite readable, though, because Twain does know a thing or two about writing. The villain is vile, the hero is—there’s no hero, actually, so scratch that. I was about to write, “Once you get over the issue of race,” but then I realized that to “get over” race would be to miss Twain’s point completely. So let me rephrase. Once you understand where Twain’s coming from, you’ll find “Puddn’head Wilson” to be a perfectly decently little story about the strange goings-on in a Missouri dirtburg. And what’s not to love about that?
No more! I’ve joined the ranks of the literary elite. It wasn’t by choice, though; I had to be dragged into it kicking and screaming. The book was assigned for my “Pop Culture in American History Course,” which, despite its name, is actually a serious course. Just because it says Pop Culture doesn’t mean we sit around all day and watch movies! Not yet, at least. The only movie we’ve watched is a minute-long clip from a silent version of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” which isn’t exactly “The Matrix” in terms of excitement.
Sorry, I’m rambling already. I really am an old man. So: “Puddn’head Wilson.” The first thing you should know is that yes, the main character is actually called “Puddn’head.” The second thing you should know is that there’s a reason this book hasn’t passed into the general high school curriculum.
You know how people got all hot and bothered over the “racism” in “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” because the n-word got tossed around a few times? Well, let’s just say that in terms of racial sensitivity, “Puddn’head Wilson” makes “Huckleberry Finn” look like a meeting of the Harvard ethnic studies department. Allow me to give you a sample quote:
Then he laid himself heavily down again, with a groan and the muttered words, “A [CENSORED!]!—I am a [CENSORED!]!—oh, I wish I were dead!”
Or how about this one?
“I’ve knelt to a [CENSORED!] wench!” he muttered. “I thought I had struck the deepest deeps of degradation before, but oh, dear, it was nothing to this……Well, there is one consolation, such as it is—I’ve struck bottom this time, there’s nothing lower.”
If you’re wondering what the censored word is, it rhymes with “bigger,” and it ain’t “chigger.”
“Huckleberry Finn” dealt with race only obliquely, as one of many obstacles Huck runs into while rafting down the Mighty Mississip. “Puddn’head Wilson” tackles race head-on and body-slams it into the ground a few times. The plot is reminiscent of another, more well-known Twain work, “The Prince and the Pauper.”
Twain, you see, had a thing for twins. Stop snickering! That’s not what I meant. “The Prince and the Pauper” was about a pair of look-alikes who swap roles, with amusing consequences for all involved. “Puddn’head Wilson” is about a pair of look-alikes who are swapped against their will, with painful consequences for all involved.
The look-alikes in question are the comically named Thomas a Becket Driscoll, scion of one of the town’s leading families, and a slave boy with the equally amusing name of Valet de Chambres. Slave and master look alike because poor little Valet—or “Chambers,” as he’s called—is only 1/32 black. But that’s enough to land him on the fast track for the auction block.
So Chambers becomes Tom, and Tom becomes Chambers, but there’s not much hilarity involved, both because 1) Twain’s jokes are a bit dry and 2) This sort of racial-based humor was probably a lot funnier in the 1890s than it is today. Sure, it’s funny in the abstract. Looking back, I can just imagine a portly 1890s plutocrat roaring with laughter as he reads about the poor, groveling Chambers and sneaky, shifty Tom.
Unfortunately, I can’t quite get in that mindset. “Puddn’head Wilson” hasn’t aged as well as other Twain novels because it’s much more topical. The themes of “Tom Sawyer” and “Huck Finn”—the pleasures and problems of childhood, growing up and the search for identity—are timeless. The issue of Jim Crow? A bit less relevant today than it was during the Cleveland administration, I would say.
Yes, yes, I recognize the fact that Twain wasn’t a raving racist. I acknowledge that the racial jokes in the novel are meant to tweak the racists, and not the nation’s darker-skinned peoples. That doesn’t help me much. Just because somebody winks at you telling a dirty joke doesn’t make it not dirty. Just because they preface a racist joke by muttering, “Hey, it’s only ironic!” doesn’t completely absolve them. Unless it’s a very good joke, I guess.
“Puddn’head Wilson” is quite readable, though, because Twain does know a thing or two about writing. The villain is vile, the hero is—there’s no hero, actually, so scratch that. I was about to write, “Once you get over the issue of race,” but then I realized that to “get over” race would be to miss Twain’s point completely. So let me rephrase. Once you understand where Twain’s coming from, you’ll find “Puddn’head Wilson” to be a perfectly decently little story about the strange goings-on in a Missouri dirtburg. And what’s not to love about that?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Don't Pick On Me
From the lesser-known supplement to Bartlett's Quotations, Bartlett's Quotations That Sound Much More Threatening When Said While Holding a Gun:
"Don't underestimate me because I have glasses and I'm fat."
More power to ya, Fatty McFour-Eyes. You've got big shoes to fill, though. The last man to say that and follow through on it was Karl Rove.
"Don't underestimate me because I have glasses and I'm fat."
More power to ya, Fatty McFour-Eyes. You've got big shoes to fill, though. The last man to say that and follow through on it was Karl Rove.
Haute Cuisine
Who would have thunk it? Apparently, I'm a culinary trailblazer. For years, I recognized the gustatory kinship between breakfast and dessert. People called me crazy, but the truth was undeniable. What's the difference between cookies and Cookie Crisp? Or between pies and Pop-Tarts? Breakfast is nothing more than premature dessert.
Now the big-name, big-time chefs of the world are beginning to see what I saw. And when I say "big-time" chefs, I mean it. These are the kind of guys who put together meals that sell for $50 a plate, meals with names that are legally required to include at least fifteen syllables in three different languages.
The question: do the meals actually sound good? They look very pretty certainly, but so does the Mona Lisa, and I'm not eager to stick that in my mouth anytime soon. The beauty of breakfast is its simplicity, after all. Break down a waffle all you want, it's still going to be a waffle. When you start to dress things up with sauces and flavors and aromas, you destroy its essential goodness.
Then again, though...some of this stuff does sound quite good. Listen to this one:
For Corton, in TriBeCa, the pastry chef Robert Truitt created a sweet variation on an egg-in-the-hole. Slices of brioche sautéed in clarified butter and honey and sprinkled with fleur de sel represent the bread: a pure white mousse with intense coffee flavor stands in for the egg white. The yellow center is passion fruit jelly beaten with olive oil and Greek-style yogurt.
Mmmm...it sounds delicious, even though I understood only half of those words. If this trend ever catches on, I might be willing to eat at a restaurant fancier than a Wendy's.
Now the big-name, big-time chefs of the world are beginning to see what I saw. And when I say "big-time" chefs, I mean it. These are the kind of guys who put together meals that sell for $50 a plate, meals with names that are legally required to include at least fifteen syllables in three different languages.
The question: do the meals actually sound good? They look very pretty certainly, but so does the Mona Lisa, and I'm not eager to stick that in my mouth anytime soon. The beauty of breakfast is its simplicity, after all. Break down a waffle all you want, it's still going to be a waffle. When you start to dress things up with sauces and flavors and aromas, you destroy its essential goodness.
Then again, though...some of this stuff does sound quite good. Listen to this one:
For Corton, in TriBeCa, the pastry chef Robert Truitt created a sweet variation on an egg-in-the-hole. Slices of brioche sautéed in clarified butter and honey and sprinkled with fleur de sel represent the bread: a pure white mousse with intense coffee flavor stands in for the egg white. The yellow center is passion fruit jelly beaten with olive oil and Greek-style yogurt.
Mmmm...it sounds delicious, even though I understood only half of those words. If this trend ever catches on, I might be willing to eat at a restaurant fancier than a Wendy's.
The Good Ol' Days
So Facebook is the social networking site for "old fogies"? Hey, that's not true! Why, I...I...I guess I shouldn't fight it any longer, really. I might as well admit I'm already a cantankerous old man at the ripe young age of 21.
I would also like to pick out a line in this article that, in my opinion, perfectly sums up what Facebook is all about: "What we want is to hear about other people doing things and then judge them for it. Which is what news feeds are for." Amen to that.
I would also like to pick out a line in this article that, in my opinion, perfectly sums up what Facebook is all about: "What we want is to hear about other people doing things and then judge them for it. Which is what news feeds are for." Amen to that.
Driving Him Crazy
I'm not sure who to side with in this case. On the one hand, the guy bringing the suit seems to be mentally unstable. On the other hand, anything that hurts NASCAR is A-OK with me. Decisions, decisions...
Eggs-cellent Work
All I can say is that this kid is going to go through hell every Mother's Day. It's hard enough to remember as it is--now multiply that by two. That's what's in store for him.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Will Schultz Cookbook
BAGEL SANDWICH
1. Get two slices of bread
2. Get a bagel
3. Put the bagel between the slices of bread
4. Ta-da!
At least, that's the way we've always done it in MY family.
1. Get two slices of bread
2. Get a bagel
3. Put the bagel between the slices of bread
4. Ta-da!
At least, that's the way we've always done it in MY family.
Hungerkriegenzeitkampf
Man, when you think it couldn't get any worse for Adolf Hitler, something like this comes along. As if the whole psychotic mass murderer thing wasn't bad enough...
From the Files of the Obvious Department
Hey, did you know that when men look at pictures of women in bikinis, they become more sexist? Well, you do now! Its the women in the pictures who are wearing bikinis, and not the men. Though I daresay wearing a bikini would make anyone a little sexist.
The article also includes a few other "Derrrr" worthy scientific discoveries. Among them:
1. Fake orgasms differ from real ones--I think you could insert pretty much any word in the place of "orgasm," and it would still be correct.
2. Binge drinkers are more likely to fall over--They're also more likely to tell you how much they love you, and how they've never felt like this before.
3. The more fit you are, the longer you will live--Uh-oh.
The article also includes a few other "Derrrr" worthy scientific discoveries. Among them:
1. Fake orgasms differ from real ones--I think you could insert pretty much any word in the place of "orgasm," and it would still be correct.
2. Binge drinkers are more likely to fall over--They're also more likely to tell you how much they love you, and how they've never felt like this before.
3. The more fit you are, the longer you will live--Uh-oh.
Nerds Everywhere are Cringing
When confronted by a car thief, Salt Lake City resident Yvonne Morris fell back on her former training as a middle school bully...and it didn't let her down.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Count Me In!
How could a plan like this not succeed. I mean, who wouldn't want to spend their vacation visiting a...a...I'll let the article do the talking, because words temporarily fail me:
One of pop superstar Michael Jackson's brothers, Marlon, is involved in a controversial plan to develop a $3.4bn (£2.4bn) slavery memorial and luxury resort in Badagry, Nigeria.
The historic slave port is to be transformed through the bizarre combination of a slave history theme park and a museum dedicated to double Grammy-winning pop-soul group the Jackson Five.
Watch out, Michael! You're losing ground in the decades-long competition for the title of "Weirdest Jackson Brother." You've been on top so long, you've gotten complacent.
Also, "slave history theme park"? I assume the main attraction is a ride like Space Mountain, only it's dark, there's no air, you're chained in the seat, and the ride goes on for a month without stopping. Tickets start at $5 a pop.
One of pop superstar Michael Jackson's brothers, Marlon, is involved in a controversial plan to develop a $3.4bn (£2.4bn) slavery memorial and luxury resort in Badagry, Nigeria.
The historic slave port is to be transformed through the bizarre combination of a slave history theme park and a museum dedicated to double Grammy-winning pop-soul group the Jackson Five.
Watch out, Michael! You're losing ground in the decades-long competition for the title of "Weirdest Jackson Brother." You've been on top so long, you've gotten complacent.
Also, "slave history theme park"? I assume the main attraction is a ride like Space Mountain, only it's dark, there's no air, you're chained in the seat, and the ride goes on for a month without stopping. Tickets start at $5 a pop.
Madness Madness Madness
Because I'm a sucker for 1) lists and 2) weirdness, I'm pleased to present a list of "9 Real Life Mad Scientists"! Among the highlights:
MONKEY TORTURE!
ZOMBIE DOGS!
MIND CONTROL!
ELECTRIC CORPSES!
All of these, in addition to being incredibly bizarre experiments, are also fantastic band names. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Mind Control & the Zombie Dogs! But first, the Electric Corpses!
MONKEY TORTURE!
ZOMBIE DOGS!
MIND CONTROL!
ELECTRIC CORPSES!
All of these, in addition to being incredibly bizarre experiments, are also fantastic band names. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Mind Control & the Zombie Dogs! But first, the Electric Corpses!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Pause that Disgusts
What to make of this new Indian drink, "gau jal"? Allow me to make a list of the pros and cons.
PRO
Extremely healthy
CON
Made from cow urine
PRO
Devoid of toxins
CON
Made from cow urine!
PRO
Rich in vitamins
CON
MADE FROM COW URINE, FOR GOD'S SAKES!!!
PRO
Extremely healthy
CON
Made from cow urine
PRO
Devoid of toxins
CON
Made from cow urine!
PRO
Rich in vitamins
CON
MADE FROM COW URINE, FOR GOD'S SAKES!!!
Why, God, Why?
If your Valentine's Day has been a bit too enjoyable, here's a story sure to bring you down for the next couple days. Are you telling me that, ten years from now, we might have to make do with nutella?
Holy Sapphic Love, Batman!
Watch out, evil-doers, there's a new Batwoman in town! I'll let the article do the explaining:
Billed as a "lesbian socialite by night and a crime-fighter by later in the night", the new Batwoman is clad in a figure-hugging black outfit with knee-high red stiletto boots.
She'll be the first homosexual superhero since...hmmmm, I don't want to give anything away, but let's just say his name rhymes with "Stuporman."
The article also mentions, in passing, that Batman was killed off last year. Yawn, Superheroes die like roaches, but they come back to life more often that a video game character in a level with lava pits. Batman will be back, trust me, even if it's only as Zombie Batman.
Billed as a "lesbian socialite by night and a crime-fighter by later in the night", the new Batwoman is clad in a figure-hugging black outfit with knee-high red stiletto boots.
She'll be the first homosexual superhero since...hmmmm, I don't want to give anything away, but let's just say his name rhymes with "Stuporman."
The article also mentions, in passing, that Batman was killed off last year. Yawn, Superheroes die like roaches, but they come back to life more often that a video game character in a level with lava pits. Batman will be back, trust me, even if it's only as Zombie Batman.
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Music Man
I can’t work without music. You can call it a mental crutch, and I guess you might even be right. But it’s a fact. If I don’t have headphones firmly clamped on my ears, I can’t concentrate. My focus, shaky enough as it is, goes completely to pieces. As I write this, I’m listening to…let’s see…Taj Mahal’s “Six Days on the Road.”
Let me try a little experiment. Can I finish writing this blog post without listening to the rest of this song? Hit pause…and…OK, not too bad. Concentration levels seem normal. No twitchiness, no sweaty palms, no tendency towards distraction. Hey, I think I did it! I kicked my habit, just like that! Woo hoo!
Uh…what was I writing about again?
…
…
Something about potatoes? Or rock music? Or…dang, I can’t remember! You win, Taj Mahal. The music goes back on.
Now that’s more like it! I wasn’t always like this, you know. Back in middle school I could focus on my work without Taj Mahal—or whoever—taking up real estate in my ear canal. Things changed, though, when I got to high school. Specifically, things changed when I started taking Calculus.
Calculus, if you didn’t know, is an extremely painful subject that is the academic equivalent of being repeatedly kneed in the groin by a professional soccer player. I can concentrate on things like English and History because I actually like them. Do I enjoy Calculus? Only in the way a walnut enjoys a nutcracker.
Calculus was driving me insane. I would look at my homework and my vision would get blurry, my tongue would swell up, and I would have to lie down in a cool dark place for a couple minutes. If somebody said the word “integral,” I’d break out in a nasty case of hives. It got so bad I couldn’t even touch my textbook without a particularly thick pair of gloves.
The truth was, my pea-sized high-school brain couldn’t take an injection of pure mathematics every afternoon. It would just…explode! Not in the creative sense, but in the grenade sense. I needed something to cut the potency of Calculus, the way a boozy frat boy might dilute his vodka with a little PBR.
Cue the music! Literally, I guess. First came the Walkman. It wasn’t much. Compared to your iPods and your iPhones and Nanos and Minis and Zumas and Flingos and Burples (note: I’m pretty sure all of those were real at some point) it was nothing at all. It couldn’t read MRIs or look up restaurants. Heck, it couldn’t even tell the time, unless you turned it upside and smacked it in just the right spot.
But it could play music, and I didn’t ask much more than that. That CD player got me through Calculus. If I hadn’t had a steady diet of The Band, Led Zeppelin, The Who, and a couple others pulsing through my brain, right now I’d be struggling through first-semester Calc for the third time.
To quote George Harrison, though, “All things must pass.” To paraphrase George Harrison, “All CD players must eventually break down.” My CD player was no exception. In retrospect, I’m glad I never anthropomorphized that player the way I’ve done some of my other appliances. I would’ve been heartbroken at its untimely passing. It would have been like losing a friend, albeit a midget friend made of plastic whose conversation consisted entirely of R.E.M songs.
His death, like all non-boa constrictor related deaths, came swiftly. One second he was working. Then, as “The Weight” segued into “Chest Fever,” he coughed once or twice and gave up the digital ghost.
The player may be dead, but his legacy survives. I have an iPod, and I have Pandora radio, and both are pretty dang nice, but they’re only following in the footsteps of that first CD player. If I were to anthropomorphize them, I’m sure I’d see them as a pair of neglected little children who wonder why their Daddy doesn’t love them very much.
One last point. If you’re wondering, I wrote this post after Ruckus met an untimely death. I knew Ruckus. I liked Ruckus. I miss Ruckus. If you ever learn of his whereabouts, please let me know. He owes me 2000+ songs.
Let me try a little experiment. Can I finish writing this blog post without listening to the rest of this song? Hit pause…and…OK, not too bad. Concentration levels seem normal. No twitchiness, no sweaty palms, no tendency towards distraction. Hey, I think I did it! I kicked my habit, just like that! Woo hoo!
Uh…what was I writing about again?
…
…
Something about potatoes? Or rock music? Or…dang, I can’t remember! You win, Taj Mahal. The music goes back on.
Now that’s more like it! I wasn’t always like this, you know. Back in middle school I could focus on my work without Taj Mahal—or whoever—taking up real estate in my ear canal. Things changed, though, when I got to high school. Specifically, things changed when I started taking Calculus.
Calculus, if you didn’t know, is an extremely painful subject that is the academic equivalent of being repeatedly kneed in the groin by a professional soccer player. I can concentrate on things like English and History because I actually like them. Do I enjoy Calculus? Only in the way a walnut enjoys a nutcracker.
Calculus was driving me insane. I would look at my homework and my vision would get blurry, my tongue would swell up, and I would have to lie down in a cool dark place for a couple minutes. If somebody said the word “integral,” I’d break out in a nasty case of hives. It got so bad I couldn’t even touch my textbook without a particularly thick pair of gloves.
The truth was, my pea-sized high-school brain couldn’t take an injection of pure mathematics every afternoon. It would just…explode! Not in the creative sense, but in the grenade sense. I needed something to cut the potency of Calculus, the way a boozy frat boy might dilute his vodka with a little PBR.
Cue the music! Literally, I guess. First came the Walkman. It wasn’t much. Compared to your iPods and your iPhones and Nanos and Minis and Zumas and Flingos and Burples (note: I’m pretty sure all of those were real at some point) it was nothing at all. It couldn’t read MRIs or look up restaurants. Heck, it couldn’t even tell the time, unless you turned it upside and smacked it in just the right spot.
But it could play music, and I didn’t ask much more than that. That CD player got me through Calculus. If I hadn’t had a steady diet of The Band, Led Zeppelin, The Who, and a couple others pulsing through my brain, right now I’d be struggling through first-semester Calc for the third time.
To quote George Harrison, though, “All things must pass.” To paraphrase George Harrison, “All CD players must eventually break down.” My CD player was no exception. In retrospect, I’m glad I never anthropomorphized that player the way I’ve done some of my other appliances. I would’ve been heartbroken at its untimely passing. It would have been like losing a friend, albeit a midget friend made of plastic whose conversation consisted entirely of R.E.M songs.
His death, like all non-boa constrictor related deaths, came swiftly. One second he was working. Then, as “The Weight” segued into “Chest Fever,” he coughed once or twice and gave up the digital ghost.
The player may be dead, but his legacy survives. I have an iPod, and I have Pandora radio, and both are pretty dang nice, but they’re only following in the footsteps of that first CD player. If I were to anthropomorphize them, I’m sure I’d see them as a pair of neglected little children who wonder why their Daddy doesn’t love them very much.
One last point. If you’re wondering, I wrote this post after Ruckus met an untimely death. I knew Ruckus. I liked Ruckus. I miss Ruckus. If you ever learn of his whereabouts, please let me know. He owes me 2000+ songs.
Only 10 Things?
If you're a Star Wars fan, you might want not to read "10 Things Science Fiction Got Wrong." All six movies contain gross violations of #1, 2, 3, 4, 9, and 10, and--depending on your interpretation of certain characters--#5 and 6 as well.
My personal favorite would have to be #3--"Laser Bolts You Can Dodge." Even when I was eight years old, I thought it was ridiculous that Luke or Han could escape a laser blast just by ducking behind a door.
"Hey," I remember my eight-year-old brain thinking, "If laser bolts are so slow, why don't the stormtroopers don't just use machine guns? Wouldn't those be a lot harder to dodge?" But before I could get any further, I would usually start thinking about apple juice, and my train of thought would be lost.
My personal favorite would have to be #3--"Laser Bolts You Can Dodge." Even when I was eight years old, I thought it was ridiculous that Luke or Han could escape a laser blast just by ducking behind a door.
"Hey," I remember my eight-year-old brain thinking, "If laser bolts are so slow, why don't the stormtroopers don't just use machine guns? Wouldn't those be a lot harder to dodge?" But before I could get any further, I would usually start thinking about apple juice, and my train of thought would be lost.
Just Like a Nude Beach...With Snow
First, the story:
Naked mountain hikers in the Swiss canton of Appenzell-Innerrhoden will in future face on the spot fines of 200 Swiss francs ($170), Swiss daily Tages-Anzeiger reported over the weekend...A wave of naked hiking — particularly popular with German visitors — outraged people last year in the traditionally minded canton.
Next, my reaction.
1. Naked hiking?
2. Seriously? Naked hiking?
3. OK, I'll ask one more time--NAKED HIKING?
Don't Germans have jobs, or something? Shouldn't they be out making more efficient cars or chocolate? Do they really have to strip down to the buff and go hiking all over poor Switzerland?
Naked mountain hikers in the Swiss canton of Appenzell-Innerrhoden will in future face on the spot fines of 200 Swiss francs ($170), Swiss daily Tages-Anzeiger reported over the weekend...A wave of naked hiking — particularly popular with German visitors — outraged people last year in the traditionally minded canton.
Next, my reaction.
1. Naked hiking?
2. Seriously? Naked hiking?
3. OK, I'll ask one more time--NAKED HIKING?
Don't Germans have jobs, or something? Shouldn't they be out making more efficient cars or chocolate? Do they really have to strip down to the buff and go hiking all over poor Switzerland?
Mmm...
Just when you thought this blog couldn't get any better, along comes something like this. Note: PCH99 is not responsible for any damages incurred as a result of licking your computer screen.
With a hat tip to Ben, who, sadly, does not have a blog.
With a hat tip to Ben, who, sadly, does not have a blog.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Bizarre Google Search III
Let's put a cherry on top of this Sundae of a Monday. Here's the Bizarre Google Search for "prisoner 24601"--talk about literary pedigree!
$50 ON TWITCH TO WIN!
$50 ON TWITCH TO WIN!
Best Picture Reax
What kind of Oscar obsessive am I? I haven't written word one about the Academy Awards, and it's been more than a week since the nominations they were announced. I might have to return my membership card in Academy Awards Anonymous!
It's late, and I've still got some homework, so for now I'll be brief. This year's Best Picture nominations illustrate the two competing schools of thought on what makes a picture...best.
On one hand, you have the "artistes." They value pedigree above all else. Quality takes a back seat to style. To the "artiste," a good movie is defined by several qualities:
1. A biopic, or a historically-based movie
2. A movie based on a book; not necessarily a classic, just a good middlebrow read
Actually, that's pretty much the ONLY qualities they look for. These kind of movies don't have to be good for the artiste to like them. They simply have to have the APPEARANCE of being good. In an ideal world, they would be good, and that's enough for the artiste.
On the other hand, you have the vulgarians. If artistes like pedigree, the vulgarian judges everything based on how much popcorn it moves. Let the people decide, the vulgarian shouts between gulps from his 128 ounce cup of Diet Cherry Vanilla Sierra Misty Mountain Caffeine-Charged Pepsi Cola Cola Pepsi Coke.
The vulgarian won't embrace every blockbuster. He has his standards, and they do not include Adam Sandler or Rob Schneider. But as long as a popcorn movie makes a few concessions to art--I'm looking at you, "The Dark Knight," the vulgarian will pucker his big ol' blubbery lips and kiss its...uh...face. Its face.
This year, the artistes win. If you're counting, this is their 82nd straight victory, give or take a few. The vulgarians are always at the gates, waving their signs and shouting "THE DARK KNIGHT WAS THE BEST MOVIE OF THE YEAR! JUST CHECK IMDB!"
"The Dark Knight" was left out, though, as was "Wall-E," that other vulgarian favorite. If there was one movie that embodied the triumph of the artistes, it was "Revolutionary Road." Not really a great movie, by any measure. But it pressed all the right buttons. It had Leo. It had Kate. It was about suburban ennui. Check, check, and Oscar nomination.
At the start of the year, I picked "Milk" to win Best Picture. Now, though, it seems to be a race between "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" and "Slumdog Millionaire." People say "Slumdog" is the favorite, but I still have my doubts. If "Revolutionary Road" presses the right buttons, "Benjamin Button" hits 'em with a sledgehammer.
We'll see. I reserve judgment until I've seen "Slumdog." Then, I'll make my final pick, which has never, ever been wrong.*
*Note: has often, often been wrong.
It's late, and I've still got some homework, so for now I'll be brief. This year's Best Picture nominations illustrate the two competing schools of thought on what makes a picture...best.
On one hand, you have the "artistes." They value pedigree above all else. Quality takes a back seat to style. To the "artiste," a good movie is defined by several qualities:
1. A biopic, or a historically-based movie
2. A movie based on a book; not necessarily a classic, just a good middlebrow read
Actually, that's pretty much the ONLY qualities they look for. These kind of movies don't have to be good for the artiste to like them. They simply have to have the APPEARANCE of being good. In an ideal world, they would be good, and that's enough for the artiste.
On the other hand, you have the vulgarians. If artistes like pedigree, the vulgarian judges everything based on how much popcorn it moves. Let the people decide, the vulgarian shouts between gulps from his 128 ounce cup of Diet Cherry Vanilla Sierra Misty Mountain Caffeine-Charged Pepsi Cola Cola Pepsi Coke.
The vulgarian won't embrace every blockbuster. He has his standards, and they do not include Adam Sandler or Rob Schneider. But as long as a popcorn movie makes a few concessions to art--I'm looking at you, "The Dark Knight," the vulgarian will pucker his big ol' blubbery lips and kiss its...uh...face. Its face.
This year, the artistes win. If you're counting, this is their 82nd straight victory, give or take a few. The vulgarians are always at the gates, waving their signs and shouting "THE DARK KNIGHT WAS THE BEST MOVIE OF THE YEAR! JUST CHECK IMDB!"
"The Dark Knight" was left out, though, as was "Wall-E," that other vulgarian favorite. If there was one movie that embodied the triumph of the artistes, it was "Revolutionary Road." Not really a great movie, by any measure. But it pressed all the right buttons. It had Leo. It had Kate. It was about suburban ennui. Check, check, and Oscar nomination.
At the start of the year, I picked "Milk" to win Best Picture. Now, though, it seems to be a race between "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" and "Slumdog Millionaire." People say "Slumdog" is the favorite, but I still have my doubts. If "Revolutionary Road" presses the right buttons, "Benjamin Button" hits 'em with a sledgehammer.
We'll see. I reserve judgment until I've seen "Slumdog." Then, I'll make my final pick, which has never, ever been wrong.*
*Note: has often, often been wrong.
Paranoiacs Everywhere Breathe a Sigh of Relief
Q: Dear Mr. Wizard, can brains actually melt?
A: Well, Timmy, I've got good news and bad news. The bad news is that yes, your brain can indeed melt. The good news is that that's only going to happen if the rest of you is melting as well.
My advice, Timmy? Stay away from kilns, and you should be fine. And watch out for Bunsen burners, too. Those things are damn hot--and damn dangerous. I'm not the first Mr. Wizard, you know.
A: Well, Timmy, I've got good news and bad news. The bad news is that yes, your brain can indeed melt. The good news is that that's only going to happen if the rest of you is melting as well.
My advice, Timmy? Stay away from kilns, and you should be fine. And watch out for Bunsen burners, too. Those things are damn hot--and damn dangerous. I'm not the first Mr. Wizard, you know.
Saurid Xing
This is one situation they never covered in Driver's Ed. Or if they did, it was during one of the long stretches during which I was curled up asleep in the back. And that's why I can't parallel park.
Report: Man Watches Super Bowl Just for the Commercials
Quite some Super Bowl last night, wasn't it? Kurt Warner's loss proved one of two things:
1. God does not exist
2. God does exist, but he really hates Kurt Warner
And Ben Roethlisberger turned in the best performance by a half-human, half-hippopotamus hybrid since Jerome Bettis in 2005. Not to mention Santonio Holmes's last second touchdown catch, in which he miraculously landed with not one...not two...but all three feet inbounds.
But that's not what you were there for, unless you live in Pittsburgh. Really, all you wanted to see was talking animals and people getting hit in the crotch. In that regard, the Super Bowl commercials didn't disappoint.
Time's James Poniewozik reviews the best and worst of last night's commercials. Take a look and see how your opinions compare with that of a man who gets paid to watch television.
My biggest beef? He says the Hulu commercial, featuring a tentacled Alec Baldwin, was the night's best. I disagree. As my mother always told me, "Will, just because you CAN make a surrealist commercial featuring Alec Baldwin doesn't mean you SHOULD." Wise woman, my mother.
1. God does not exist
2. God does exist, but he really hates Kurt Warner
And Ben Roethlisberger turned in the best performance by a half-human, half-hippopotamus hybrid since Jerome Bettis in 2005. Not to mention Santonio Holmes's last second touchdown catch, in which he miraculously landed with not one...not two...but all three feet inbounds.
But that's not what you were there for, unless you live in Pittsburgh. Really, all you wanted to see was talking animals and people getting hit in the crotch. In that regard, the Super Bowl commercials didn't disappoint.
Time's James Poniewozik reviews the best and worst of last night's commercials. Take a look and see how your opinions compare with that of a man who gets paid to watch television.
My biggest beef? He says the Hulu commercial, featuring a tentacled Alec Baldwin, was the night's best. I disagree. As my mother always told me, "Will, just because you CAN make a surrealist commercial featuring Alec Baldwin doesn't mean you SHOULD." Wise woman, my mother.
The Will Schultz Cookbook
AMBIGUITY COOKIES
Ingredients
Some butter
Chips of one kind or another
Bit o' this and that
Some of the good stuff
Between 1 and 18 cups of flour
Eggs, maybe
Recipe
1. Take some of the ingredients and do something to them
2. Proceed with caution
3. Add one ingredient and remove another
4. Mix...maybe
5. Now reverse steps 4 through 1, starting at the beginning and ending at the end
6. Eat?
Ingredients
Some butter
Chips of one kind or another
Bit o' this and that
Some of the good stuff
Between 1 and 18 cups of flour
Eggs, maybe
Recipe
1. Take some of the ingredients and do something to them
2. Proceed with caution
3. Add one ingredient and remove another
4. Mix...maybe
5. Now reverse steps 4 through 1, starting at the beginning and ending at the end
6. Eat?
This Blog, Now Coming to You in 3D
In honor of last night's goofy 3-D commercial craze, Will Schultz Productions is proud to present...a list of GOOFY MOVIE GIMMICKS! And yes, Odorama makes the cut.
Here's my idea. It sounds a little crazy, and it is a little crazy, and its not a very good idea, and...I'd better stop this before I talk myself out of it.
Anyway, here's what we do. You attach a squirt gun to the back of each seat. And every time a character gets wet, the gun blasts 'em in the back of the head! Ha ha!
Of course, that sort of limits the application. There are some movies where nobody gets wet at all--the Breakfast Club, for instance, or Schindler's List. In that case, the gun would just be programed to spray at random moments. Yes, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But neither did Smell-O-Vision. Look how that turned out!
Here's my idea. It sounds a little crazy, and it is a little crazy, and its not a very good idea, and...I'd better stop this before I talk myself out of it.
Anyway, here's what we do. You attach a squirt gun to the back of each seat. And every time a character gets wet, the gun blasts 'em in the back of the head! Ha ha!
Of course, that sort of limits the application. There are some movies where nobody gets wet at all--the Breakfast Club, for instance, or Schindler's List. In that case, the gun would just be programed to spray at random moments. Yes, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But neither did Smell-O-Vision. Look how that turned out!
Forrest Gump Redux
You know what they always say--if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And if you can't do either, challenge them to a no-holds-barred round of badminton.
Side note: why on earth do we spell it "badminton" but say "badmitten"? One or the other people. Sooner or later, one of them's going to have to give.
Side note: why on earth do we spell it "badminton" but say "badmitten"? One or the other people. Sooner or later, one of them's going to have to give.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Bizarre Google Search II
Well, I feel sleep sneaking up behind me, ready to clobber me over the head with a big ol' sleepstick, so I'd best wrap things up. Here, for your education and edification, is a Bizarre Google Search for "super bowl kerfluffle.":
NEVER FORGIVE. NEVER FORGET.
NEVER FORGIVE. NEVER FORGET.
Super Bowl Shuffle
From Cracked comes a list of the "6 Most Pathetic Attempts to Get Super Bowl Tickets." I'm particularly charmed by the case of the Troy Polamalu lookalike who, in return for tickets, will do anything you ask, up to and including "Repair your computer," "Entertain you by performing a stupid dance," and "Bang your wife." However, he won't "cut his hair or kill anyone." Whew! Thank God he has SOME standards.
Though I guess I shouldn't laugh. After all, this year I made my own fairly pathetic attempt to get to the Super Bowl. Now the story can be told: a few days ago, I took an Amtrak down to Tampa and tried to pass myself off as Kurt Warner. And it almost worked! Things were going great, until they caught on and yanked me in the third quarter.
By the way, I really didn't mean to throw that interception that got picked off for a 100-yard touchdown return. Seriously. Total mistake.
Though I guess I shouldn't laugh. After all, this year I made my own fairly pathetic attempt to get to the Super Bowl. Now the story can be told: a few days ago, I took an Amtrak down to Tampa and tried to pass myself off as Kurt Warner. And it almost worked! Things were going great, until they caught on and yanked me in the third quarter.
By the way, I really didn't mean to throw that interception that got picked off for a 100-yard touchdown return. Seriously. Total mistake.
Making a Deposit
Hey, uh, remember that story yesterday about how...uh...you-know-what might cause higher rates of prostate cancer? Well, I foresee a sharp spike in the rate of prostrate cancer in a couple years.
To Be, Tis Not To Be
Allow me to quote Joni Mitchell: “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you got till its gone.” That’s a bit how I feel after struggling to finish the first paper for my Executive Policy class. The professor, a gravel-voiced Texan by the name of Terry Sullivan, gave us a rather unusual restriction. We had to write the entire essay without using any form of the verb “to be.”
Now, you might think, “Hey, that’s not so hard!” Ha! You just failed, what with your indiscriminate use of “that’s”! When you throw out “to be,” you lose every form of that wonderfully, wonderfully malleable verb. So long, “was.” Sayanora, “were.” Auf wiedersehen, “is.” It’s like trying to ride a bicycle with a leg tied behind your back. As someone who has enough trouble riding a bike with both feet on the pedals, I can’t imagine anything more difficult than that.
Axing “to be” certainly has some advantages. It gives your writing a little more punch. The sentences don’t lollygag around. Everything becomes action-oriented! Your sentences flow faster, sound crisper, and hit harder. Sometimes you can even get carried away, and your sentences start to read like a verbal avalanche, words falling over one another faster and faster until they bury the reader in a mess of -ings.
“To be,” I’ve realized, functions like a verbal time-out. Whenever “to be” appears, the action grinds to a halt and the description begins. It gives the reader a chance to kick back, prop their feet up, and survey the scene. And sometimes “to be” is unavoidable. Wait! I didn’t mean to say that! I meant to say, “and sometimes, ‘to be” cannot be avoided.” Writing can sound awfully…weird without “is.”
For now, though, I salute Professor Sullivan. Thanks to him, I’ve discovered a whole new way to write. Today is the start of a new literary era! Wait! Today MARKS the start of a new literary era. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Wait!...
Now, you might think, “Hey, that’s not so hard!” Ha! You just failed, what with your indiscriminate use of “that’s”! When you throw out “to be,” you lose every form of that wonderfully, wonderfully malleable verb. So long, “was.” Sayanora, “were.” Auf wiedersehen, “is.” It’s like trying to ride a bicycle with a leg tied behind your back. As someone who has enough trouble riding a bike with both feet on the pedals, I can’t imagine anything more difficult than that.
Axing “to be” certainly has some advantages. It gives your writing a little more punch. The sentences don’t lollygag around. Everything becomes action-oriented! Your sentences flow faster, sound crisper, and hit harder. Sometimes you can even get carried away, and your sentences start to read like a verbal avalanche, words falling over one another faster and faster until they bury the reader in a mess of -ings.
“To be,” I’ve realized, functions like a verbal time-out. Whenever “to be” appears, the action grinds to a halt and the description begins. It gives the reader a chance to kick back, prop their feet up, and survey the scene. And sometimes “to be” is unavoidable. Wait! I didn’t mean to say that! I meant to say, “and sometimes, ‘to be” cannot be avoided.” Writing can sound awfully…weird without “is.”
For now, though, I salute Professor Sullivan. Thanks to him, I’ve discovered a whole new way to write. Today is the start of a new literary era! Wait! Today MARKS the start of a new literary era. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Wait!...
Incomplete Coverage
Hey, I saw this while I was watching the game, but I thought it was just another GoDaddy.com commercial.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Bizarre Google Search I
Why not start off February by reviving an old tradition? Yes, that's right: slavery! I mean, the Bizarre Google Search! Here's what Google throws out when asked to find an image of "star-crossed lovers."
I get the joke, grudgingly. But I don't get why they're chickens. Anyone care to explain?
I get the joke, grudgingly. But I don't get why they're chickens. Anyone care to explain?
Out For a Stroll
While we're on the topic of naked people, here's a second shot of nuditiy for a nightcap. Ah, Singapore--what a country! Or more precisely, Singapore--what a bizarre, cloistered, semi-autonomous city-state!
Hot N' Sweaty
Powerade makes a--if you'll forgive the triple-decker pun--ballsy move, using pictures of naked rugby players in its ads.
That's simple enough. Naked men+muscles=More business, right? But what if other drinks followed a similar pattern? That's a terrifying thought. Not every drink's target audience is as well-built as Powerade's.
Would RC Cola, for instance, run ads featuring a pasty, nude hillbilly chowing down on a moon pie? Or would Red Bull advertise with a picture of a jittery, bug-eyed college student frantically typing on his laptop--in the buff, of course?
God help us. Please.
That's simple enough. Naked men+muscles=More business, right? But what if other drinks followed a similar pattern? That's a terrifying thought. Not every drink's target audience is as well-built as Powerade's.
Would RC Cola, for instance, run ads featuring a pasty, nude hillbilly chowing down on a moon pie? Or would Red Bull advertise with a picture of a jittery, bug-eyed college student frantically typing on his laptop--in the buff, of course?
God help us. Please.
Mini-Review: Happy-Go-Lucky
All right, after my brain-bustingly long review of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," AKA "Let's Give Brad Pitt Some Funny Makeup," I promise to make my future mini-reviews a little more...mini, I suppose.
No better way to begin than with a review of my latest conquest, "Happy-Go-Lucky." It's the newest film from Mike Leigh, a man whose never been accused of being happy-go-lucky, or even happy at all. I've never seen any of his other films, but I understand most of them involve angst. Some may include moping.
"Happy-Go-Lucky" has neither. It's the story of Poppy Cross (Sally Hawkins), a perpetually (and sometimes gratingly) optimistic London school teacher. Poppy always sees the bright side of things. When somebody swipes her bike, her only response is to chuckle and say "I never even got a chance to say goodbye!" She remains upbeat during a visit to the chiropractor, giggling even as her misaligned vertebrate are snapped back into place. Now that's some serious sunniness.
There's really no plot to "Happy-Go-Lucky." It's just a serious of setpieces to show how damn happy Poppy is. Thankfully, it never feels contrived. Though Poppy may be absurdly enthusiastic, she never seems fake. She acts like a real person, albeit a real person drugged to the gills with some kind of euphoria-inducing toxin.
More important, the other characters aren't universally charmed by Poppy's optimism. That's good; that's how it would be in real life. Most like Poppy, of course, because it's hard not to. But there a few dissenters. Chief among them is Poppy's dour driving instructor, Scott, a (literally) foul-mouthed religious zealot who refuses to be won over. The story of Poppy vs. Scott is the closest thing the movie has to a conflict, though it's pretty one sides. Who are you going to root for: the winsome school teacher, or the guy who thinks the government is run by Satanists?
What else is there to say about the movie? You need to see it for yourself, not because it's a great movie, but because that's the only way you can judge it. Either you'll find Poppy appealing, or you won't. I did, at least for most of the movie.
I admit to scoffing at some points. "Oh, come on," I thought during the scene at the chiropractors, "Not even the most blissed-out stoner would giggle during a procedure like that!" Heck, at times I even sympathized with Scott. I imagine that living with a perpetual optimist would be just as bad as living with a perpetual pessimist. We don't dislike them for their pessimism or their optimism. We just want them to show a little variety.
But Poppy charmed me in the end. She's a sweet character in a sweet, inconsequential movie. I recommend it. I also recommend whatever it was Poppy was taking. It looks pretty potent.
No better way to begin than with a review of my latest conquest, "Happy-Go-Lucky." It's the newest film from Mike Leigh, a man whose never been accused of being happy-go-lucky, or even happy at all. I've never seen any of his other films, but I understand most of them involve angst. Some may include moping.
"Happy-Go-Lucky" has neither. It's the story of Poppy Cross (Sally Hawkins), a perpetually (and sometimes gratingly) optimistic London school teacher. Poppy always sees the bright side of things. When somebody swipes her bike, her only response is to chuckle and say "I never even got a chance to say goodbye!" She remains upbeat during a visit to the chiropractor, giggling even as her misaligned vertebrate are snapped back into place. Now that's some serious sunniness.
There's really no plot to "Happy-Go-Lucky." It's just a serious of setpieces to show how damn happy Poppy is. Thankfully, it never feels contrived. Though Poppy may be absurdly enthusiastic, she never seems fake. She acts like a real person, albeit a real person drugged to the gills with some kind of euphoria-inducing toxin.
More important, the other characters aren't universally charmed by Poppy's optimism. That's good; that's how it would be in real life. Most like Poppy, of course, because it's hard not to. But there a few dissenters. Chief among them is Poppy's dour driving instructor, Scott, a (literally) foul-mouthed religious zealot who refuses to be won over. The story of Poppy vs. Scott is the closest thing the movie has to a conflict, though it's pretty one sides. Who are you going to root for: the winsome school teacher, or the guy who thinks the government is run by Satanists?
What else is there to say about the movie? You need to see it for yourself, not because it's a great movie, but because that's the only way you can judge it. Either you'll find Poppy appealing, or you won't. I did, at least for most of the movie.
I admit to scoffing at some points. "Oh, come on," I thought during the scene at the chiropractors, "Not even the most blissed-out stoner would giggle during a procedure like that!" Heck, at times I even sympathized with Scott. I imagine that living with a perpetual optimist would be just as bad as living with a perpetual pessimist. We don't dislike them for their pessimism or their optimism. We just want them to show a little variety.
But Poppy charmed me in the end. She's a sweet character in a sweet, inconsequential movie. I recommend it. I also recommend whatever it was Poppy was taking. It looks pretty potent.
A Study That Might Rub You the Wrong Way
*Cough* *Cough*
Uhh...
Some of you guys...you know...
Might want to take a look
*Glances furtively around*
Just look at this, OK?
*Glances around again, a little more furtively*
Be careful, man, is all I'm saying.
Uhh...
Some of you guys...you know...
Might want to take a look
*Glances furtively around*
Just look at this, OK?
*Glances around again, a little more furtively*
Be careful, man, is all I'm saying.
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