I Want My Bad TV

I don't quite know how it happened, but somehow, in recent weeks, I've gotten sucked into the soulless abyss that is television. I am ashamed of this, and you will soon see why.

I'm not watching "GlobeTrotter" (or whatever it's called), diligently taking notes on faraway lands and foreign customs. I'm not watching "30 Minute Meals", learning how to whip up healthy meals for my loved ones (this one is mainly because Rachel Ray scares me in a way I can't really explain). I'm not watching The News, or the weather. I'm not watching sports, or learning how to decoupage my coffee table. I'm closing my blinds, locking my door, and watching "Rock of Love". There, I said it.













Bad assssssss.



For some reason, the weekly spectacle of aging barflies throwing themselves at a botoxed glam rocker never fails to draw me in. I think what gets me has more to do with Bret Michael's attempts at sincerity than any of the leathery skanks' maneuvers to become the Alpha Skank who will, for all eternity, "Rock his world" (his words). Alone with the camera (and, ostensibly, a small army of make-up artists and hair people), he heaves great sighs, twists his face (as much as the atrophied muscles will allow) into pained expressions, and in general, takes the whole situation very, very seriously. And it is freakin' hilarious. So as he suffers on, my amusement continues and I've got to applaud either his acting talent, or his desperation to revive his career. Either way, a word to the wise, Bret: I realize that every rose has its thorn, but these broads appear to have several. Thorns, that is (as well as VDs).

My other guilty pleasure at the moment is the trainwreck that is "The Pick-Up Artist". Somehow, this guy:




...convinced someone that he actually knew something about chicks. More specifically, that he was a master at picking them up. Hahaha!! I'm sorry! I just can't stop laughing. Maybe it's the ridiculous hats, or the "I raided Perry Ferrell's closet" wardrobe, but I'm just not convinced that this guy is a master pick-up artist. A master warlock in the "Magic" game in his mom's basement, yes. But a wizard in the ways of women? Hahaha!

For the show, he amassed a small group of self-professed dorks to school in the art of romance. From all over the country they came, abandoning D & D games, TiVo'ing Star Trek reruns, and pausing their games of "Doom" to learn how to score with chicks. Or at least talk to them. They eagerly gather around The Pasty One, hungry for his sage advice. And what does he do? He gives them a few quick pointers (mostly corny one-liners) and turns them loose in a bar filled with co-eds. Let the awkwardness begin!

I'll close on that note, as I believe there is a very interesting show about sharks or something on the Discovery channel right now. Which will do just fine to while away the hours and minutes until "Rock of Love" or "The Pick-up Artist" are on again. Yours in soul-sucking entertainment,

Meg

p.s. At least I'm not watching "The Hills" - I must have some modicum of taste left, somewhere...

A (Rhetorical) Question for the Ages:

Are Japanese guys taking their fashion cues from Jon Bon Jovi, or is Jon Bon Jovi taking fashion cues from Japanese guys?






















I was pondering this, then I started getting a headache like the one I got when I tried to make sense of "The Lake House". I had to stop and focus on something less complex - like string theory - before my brain collapsed on itself like a dying star.

When Did I Get So Lame?

When I was 22, I found myself in the backseat of a sportscar that was tearing through dark, winding back roads, going about 80 mph. I was with my brother and his friends, who were all about 17 or 18, and I was the only one in the car that was genuinely terrified. As I clutched desperately to the door handle and fumbled to make sure my seatbelt was securely fastened, a realization hit me with the force of the oncoming semi I fully anticipated to be coming around every corner we whipped past. The halcyon days of youthful indistructability had somehow slipped by me. I hadn't even noticed. For a moment, my fear was replaced by an unfamiliar, aching longing - I think they call it nostalgia - as I tried in vain to muster up some teenage bravado.

Somehow, six years passed between that moment and the moment I experienced last night (no, we didn't get hit by a semi that night, but you can be sure I never got in a car with that lunatic kid again). I was online, and I came across a video of Mandi Moore doing a cover of Rhianna's "Umbrella" song. "I like Mandi Moore," I commented to my boyfriend as it played. "She's so wholesome." When it was done, I turned to him and said, "I liked that!" He turned in his chair to look at me with a bemused look on his face. He didn't have to say anything. Like a bolt of lightening, it struck me: "Oh my God. I'm lame."

My inner cool kid chafed at the suggestion that I might not be as hip as I used to be, and struggled to find evidence to the contrary. I'm still cool! Right? Right??

Hm. I had forced the boyfriend to sit through "Under the Tuscan Sun" earlier that day. That wasn't very cool of me. As I pondered it, more and more examples of my stodgyness sprang to mind:

I read labels. Not designer labels - the labels on food. I give a crap about calorie and fiber content.

I actually pay my bills. (Usually on time, too.)

I can't do shots of booze anymore. My body started rejecting the sudden influx of alcohol. I haven't yakked yet, but I always come close and vow Never To Do That Again while wiping the I-almost-just-puked tears from my eyes.

I go to the gym on a quasi-regular basis. I sometimes do yoga.

I normally don't get drunk on week nights. Sometimes, I just don't feel like going out. I'd rather stay at home and watch boob tube.

I go to the dentist twice a year.

I recently took down the Twister mat I was using as a wall hanging and replaced it with Actual Art.

I have a steady, corporate job that I don't actively hate. For the first time in many years, I don't dread the thought of going to work. It's not that I love it, I just don't mind it. Plus, it has a bitchin' 401K plan.

Maybe I have gone soft. Maybe I have lost the edginess of my youth. Know what, though? I don't really miss it. If you'll excuse me, I have to go floss now.

Welcome to New York (Now get the hell out of my way)

Welcome, Tourist, to our fair city. What in God's name compelled you to come to New York during the sweltering, stinking month of August is none of my business. Since there seem to be throngs of you filling the streets these days, I thought I'd do my part to make your experience better (for all of us). Below please find some Helpful Tips for Tourists:

1.) Have a plan. Eventually, the escalator or staircase will end. On the street, you will come to a corner. Do you go right? Left? Straight ahead? Gosh, Dorothy! So many choices! Here's a thought: Pick one. Any one. It's not a life-long committment. Pull over, then decided where you are and where you're going. Just get the hell out of my way.

2.) Praise the Lord and Pass The Ammunition. Maybe your church group has come to the city to spread the Good Word. Good for you. That's nice. But if all 15 of you decide to walk abreast down the sidewalk, I will push through your mass of matching t-shirts audibly muttering some decidedly unholy vexations that will have you praying for my mortal soul. You do not have a monopoly on the sidewalk. It's bad enough trying to weave through native stoller brigades - don't make the situation worse.

3.) You ain't in Kansas, anymore. You will pay AT LEAST $5 for a (domestic) beer, unless you happen upon an awesome Happy Hour (or you get lost and find yourself in a borough). Let that fact marinate in your brain for a bit before you arrive. New York is one of the most expensive cities in the country - hell, in the world. I understand that back home, you can get a sirloin steak with two sides, a beer, and a hooker for $12.99, but here life is different. You're lucky if you can get 2 beers for that price. I'm not condoning it, I'm not condemning it - I'm just letting you know. Don't let me hear you bitch about it, or I'll drag your ass to my friend's $1800/month studio apartment in the Village that could fit into your broom closet.

4.) Branch out. Please, Lord, don't let me see you in T.G.I. Friday's unless you're fresh off the plane from East Slavickstan and this is the first meal you haven't raised and butchered yourself. Same goes for McDonald's. It's the same crap you have back home, only it's overpriced. Your first step to getting some real food is getting as far away from Times Square as possible. If you're too scared to wander very far, try going to Hell's Kitchen (not as bad as it sounds. Really, it isn't.). Ninth Avenue isn't called "Restaurant Row" for nothing.

5.) Embrace your touristy-ness - Bust out that full-sized, MTA-issued Subway Map with gusto (provided you've Pulled The Hell Over first, that is)! Snap away with that FunSaver! Go to a Broadway show (please see something that didn't originate as a bad 70's concept album or something. I recommend "The Drowsy Chaperone". You can thank me later.)! Do the Statue, the Empire State, the Met! You are in one of the greatest cities in the world! Do a bunch of touristy shit, and do it with full-on, Gosh-This-Town-Sure-Is-Big enthusiasm. As much as I outwardly mock you, inwardly, I give you a Slow Clap.

6.) Don't be a sucker! Well, I'll modify that: Don't be too much of a sucker. Stick by the old adage: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. So, while the twitchy guy with the shifty look in his eyes down in Battery Park can give a hell of a sales pitch, the odds are extremely slim that those are real Oakleys. But you already knew that, right? So here's another hint: Wow. That copy of "Knocked Up" is only $5! What a steal! Yeah, if by "steal" you mean "hand-held theater recording with the bonus features of a built-in audience laugh track and the guy in front of the camera getting up to take a leak". Sweet, man. Oh, and buy that $2 "I Heart NY" t-shirt with full confidence that you will get exactly one wear out of it before your washing machine disentegrates it into pulpy mass of poly-thread.

7.) Don't be shy. If you find yourself strolling along in the West Village and suddenly realize that, while you thought you were headed north, you now seem to be headed south (or is it west? are you headed west?? how did that happen?), and wait, are there two Broadways? Where are you?? Ask someone. New Yorkers love giving directions. Just march right up to that guy wearing the mesh t-shirt and leather chaps and ask him to point you in the right direction. If he's any kind of New Yorker, not only can he set you back on the right course (usually giving you several options), but he can also recommend a great pizza place that you'll pass on the way.

I don't want to sound un-welcoming. I'm not - I know that tourists are the life-blood of This Great City that I love. I only hate you when I'm late for work and a hord of you are blocking my path. Bastards. Get the hell out of my way. Othewise, welcome. Enjoy your freakin' stay.

An Open Letter to Paris Hilton

Dear Paris,

I already miss the good old days when you were in the slammer. The day they locked you up, I could practically hear the satisfying clash of metal on metal as the doors to your cell slammed shut. "Why?" someone might ask, "what do you have against gentle Paris? She's never done anything to you!" Very true. Regardless, there are a number of things about you, Paris, that chap my ass. First and foremost, your questionable taste in fashion:















Seriously? What's going on here?









Also, your shockingly poor decision-making skills. But the thing about you that really vexes me (yeah, I figured you'd need a little help with that one) is the fact that you're famous. I am utterly flabbergasted by the notion that anyone actually gives a shit about your daily comings-and-goings. I was so relieved when they locked you up. I thought that maybe, just maybe, for three weeks, I'd be able to open my internet browser and see a headline other than something to the effect of "Paris's Dog Poops Image of Virgin Mary: Thousands Make Pilgrimmage to Beverly Hills". Sadly, I was mistaken. Instead of three weeks of quiet, we first get barraged with the tantrum you threw when you realized that jail actually sucks. Now that you're out, the paparrazzi can't get enough! I, however, can. And I have.

Paris, do you have any actual talents (no, doing body shots doesn't count. Neither does pole dancing.)? You have demonstrated that you are inept at virtually every artistic disclipline - singing, acting, the visual arts and the written word. What is it that you do? I mean, even Lindsey Lohan squeezes in some acting when she's not blowing lines off strippers' boobs. Exactly why, then, are you famous? You aren't remarkably cute, or funny. In fact, you appear to have no outstanding qualities (with the exception of an excess of both time and money). One last question: On your tax return, where you list your profession, does your accountant have to write "Drain on Society"?

Okay, that was mean, and I'm kind of sorry. But truly, I really do think that you should take a break from the spotlight. Take a vacation. A looooong vacation. Hey, I hear Siberia is nice this time of year! Or, take some of Daddy's money and put it to good use - go over to Africa and help Angelina and Brad in their effort to adopt the entire continent. I know it's hot and dirty over there, but hey, it's better than jail, right? Just think about it, okay? For me?

Yours in bad catch-phrases,
Meg

GO SEE THIS: This Ain't Your Granddaddy's Cartoon

[I decided that my template was lame and boring so - - KA-POW! MUCH prettier! Many thanks, Blogger!]

So last night, my boyfriend scored us tickets to an advance screening of "Surf's Up". I wasn't overly excited to see it, to be honest. Actually, the idea of watching a 6pm kids' movie at a theater in New York kind of sends shivers down my spine.
















But, I tagged along anyway, thinking that if it really sucked, I could always leave (heck, it was free, right?). (As it turns out, it was on the Upper West Side, so if anything, the 7 year-olds populating the theater were probably more mature and sophisticated than me.)

The film began pretty promptly, and about 20 minutes into it, I was surprised to realize that I was actually enjoying myself. It was pretty darn good! Nothing too original as far as plot goes - think "Karate Kid" meets "Happy Feet" - your typical feel-good-while-learning-a-lesson buddy film. But the actors who voiced the characters did a really great job (I should disclose here that I am partial to Jeff Bridges and Shia LaBeouf [dude I actually spelled that right on my first try, I feel like I deserve a prize or something]), and the animation was fantastic. When I say "fantastic", I mean amazing. The characters were incredibly life-like, and the surf scenes were so good, I forgot I was watching animation.

It's being marketed as a kids' movie, but I would say it's an older kids' movie. While there were no really scary sequences, some of the jokes were in the "wow, did they just go there?" category, also the documentary-style format and overall themes might be a little over the 'lil ones' heads. Personally, I left the theater ready to grab my surf board (oh that's right, I don't have one...). Not only did it unexpectedly raise my spirits, in my opinion, it raised the bar for animated features.

One Way or Another...

I just had a fantastic weekend. And when I say "fantastic", I mean "I saw Blondie". Yes, Blondie - "Heart of Glass" Blondie, Deborah Harry Blondie. Turns out we have similar musical taste (I always knew it!). This brush with destiny occured at an Heloise and the Savoir Faire show at the Annex on Saturday night (side note to the Annex: Your munchkin-sized drinks were cute and all, but if I'm going to shell out almost 10 bucks for a Jack and Coke, please give me a big-girl glass). Of course, I forgot my camera. Curses! Another reason to have it surgically attached...

Blondie's presence at the show reaffirmed for me the absolute and undeniable awesomeness of Heloise and the Savoir Faire. If Pat Benetar and Cyndi Lauper had a love child, the product would be Heloise. If Prince and Bob Fosse had a pair of fraternal love twins, the product would be the Savoir Faire. (Honestly, since we're in the realm of genetic fairy land, you could add a dash of the Clash for a little bad-assedness.) These kids put on a KILLER show! The songs are catchy, but not in the irritating, get-out-of-my-head kind of way. Heloise has a serious set of pipes on her - add to that some excellent choreography and you've got one helluva show.

The place was superpackedwithverylittledancingroom, but I still had a great time. I should qualify this statement: I am not a fan of live music. After the Mosh Pit Incident of 2002, I have avoided concerts for the most part. I hate crowds, and honestly would much rather jam out to my iPod 99% of the time. It doesn't charge me a cover, or $9 for a thimble-sized drink. But I was so entertained, and their music unleashed my dormant Child of the 80s (who's been watching "Pretty in Pink" on tape and making friendship bracelets in a dark corner of my mind for almost 20 years) and dammit! She thinks these guys are rad! She's making me go to their next show (June 9th at Midway - 25 Ave. B), and she thinks you should go, too. Totally.

One last bit of awesomeness: I went to the after-party with the band (okay, I tailed the band) and about 80 of their closest friends at a teeny-tiny bar on the Lower East Side. I was enjoying myself - imbibing in some properly-sized alcoholic beverages. The music at the place had been great all evening, and a particularly excellent tune started playing. I looked down the bar and, made eye contact with the DJ, and gave him the "right on!" head nod. He nodded back. Let me rephrase that: Elijah Wood nodded back. Double-take. Yes, that was Elijah mother f'in Wood. Turns out that Heloise is on his label. And he likes DJing. And he's a pretty bad-ass DJ. And once again, the universe makes sense.




Rock on, Frodo. Rock on.