‘Cause it’s National Barbie in a Blender Day!. Celebrate accordingly.
…but I could be wrong.
I need to build the prototypes and then I’ll do the step-by-step with documentation thing, because I know you’re all just dying to build your own giant cicadas.
Poor Husband. He probably feels like he lives with Doctor Frankenstein. Deceased cicadas all over the living room in specimen cups. Sketches of the little buggers from every angle. A crazy woman wandering the house riffing on the 6 Million Dollar Man narration while wielding bug parts at him…And yet, it’s not really any stranger than what passes for normal here.
Last night we had a hell of a hailstorm, although the tornados (thankfully) missed us. We were transfixed by the mental disintigration of Doug Hill (WJLA) and Topper Shutt (WUSA) as they sought to inform the viewing area of the nasty weather. Shutt must have been fielding angry viewer calls (this was during prime time) as he babbled apologies about the inconvenience and muttered things about how “this is why the FCC gives us a license.” Hill, being a veteran at this sort of thing, went straight for the zen reporting approach, informing us, “It is where it is, at the moment.”
We finally broke away from the weather reporting and started watching The Greatest ’70s Cop Shows (Charlie’s Angels / Starsky and Hutch / S.W.A.T. / Police Woman / The Rookies), a DVD of pilot episodes from the aforementioned shows. Lots of really tight man-perms on S.W.A.T.
Gotta return to my project now. Probably a good idea to clean up a bit before Husband sees his kitchen…
In her continuing quest to make me fee old, today Zoe writes:
I was thirteen and devastated when Cobain died. I had forgotten that I was that young and I had forgotten how much I hated middle school. Thanks CNN, I really, really needed to regurgitate my teenage angst.
I’m kidding, Zoe isn’t making me feel old, but the “Kurt’s Been Dead 10 Years media feeding frenzy” sure is.
Now, I wrote a long and clever entry at noon and my blog freaked out and wouldn’t save anything. Now it’s mysteriously back and I can’t remember what else I posted. Harumph.
*Shelley, why aren’t you on my blogroll anymore? I ask, as if you know the answer to why I’m an airhead. I must have accidentally lost you when I lost Matt and Tara. Sorry. I’ll fix it. I need to add Victoria, too. And Leah, I haven’t forgotten you either.
You want to see Gigli every bit as much as I do.
It’s not so easy to make a great howler of a bad movie. In recent years, Madonna ‘s made more than her share: “Shanghai Surprise,” “Swept Away,” “Who’s That Girl,” among them.
In 2001, Mariah Carey starred in “Glitter,” which has only aged badly since its laughable premiere. And then there’s “Showgirls,” “Striptease,” “The Postman,” “Waterworld,” “Ishtar,” and the perceived king of kings, “Heaven’s Gate.”
Now add to the very top of the list, “Gigli” â€” directed by Martin Brest, who actually has another title on the list already: “Meet Joe Black.”
Witless, coarse, and vulgar, “Gigli” is worse than its advance buzz could have indicated. Starring real-life tabloid lovers Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez, the film â€” if you can call it that â€” is a total, mindless disaster. Sitting in a screening last night with reviewers and feature writers, I could only think of one word: stupefying.
As many who were there muttered on the way out: “What were they thinking?”
First, the acting: Lopez and Affleck may have chemistry at home, but they have none here. Affleck comes off the worst. As hitman Larry Gigli, Affleck seems to be doing a bad imitation of James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano.
A thuggish Brooklyn-esque accent comes and goes, and Affleck never figures out whether he’s a good guy or a bad guy. While these gears are turning in his head, you can’t help notice that he’s a hitman wearing a luxurious Gucci leather jacket and gorgeous silk tops. He also appears to be wearing Ted Danson’s toupee from “Cheers.”
Then Friedman really starts to pick on the film.
Come on, the buzz is amazing. Just look at what other critics have to say:
“It’s horrible,” moans Roger Friedman of Foxnews.com. “The worst movie ever made.”
And those two made it to the end of Monday night’s screening of Ben Affleck (search) and Jennifer Lopez’s (search) ultra-hyped “Gigli.” More than one person walked out.
The buzz on Ben and Jen’s first movie is so bad – think Madonna’s “Swept Away” — Revolution Studios even had trouble filling the L.A. premiere, giving seats usually reserved for stars to the fans waiting outside.
“It’s definitely not a fastball down the middle,” Revolution partner Tom Sherak admitted to The Post. “It’s a curve ball.”
What are you waiting for? Somebody needs to order us tickets pronto! Still not convinced? Check out these words from CNS, the ever-(unintentionally)-hilarious Catholic News Service:
On a much more disturbing level, the narrative is fueled by a warped view of sexuality inconsistent with Catholic teachings on the subject. Beneath the banality of the offensive sexual banter which pervades much of the dialogue is a more insidious denial of objective moral norms concerning sexual intimacy. Brest seems to suggest that sexuality is merely a malleable social construct — illustrated by Ricki’s waffling proclivities. The film’s moral relativism is summed up by Gigli’s mother (Lainie Kazan), who, shrugging off Ricki’s homosexuality, states, “Life is not always black and white” — in other words, there is no objective morality, only subjective shades of gray.
In “Gigli,” Lopez has hit new J-lows. If her next pairing with Affleck in the soon to be released “Jersey Girl” is anything like this clunker, she may be known as Jenny from the schlock.
Due to a sexual encounter, excessive sexually explicit and rough language, as well as profanity and brief strong violence, the USCCB Office for Film & Broadcasting classification is O — morally offensive. The Motion Picture Association of America rating is R — restricted.
O for Offensive. What more can I say, really?
I inadvertantly found something to purge the ick of AI when I flipped on the new Fox show, American Idol. After about 10 minutes of moaning and writhing on the floor in front of the TV, Husband handed me today’s Washington Post review. I think Tom Shales hit the nail on the head with, “‘American Idol’: Fool’s Gold From Fox”. Skip the show, read the review. Then be glad
you skipped the show.
Motorcat, Washington, D.C.’s only
motorcycle riding feline passed away at the age of
I’m still disgruntled that Spielberg, the Cinematic Cheesemeister Extraordinaire, could make such a dull and lifeless movie. Anything would have to be better. This is my performance art interpretation.
Woman enters, stage right. She wears a trenchcoat.
A key light creates a delicate halo around her hair.
The woman pulls a live trout from her coat pocket and tosses it on the stage.
Trout flops and gasps. 40 minutes.
3 people dressed as Waffle House Managers beat the shit out of toaster ovens and other small appliances with
aluminum baseball bats. 1 hour, 10 minutes
Someone does mouth to mouth on the trout, eventually putting it on ice.
Midgets perform an interpretive dance to the theme of
Close Encounters. 42 minutes.
strange little movie: “Fishing with Gandhi”. Which reminds me, I have to go to the video store and return some movies.
We should have gone to Philadelphia this week to the conference, but we didn’t.
Having just (finally) read Don DeLilo’s White Noise, Ms. Skarlet saw too much of herself in the American Studies scholars who only read the backs of cereal boxes. It was terrifying. She couldn’t go. Novel-induced fear is, we would like to point out, the perfect post-modern pop-culture excuse for ditching an academic conference. Additionally, there are no Waffle Houses in Philadelphia. This is not a good situation.
plucked from the ashes of the punkprincess.com archives, reposted 02-23-07