UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu  feed it up!
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Thursday, January 13, 2005
Okay, sorry for the lacuna, again, I got distracted by Alias and Ronco Knives and then I remembered something totally crazy and went into a coma: remember cell phones? No, wait -- I mean: remember PAY phones? Right! Remember when you couldn't just call anyone from anywhere and you needed ca$h money to make crappy curbside boxes work? I guess you can still find the "booths" on the street, though now they don't have four walls or moving parts and they're as likely being used as makeout hutches or cigarette-lighting windbreaks as they are for actual telephony. Are they going to disappear and confuse a whole generation of children when they first come in contact with Superman? PS: the movie version of a phone booth, Phone Booth, was unbearably craptastic (still, I'll watch anything once) and stands as a terrific reason not to see Phantom of the Opera, as both were directed by uberschlockmeister Joel Schumacher. The other good reason being Andrew Lloyd Webber, but you don't need me to point these things out to you, right, because you weren't going to see PotO anyho. Right? [UD's hand hovers menacingly over "incinerate" button.]
ANYWAY! So Boston opens its arms to us and we drop in on some friends of mine. J played Jesus in a movie we worked on together and now he plays the organ at Fenway Park, which amounts to about the same thing if you're from Boston. I play Cribbage with his wife while he rehearses with some friends who are more important then I am. I love Cribbage, but Manic keeps on getting like 5-J-J-Q-K in her cribs, so I feel like a retard until somehow by magic I get A-A-7-7-7 and it turns out to be awesome. Yay Cribbage! That night I can't sleep at all. Such is my life. I fidget so much on the folded-down futon that after like half an hour lo says "if you don't stop moving I think I actually might die" so I trudge downstairs to try sleeping on the couch which no go so I move some cushions to the floor and flop around all night like a flounder on a spit in a sleeping bag. Next morning we leave the now empty house and get some fresh bread from lo's former coworkers at a very nice bakery called the Hi-Rise Bakery. It's some hippie shit, but you can't argue with fresh challah. OH MA GAH THIS IS BORING. So then we fought a dragon. Driving in Boston is for shit. lo did all of the driving in the Greater Metro Boston Area, because I found it stupider and more frustrating than New York driving, without actually being more fun. Man, I love New York driving! Boston, in case you don't know, is even more hostile to non-residents looking for a place to park than NY because you need a fucking PERMIT to park in anyplace interesting. Or as a New Yorker in a movie would say: "a fuckin' poimit! Fuhgeddabouddit! I'm walkin' here!" So here we are, full of bread and coffee and no one to hang out with for a number of hours, and it's wicked cold and what the fuck are we doing taking a vacation in New England in January fuck fuck fuck so we go to a movie. We see Finding Neverland, a four-hanky weeper starring Johnny "everything I touch turns to genius even a remake of Willy Wonka" Depp as J.M. Barrie, weirdly puckish author of Peter Pan. Well, it's a four-hanky weeper if you are a fan of movies and if you are a human being with a soul. lo, apparently, is neither, because my sidelong glances during the most tear-wrenching scenes confirmed the dryness of her cheeks and the rock-solid non-quiveringness of her lips. I've accused lo of not liking movies before, because when she still lived in the city we'd go to movies all the time, like three a month, and every time she would express disappointment or boredom or straight-up dislike. Why did she keep going to see movies? I dunno. I think she liked Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. So before you slip into comas and sue me for your resulting head wounds, I'll do the stream thing, like a kid narrating the stuff out the car window: Boston slush all around and we leave the movie paak the caa very faaa from haavud yaad and fuck shit it is cold dinner with catpants at a foncy pizza place that brings me a slice with sopressata and little ponds of greasy liquid fat ick and then to radarbee's house and we eat and then she takes me to The Only Building in North America Designed by Le Corbusier and to the library which is the perfect paradigmatic library and basically slaps you quietly in the face with a 2x4 that says I'M A LIBRARY! SHH!! on it, and then we download some hip hop for her new iPod because her old iPod, laptop, wallet and backpack were stolen from her locker in the Divinity School, like oh ma gah you fucking totally classless thief, couldn't you have stolen shit from lockers at the business school? but anyway after some chatting about cat poop, royalty, and sufism, I sleep fitfully on some foam and the sleeping bag and in the morning it's eggs and pancakes and radarbee and I talk about how much we loved I ♥ Huckabees and how we want to make everyone watch it and then I cry into my pancakes as bee makes me realize that I desire to experience the infinite, that I crave transcendence, but that shit like that won't fly in the pragmatic world of the biiiig city and maybe I'm depressed a little bit and maybe that why my sleep is so weird or why I don't blog often enough or why I never want to do anything and why I call in sick to work like twice a month but so anyway forget all that because the snow has dumped a fat sticky four-inch blanket on New England and then the temp crested 33°F so now it's ice city and we cancel the junket to Kennebunk, ME for safety's sake even though I think it's a total wimpout because the girls around me and the people who actually live/lived in the GMBA insist that there's nothing pussy about not wanting to die an icy spunout flippedover 'pikedeath so we go see the blp and his honey Nurse E and we have Thai food that doesn't make me want to yakk and we play a terrific (i.e., almost nothing like Scrabble™) variant of Scrabble™ called Speed Scrabble™ (for a bad description see here ) until my Ritalin wears off and then on Friday morning lo gets all pissed at me because I "make her" drink Dunkin Donuts coffee and she almost has a freaked out fit about me eating a b'fast sandwich while driving, calling it the unsafest thing ever, which is funny cuz it requires about as many hands as smoking while driving and a lot less brain power than using the cell phone, which she had done the day before and I even saw her steer with her knees for a couple-ten seconds on Tuesday and alls I'm saying is pot kettle black etcetera BUT SO we drive south and stop outside New Haven in the winter wonderland of Bethany, Connecticut, home of the Josef and Anni Albers Foundation where lo's hot archivist pal HotWheels works and we go to a diner which has the nerve to serve me MANHATTAN clam chowder but that's okay because the trip is almost over and after some psychotic zooming down the gorgeous Merritt Parkway (on which we listened to Stephin Merritt's latest Magnetic Fields album) we arrive back in Brooklyn and isn't that a relief for your underpunctuated eyes? Oh, and somewhere in there we saw Meet the Fockers because lo had decided that instead of Finding Neverland she really would have preferred a comedy, and a friend of mine had told us that MtF was funny, and worth seeing, and it turns out that my friend was either in the employ of Universal Pictures or had a cruel streak because the movie was simply awful. Hoffman and Streisand are great, but DeNiro cannot do comedy and Ben Stiller looks like a fucking monkey and I'm sick of Costanza films, you know, where the whole comedic scaffold is the humiliation and misfortune of the lead character. Blythe Danner is wasted on a character as wispy as cat dander and the girlfriend/daughter/bride is a complete nonentity. If you're thinking of seeing this movie, quick, send me the $10 and I'll buy the ticket for you (a fast way to send me money: go to my store page and click the button for a CD -- it's about the same price, and if you leave a note about the Fockers I won't send you the CD) and then I will eat the ticket and absorb its evil into my GI tract. BUT! If you really loved Meet the Parents, you should go see the sequel, because it's almost a perfect clone. Then you should stop reading my site because you also probably love the Schumacher oeuvre and you should go live in a box way off the highway of taste. Bon Voyage!! 0 comments |
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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |