365 Pineapples for LC, Kristen, Jess, Danny, Bo, Gwen, Eva, Kevin, Jenny, Carson, and you

hello. How psyched am I? Here I am, kicking around on a Saturday mornin, thinking I am confined to coffee and a book, when --through god's holy grace, i'm totally sure-- the VH1 Big in '05 Awards are on! I have two words for ya: bitch. in'. So I threw my coffee on the rug and rushed over like a wide-eyed child seeing her first llama. Or rather, I set my coffee down neatly on a coaster and gathered my blanket and ibook on my lap like the media-consumed dweebosaurus that I am, and I got very, very excited. so yay.

We're only one award and one musical guest in, and i'm already peeing in my chair a little bit. The first award was the Style Award, presented by Queer Eye's Carson and Jenny (I wish I could remember the name of that fucking dating show right now dammit) McCarthy. She had on Fergie shorts! Like dressy black ones with cute silver hardware. I wasn't as into them on her though, but still pretty nice. Here were the nominees:

1. Gwen- I get it, but not for the Big in '05 awards. Lifetime achievement award possibly, or even maybe 4 years ago when she was still in breakout mode, but not particularly this year. Still hot, still can wear orange mesh and make it look neato, still can look pretty as both a platinum blonde and brunette (in the "Cool" video... very nice), but nothing screaming '05 winner.

2. Jessica- Okay, I guess I'm in. Her "These Boot are Made for Walking" video was amazing, but also not unlike Paris's burger joint commercial (I'm talking the whole suds&cars in a bikini motif). But I guess it had a lot more power than Paris's version, so that could be something to consider. She is obviously extremely attractive, but her hotness is a bit cookie-cutter (and I typically embrace cookie-cutter stylish if it's pulled-together and well-executed), but there's no straw-that-broke-the-style-margins'-back. Well, unless you count her fabulous hair, ridiculous body, and absurdly pretty face. But is this a who's hot contest or a who's stylin? I can't even remember any good Jessica outfits, other than her white suit from the MTV Awards 2 years ago, and 2003 is not 2005. I think. Oh, and one more thing-- as they did a little montage about each nominee, the voiceover for Jessica's stated that "she gives hard-ons to people who don't even have penises." That is a funny thing to say.

3. Eva Longoria- She's tiny. And wears elegant things. Lots of shiny baubles. Oh, and she wore that bathing suit thing at the Emmys.

[interlude: No who I don't like? Jamie Pressley. Don't know why. Her face, while very stunning though a bit severe, reminds me a bit of an angry doberman, and that scares me.]

4. Kevin Federline- Wait. What? No. Someone else will need to expound on his style. I just find him sloppy and in desperate need of Queer Eyeing. The gangsta-but-not thing does nothing for me. Clean that guy up, though, and hell, then I'm totally game-on. His bone structure is to die for. And I like his classic hats, especially that white one with the black sash. That's a good move-- maybe '06 will be his year to pull up his pants a little and buy after-shave balm.

So anyway, Jess won. Said she was "emotionable" about the win, and thanked her 158-member Glam Squad.
Serious, I am.

Okay, go get a snack and use the bathroom if you have to-- I'm moving to the next 2 minute segment. I suggest peanuts.

Next, we have LC and Kristen announcing INXS! They now have the same exact little CA bodies; and it wasn't always that way. I'm staring at them in their tight little dresses, and they are, like, fucking identical. And a bit boring. LC's black dress kinda looked like a bathing suit babydoll-style cover-up, but it was definitely cute. Kristen's dress looked like a combination of a figure skating outfit and something from the Jasmine Sola sale rack. And it was in a really bad gray color with no tonal nuance. Just gray. Like a front porch.

LC wins. And I still really like them both.

Bo Bice won "biggest reality star"? Love it. See.. a lesson in black and white: losers are winners, too. And, as an aside, a quote from Danny Bonaduce's montage that I would like to steal for myself at choice times: "He's like a train wreck, with a car accident placed on top, mixed with a baby on fire." Snatch.

365 pineapples for unexpected fun on a Saturday morning. And extra extra love for the reality show tv musical number -- it was like a big fun party of old friends. The "So You Think You Can Dance" dancers (Nick! Ashley!), the Top Models of seasons past (Michelle the wrestler! Brittany!), The Beauty and the Geek Beauties (mark my words: Lauren from the first season will be a huge huge star)... oh man, like a fireplace and yule log all wrapped up in a media-frenzied package. Happy New Year!

Singled Out. That's the name of that show.


about those mulligans.

i think i need one.

alls i got tonight is 25 stunningly wondrous pineapples for E for allowing me to sprout narratives out of my ears and knees (and nodding like I made sense), and for buying me an aptly named "crabapple" at the bar.

I didn't make the connection while I was drinking it. funny. sort of. that i'm that cloudy.

thanks, yo.


Dirty-Dirty Pineapples for the Pussycat Dolls

Since I am currently suffering from a persistent case of head-lodged-in-my-asshole disease, I must warn you that this post will be filled with bubblegum pop, lots of blonde, scattered rainshowers, boyfriend-stealers, and, quite possibly, a scantily-clad pillow fight. Hop in -- baby, you can drive my car...

I'm terribly sorry -- I'm back to eating coolwhip out of the tub again.

So, lookie here, another gd list:

1. Gwen Stefani is preg-o. Let's hope that she names it an acronym. To follow suit of her clothing line, LAMB (Love-Angel-Music-Baby), we can only pray that we are graced with a little PIG (Perfect Infant of Gwen) Stefani. How totally cute. Maybe farm animals can rise up as the new trend in baby names-- thereby overshadowing fruit, expired flower-power, and quirky-for-the-sake-of-it-ness.

2. I am not ordinarily a fan of Punk'd. Ashton has been getting more and more Gilbert Gottfried by the episode. But today I watched him punk Kristen Cavallari. I like her even more now, as she stayed in perfect LB character throughout her entire ordeal. Upon watching her car get pummeled by a nine-iron-wielding Redneck, she twirls her hair extensions frantically while shrieking: "Are you like totally kidding me right now?" Oh, how I love thee. I may have to cheat on LC to become a bigger fan of KC. No, no, I just couldn't....

3. Speaking of Ashton, his best project ever is back for a second go-'round! You bet... BEAUTY & THE GEEK 2. Starts January 12th! Clapping! Clapping! Let's hear more clapping! And, speaking of, the break-out star of last season, Richard, was a guest on Punk'd the other day during the Allen Iverson punkage. And speaking of of of, in honor of AI's 53 points on Friday night, I would like to report that I scored 66 on a single-word in Scrabble on xmas day. QUARTZ. Triple letter and double word... hells yea, biat-ches.

4. A burlesque troupe turned skanky girl group? The Pussycat Dolls are lovely little whorebaggies, and I applaud their moxie. And, yet again, because I have a thing, I must cite their amazing abs. Dontcha may take over Ashlee's spot as the best boyfriend-stealing anthem of the week. I also give them a few pineapples for realizing that the most marketable way to create a Spice Girls knockoff group is to bring together 6 Posh-es. Too obvious, right? Sheen, class, tight leather minis and smoldering eyeliner slaps the longevity right outta army fatigues, pigtails, and/or soccer socks. They are proud to be very, very naughty, and they are even prouder of their resounding lack of irony. For that, 69 pineapples -- with my tongue nowhere near my cheek.

Thanks to soundgenerator.com for the pic of my favorite sextet of burlesque bubblegummers.


Did Someone Say Candied Pineapples? It's Christmas Eve!

Christmas eve is fun. In the last hour, I have performed a medley of snappy showtunes with only a wrapping paper tube as my prop... [A sampling: Fiddler on the Roof, fiddle; On the Good Ship Lollipop, lolly(lolli?); Singin' in the Rain, 'brella; All That Jazz, boa [shut up]; Let's Get Physical, barbell -- okay, maybe that's not technically a showtune, but it comes in way under the Kevin Bacon rule, as Olivia Newton John was in Grease -- and one degree is nothing unless you're trying to boil hydrochloric acid... and if you're trying to boil hydrochloric acid on Christmas eve (or any day, for that matter, unless, well, it's your job... but, even then, still...), then you have bigger fish to fry than naysaying my showtune pickins'.]
I have also questioned my mother about exactly what constitutes a "ficus plant." I just feel like "ficus plant" is the perfect random noun to use in a mad lib, or the quintessential object...
I give you the following exchanges:

Person A: "Whaddaya wanna do tonight?"

Person B: "I dunno...why don't you ask the ficus plant."


Person U: "You never pay attention to me! Are we drifting apart?"

Person M: "Maybe. Try complaining to the ficus plant. See if it cares."

See? Synechdote for all that is nonsense.
My dearest friends, I believe it is possible to fall madly and deeply in love with a ficus plant.

Furthermore, as a final happy Christmas Eve-y note, I cannot forget to mention that I will Fight Club-style fight anyone who contests that the ficus plant is not the fulcrum of the I Ching. I double-dog dare you.


Waldorf's Mulligans

Before today, I knew two things about the word "waldorf."

1. It is the name of a salad that has grapes in it. To make this salad, cookbooks suggest that you halve the grapes, which, for the record, is wicked hard to do if you have obnoxiously long fingernails.
And yes, I am admitting that my fingernails are obnoxious and that I obnoxious about getting them "done."

2. It is the name of a school in Lexington that has bushes that I sometimes pee in while I am running.

But, today, today, today... I learned about the Waldorf philosophy of education. In a nutshell, think Montessori school with more structure. As in, teacher maintains status as the alpha dog, but the kids learn with their "hearts, souls, and hands, as well as their minds," the kids start learning German and Spanish in first grade, there are no tests or textbooks (their main "log" is more of a journal thingy full of students' own notes and drawings... kinda like the "textbook" that the kid from high school in the trenchcoat who sat under the tree and drew dragons at lunch used), students are "graded" (Sarah Lawrence style) on moral integrity and ethical behavior, and physical activity is an integral part of the school day.

So far, I'm feeling 100%-game-on. At this point of my research, I'm thinking that if I ever -god help me- have a child, I would sign my kid up and bring in oatmeal banana clusters for snacktime every Wednesday (because you very well know that those mommies poo-poo refined sugar).

But, here's the thing:
The Waldorf policy on electronic media. Okay, this is going to be a long quote, but it's pretty crucial, so sorry.
[as excerpted from www.thewaldorfschool.org]:
At The Waldorf School, we have found that mass media works against the healthy development of sound thinking and seriously weakens a child's ability to deal with reality. Students accustomed to passively receiving impressions have difficulty making the inner effort necessary to sustain an imaginative train of thought or to follow a complicated mathematical process. Even so-called educational television programs have an intellectual bias that can permanently color a child's reaction to a subject.

Media exposure is particularly detrimental in a Waldorf school because it prevents the student from fully developing the creative thinking capacities that are central to our educational goals. We would like our students to view the world through their own eyes, rather than through the lens of someone else's camera. By delaying a child's exposure to mass electronic media until the student's will and feeling life have reached a certain level of maturity, we hope to encourage an enlightened, inquiry-based relationship to technology.

We ask, therefore, that before fourth grade, electronic media be eliminated from the child's life. After fourth grade, this exposure should be kept to a minimum (and not allowed on school days). With older children, it is important to review movies beforehand and discuss the content afterwards. We sincerely wish to support your family's efforts in this regard. Eliminating television from a child's life may seem like a radical step at first, but families who do it say that it significantly improves the child's attitude at home as well as at school.

And, with that, I may have to, if motor control allows, raise my left eyebrow. I mean, okay, I get it, I do. I see the motive; I see the method; but, in my side mirror I also see Little Kallissa Lynn having a freaking mental spin-out when she enters a mainstream high school or college. (Although Waldorf high schools exist, many feed into public or private high schools after 8th grade.)

Given my obsession with consumerism, media, and poppier-than-pop blather, you would (and even I would) assume that I would be opposed to this ban with every stubborn and self-absorbed cell of my body. I'm not. Although the wording seems a bit too Jonathan-Edwards-fresh&hot-from-the-pulpit for my taste, and the demarcation between high and low culture is far too drawn-with-a-fine-point-Sharpie, the reasoning behind it isn't total hogwash. In fact, I'm planning on going to an open house in January and checking all this shizzle out on a closer level. A mully for now until I investigate further. And no, I will not be pretending that I have a child just to fit in at the open house. In fact, I will admit to everyone that I am deathly afraid of babies unless they are inside of another woman... if, of course, that comes into play at the Q&A session.

In addition, hell yes, I will continue to pee in their bushes.


88 Very Small-but-Cunning Pineapples for Mousedeer

Today I am making christmas cookies. The hardest thing about making christmas cookies is refraining from eating all of them when they are hot, soft, and gorgeous right out of the oven. Diet magazines will tell you to chew a piece of gum while you are baking so you are not tempted to eat the warm cookies; what they will not tell you is that gum is very different than homemade cookies, even if it is new Orbit Bubblemint (tm). Cookies have things like butter and chocolate in them, which taste very good in one's mouth. On the other hand, gum has things like candililla wax and sodium carboxymethylcellulose in it. Wanna know what dreams aren't made of?

Yuppers... sodium carboxymethylcellulose.

So anyway, I am going to eat a lot of cookies today and my hips can shut the fuck up about it.

In other news, yesterday's post about the Hen, Fox, and Blue Duck reminded me of my new favorite children's book hero(ine?), Mousedeer. Mousedeer is real. S/he is the size of a mouse, but has the heart&soul of a very large deer, which makes him/her quite astounding in both forest technique and style. If anyone is interested in reading a Mousedeer story (great for those nights where you just can't sleep and you ate your last Tylenol PM the night before), please visit Mousedeer and the Crocodile. I would also like to thank quantum-conservation.org for proving that a mousedeer is a real thing. After reading the story, I frickin' dare you not to want to live your life in the mold of MD.

Okay, and upon rereading this enlightening tale, I have discovered that Mousedeer is a boy. This means, of course, that Mousedeer and I may start dating. As I mentioned in my heading, 88 pint-sized pineys for you, you sexy little powerhouse.

In other-other news, Sean Williams has been reinstated to play BC bball. The funniest part of this story is that the judge presiding over the trial told Seanie: "Be very, very careful... If I were you, I'd crouch down a little when walking around campus." Way to encourage the kid to stand tall and redeem himself. Oh, and btw, Judge Donnelly, I believe Sean is 6'10", which is crucial in me positing that crouching ain't gon' do shit, brotha-man. Crabapples... crabapples for everyone!

Speaking of crabapples, check out the skull-capped musings of Pachy. I'm so honored that he employed my rating method in throwing well-deserved crabbers at Barbara Wawa's "Heaven: Where is it?" special that I'm so pissed that I missed. 9 egg-shaped pineapples to you for buzzin' 'bout my fruity system.

Revisting Pachy's site also reminded me to revisit another complete winner: Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About. 12 pineapples for composing the most endearingly irascible treatise ever.

Now, I must ask to be excused while I watch Heidi Klum's supersecrets on the Tyra Show. Let's start with "how I lost my babyweight in .106 seconds."


A Crapload of Crabbies for Johnny D... and Envious Pineapples for Fergie's Ability to Wear Bunhuggers Regardless of Season

As I'm feeling especially flitty lately, lists are the only way I can play this game.
LA-LA. la-la-la.

1. Sure thing... I'm pissed, but Johnny Damon is not an idiot. He still gets 101 crabapples though, and we all know that crabapples are not nearly as cute as dalmation puppies.

2. I think about The Black-Eyed Peas often. I like to look at Fergie's legs because they are long and pretty and strong, like she eats her chicken and does lots of reps on the leg press at very low resistance. Or has absurdly amazing genes. I also think that that "My Humps" song is hilarious. And catchy. But I sorta feel silly even singing it in my head; I don't feel silly about much.

And I quote: "What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk? I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk..."

See, to me, that is unflattering.

Overall, a couple pineapples and half a crabber.

3. I got a shitload of google hits for "Kristen Cavalleri" last night. Did I miss the premiere of her new dumb show (that, incidentally, I will most certainly watch religiously)? Speaking of, who can wait until LC's "The Hills" starts?

"Not I," said the Hen.

"Not I," said the Fox.

"Not I," said the Blue Duck.

Sorry, I don't even know what children's story I am vaguely referring to, but I'm pretty sure the Blue Duck is completely from my head. But I will love the Blue Duck anyway. ahahahahahaaa.
3 pineapples for tangents that make me point at myself and giggle.


A Mixed Bushel for Google

Before I hit up the main issue, two quick things:

1. I just bought every single gold sequin at the mall. If you see me on New Year's Eve, you will see me on New Year's Eve. 12 pineapples all up in my grill for openly embracing my inner Destiny's Child.

2. Suzi and Jeff from The Biggest Loser are dating! And they both look so good! How good? [insert Strongbad inflection/impediment here] Sooo good. 2 pineapples -- one for each of you. I'm not good at sharing, so who am I to expect you to be?

3. Sorry-- I know I said two, but I just thought of it, and, frankly, I've lost all earthly contact with self-control now'days. Ashley Simpson... getting hotter by the day, don'tcha think? I once thought her unattractive, but I believe I was wrong. Maybe it's just because I really like her new "I Didn't Steal Your Boyfriend" song-- a ladylike llama spit to you, Lindsay Lohan. 5 Pineapples for Ash. And get well soon.

4. Shit, sorry, sorry.
So, given that I took today off to go christmas shopping, I got to watch Regis and Kelly. Everyone's favorite 3-pt asshole, Jason Kidd, was on as a guest. I hate to say this (kind of), but his voice is just awful. He has this weird amalgamated speech pattern that is sort of a cross between a little British boy and Ice Cube. Because of this revelation, I felt happy. Because I hate him. Crabapples... many... always.

Okay, so I really wanted to talk about Google. I read this quote by Grant McCracken [www.cultureby.com] yesterday: "Google can wrangle information... It is clueless and clumsy when it comes to meanings." His post reflected on the new value proposition of ad agencies, in that their new function slants more towards creating product ideas, personalities, rather than static logos, soundbytes, or taglines. It's a holistic look at new media advertising, and he writes about it brilliantly. But, my only question is this-- if we, as the ravenous Google-consumers that we are, continue to use it with the force, nerve, and frequency as we currently do, how long will it be before Google algorithmically develops a cultural consciousness of its own?

0 Crabapples for Mike, Lindsay, LaToya, and Chris

Switch "soap" for "absurd bullshit" and I've got myself a tagline...

I can self-deprecate with the best of 'em. I'm telling ya-- I can be stupid, impulsive, careless, and have bad hair and a fat ass all within the course of a tight 3-4 minutes. But I'm a shimmering beacon of confidence when pitted against the antiheroes of MTV's True Life: I'm Jealous. Good lord sweet jesus on a high-flying B-train.

I just watched -- platter-eyed and mouth agape (and you know how much I hate gapers) -- an hour of the shittiest relationship dynamics I've ever, ever seen. And I enjoyed every foolish second.

First, we meet Mike and Lindsay. Lindsay cheated on Mike three years ago and now she is a psycho-stalker, thinking that he may do unto her what she has done unto him. [The Golden Rule sucks like that, Linds...] So now she calls him 55,000 times a day, tracking his every move. It was hard to watch for two reasons:
1. Lindsay refused to try to amuse herself for even a minute with something other, anything other, than getting in a fight with Mike about what he was/wasn't doing. Poor Mike couldn't even scratch his damn ass without Lindsay wondering what other girl he could possibly be thinking about while his hand was down his pants.
2. I was having trouble hearing the TV over my own relentless chants of "Run, Mike, run, Mike."
While it was sad to watch someone as truly without self-worth as Lindsay, it was harder to watch Mike refuse to leave so she could go about finding it.
Mike, your hand sucks-- fold, dude.

Chris and Latoya's "relationship" sang a similar pathetic dirge. They yelled a lot; and then Chris told her to let him live his life; and then they yelled more; LaToya cried; Chris assured the audience that they "are not broken up." Thank goodness, C... you guys are so frickin' beautiful together.

Here's the thing. I do stupid shit sometimes. And I'm certain that I deserve a complaint here and there....sure. I give 'em and I can take 'em. But, if I was everever spoken to they way these 4 talked to each other on a regular basis, I would get the fuck out so fast that Jeff Gordon would hire me as his caddy (that is, of course, if he plays golf). Honoris causa kids, one of you needs to grow some balls and feel the sweet sound of the door slapping you in the ass as you walk.

I'd give you each a bushel of crabapples if you didn't already tote around a crapload of your own. Here's the incentive, though: a perfect pineapple for the first one to get the f out. Mulligan implicit in the deal.


45 Pineapples for Gettin' Yo' Buzz On

Okay. Where do I start? I think I'm going to go with a short narrative followed by an informational segment and a capstone example. Ready/Set? Let's roll.

Last night we went out for dinner and drinks at The West Side Lounge over in Cambridge. After sidling up to the very crowded bar (and by "sidle," I mean finagle my elbow in between a crowd of people also trying to sidle), we notice a colleague and his new gf (charming and cute, btw) sitting at the bar, enviably post-sidle. Given that:
a.) Fridays typically mean take-out and pajama pants, so the fact that we were dolled up and "out someplace cool" on a Friday night was particularly conducive to others playing witness, and
b. We could obviously inherit their stools when they got seated,
we decided to say hello.

So, skip over a load of smalltalk (wait, wait, I'll highlight: you can get glasses of decent champagne by the glass for 7 dollars a pop here; I'm remembered by the colleague because I'm the girl that went on a "bazillion first dates"; why is there a newborn at the booth next to where we're sitting? Dead serious...I'm talking fresh from the womb, umbilical cord draped across a plate of duck and risotto). And then, and then: buzz marketing. What a great topic, particularly apropos because both couples at hand ended up here, together but separately, through word-of-mouth. We find out that Megan (the aforementioned new gf) works at a "non-traditional marketing firm." Way cool-- unlike "socially-responsible investment firms" and "sugar-free chocolates," this is a hyphenated phrase that makes me giddy and doesn't give me stomach cramps. Lemme cut to the chase-- buzz agents. Such an amazing concept, one that's been close to my heart n' mind for years... an organized, tracked, manipulated form of WOM advertising. A good first read about this is Seth Godin's Purple Cow, which, by the way, is a fantastic example of a buzzobject imbued with buzzprompts so incredibly elegantly. If you don't feel like waiting for Amazon to deliver, check out this Fast Company article for a quick overview: What's the Buzz?. Read it? Good. Brilliant, right? Although the woman "buzzing" in her grandpop's eulogy is a bit much, even for someone like me, obsessed-obsessed-obsessed with alterna-media trends like this. Lady, you can't buzz about beer over a casket, even babies and dummies know that.

And Megan-- this is your job, to track and analyze the work of buzzagents? So jealous I'm past green and back to purple.

I want to write about this forever and ever, but I really need to take a shower, so let me get to my capstone example. Guess who found me out? Jeff Guinee! Check out his comment in the post preceding this one. HA! He lives in my city-- who woulda thought? Jeff, are you the guy that walks his welsh corgi way too many times a day past my apartment? No, but really, Jeff, I support ya-- I'm buzzing about you (because, of course, blogs are a buzzer's bff), and more people are signing your petition, and you're buzzing about me in return. I feel a handshake coming on.

and while i'm at it, let me cite http://eclectech.co.uk for the lovely picture of a guinea pig enjoying pie. Know why this picture is important? Jeff, every time someone googles Bob the Bachelor, they are now directed to my blog, which in turn leads to more signatures for you. Guinea, Guiney, Guinee. See, right there--- signatures flowin' like wine in a Dionysian marketplace.

Buzz, yo: it's obviously always been a fantastic marketing tool, but to rein it in, organize it, and push it into mainstream fodder in an exciting new way? You mean I can talk about buzzagents in a bar and not just in a new media lecture hall? I'm a happy little bee.


Because I'm still not Rory...

I have to go with another list. Seriously, though, is this what I do now? I make lists of hot people and people that get to make-out with hot people? [The most apt subsequent question would obviously be "What's my fucking problem?"... but that jury is on an interminable recess.]

1. Okay, listen, let's talk about Britney for a second. Disagree with me if you will (and I could name names of those who will), but I'm mourning the loss of Brit as a poptart. I remember the good ol' days: making up a dance routine to "Crazy" involving chairs and a button-down shirt tied in a cute little knot (no, really, this routine was with people); it was really good, as you can well imagine. And Jill can attest to the day we went to class sophomore year dressed up as Britney: plaid miniskirts, knee socks, pigtails, very cute glasses... the whole nine yards. Not that I could walk into work wearing that now (my day job, that is), but damn it, I've lost an idol. And Mother Theresa has nothin' on Brit... Don't even start...

Is it embarrassing to admit that I even had a Britney Spears poster in my room junior year? So be it. Brit, 5 crabapples for having a baby. Slanted opinion...sure...we all know how I feel about babies, but I miss your scandalous outfits and unmatched shininess. And I will still emulate your sparkle in my leisure time, at least until I turn 30.

2. I saw the re-run of the Victoria's Secret fashion show last night. Could they have been more obvious about cloaking Tyra in onesies and capes? In addition, if anyone is interested in doing runway passes in his/her livingroom, the best song to do this to is Lenny Kravitz's "Lady." 3 pineapples overall.

3. I'm mildly interested in seeing King Kong. The critics are raving about the love story. I just don't know about that... and I'm ordinarily totally accepting of extending metaphors into full plotlines. An impending pineapple, with a crabapple held loosely in my left hand, jic.

4. Four-- whew. I'm already doing better than yesterday, but rapidly losing steam. How about this... I think Katie Couric and Matt Lauer want each other so badly that it hurts down to my ankles to watch. But-- to clarify-- I think Katie wants Matt way more than Matt wants Katie. For that I have no proof, you just have to watch and agree. 6 pineapples for sexual tension before 8 am.

5. Speaking of morning shows, I've always had a thing for Kelly Ripa. I think she's great- relatable, peppy, energetic, stylish. I haven't watched the show since grad school, but the back of my head is getting sick of her. I think it may be her sitcom, or the fact that she plays the same character on her sitcom that she does on Live. I'm all for being blonde when the situation calls for it, but there comes a point. 1 crabapple, Kel. And watch it before I dole more.

6. And speaking of never-ever even coming close to reaching that point (and of me arbitrarily and unfairly not caring), I am happy to announce that Kristen Cavillari will be hosting a show called "Get This Party Started" on UPN beginning in January. Call me an unabashed fan and see if I flinch. 8 pineapples for being likeable... despite... just despite.

7. and and and...and only because 7 seems luckyish today, speaking of bare midriffs.... and I ask this, as always, in earnest: are belly rings totally over? like, even for college freshmen? Oh sweet heavens! Say it ain't so! Britney, if your waning stardom indirectly caused this trend to slip, I have to give you another crabapple, and you know how much that hurts.


Another Cobbler

...Cobbler cobbler...not like the shoe guy cobbler.

The disjointed list form is working for me at this point, so I'm going with it until something can hold my interest for a solid paragraph.

1. Colin Farrell has checked himself into rehab for exhaustion and an addiction to back pain meds. I would be tired too if I had a grab bag of VDs and smoked weed on my lunch break; I would hazard to say that I wouldn't give a shit either. Not that I don't think he's cool, I'm just saying...
2 get-well pineapples and a half-bottle of Vioxx. And maybe some antibiotics for that rash... while I'm being nice and all.

2. All 4 of the Desperate Housewives were nominated for a Golden Globe this morning. Although I'm not a huge fan of the show, I'm pleased. I've liked Teri since her Lois and Clark days, Eva is just so cute and small and cute, Marcia touches on the OCD side of me, and Felicity is the underdog... for being just-thiiiis-side-of-beautiful in a cast of absurdly hot people.
4 pineapples, to be fair, and an extra chunk for Teri since she once made-out with Dean Cain on a regular basis.

3.Sheryl Crow is on the cover of Shape this month. I'm having trouble deciding whether to say, "oh, good for you," or "your boyfriend really gave you no choice but to work out." A mulligan as a place-holder until I pick a side.

I totally can only muster 3 tonight. Lame? Lame.


Barely Thought-Through Fruit-Bestowing

Before I move on to the critical matter that really matters (at least for the next 6-7 minutes of your life), I would like to pause to reflect on some fluffy little blips on my radar that can't seem to hold my attention for a full post, but warrant a mention for the time being:

1. How many seasons of Real World/Road Rules Challenge and The Gauntlet can Mike "the Miz" participate in before he admits that this isn't a real career? Game off; and 4 crabapples.

2. How catchy is that song from Making the Band? Lately I've been looking for a man... As a crucial aside, I have a crush on Aubrey. She's amazing and beautiful and talented and has even better eyelashes than Halle Berry. And let's not get started on her abs. fuck. No, no... seriously. 12 pineapples.

3. I'm so pissed that I missed the Victoria's Secret fashion show. Damn my constant struggle to stay up past 10pm. Tyra is really wearing on me though, so maybe it's better that way. I need to make sure I'm up an' at 'em for the next season of ANTM. 1 mulligan.

4. Speaking of.... Nicole! I knew it! It was way overtime for a "conventional" beauty to win. Sure, she's "safe" looking, but it's also a safe bet that she'll get exponentially more media play than Naima. 7 pineapples.

5. Madonna's new CD is really good. Well, the half I heard. .5 pineapples.

6. Scrubs is back in new episodes in january. 5 pineapples for the janitor, 1 pineapple every time Dr.Cox calls J.D. a girl's name, and 1 more for Elliot's ever-improving style. [thanks for the heads-up, Jillers. You always get as many pineapples as you want.]

7. How good is orange soda and whiskey? You guessed it: so good. 5 pineapples when drunk (is that the right verb form? yea? okay, yea.) without the accompaniment of Holiday Junior Mints; 6 with. [Ultra-perceptive readers may take a quixotic stab at what i'm doing right now.]

8. I really like Rory from Gilmore Girls. She's the type of girl I'd really like to be if I could keep myself tethered. But I also think if I was that forwardly contemplative, I'd get poked in the eye on purpose on a semi-regular basis. I guess I'm going with 2 crabapples, purely out of unbuttressed spite.

9. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that I'm glad that Sienna Miller took back Jude. I'm not sure if it has more to do with how good I am at doling out forgiveness, or how it's really not even worth talking about how hot he is. 1 mulligan.

10. I stole that last phrase from Wes on The Real World: The Shit They Should've Shown, in the context of: "Johanna is so sexy, it's not even worth talking about." I really like that; I will use it. A pineapple for every time I steal the phrase.

11. I can't sit still when I hear Kelly Clarkson's "Gone." Listen, I've already admitted to having Natalie Imbruglia on my Shuffle, so really, what've I got to lose? While I'm at it, I'll go ahead and admit that I feel the need to break into a kick-boxing/lyrical jazz routine every time I hear it. This routine varies, but always involves a lot of emphatic pointing at the door. 68 pineapples.

12. Vanna White is 48 years old. In her honor, I give you these imperativos:
a. In 1997, her official title was changed from "letter turner" to "letter toucher." Technology really is the cat's meow.
b. Vanna is in the Guiness Book as "TV's Most Frequent Clapper." With 720x per show and 28k per season, I dare you to clap more.
c. Vanna has published an autobiography (aptly titled "Vanna Speaks," along with several books on crochet. No comment.
d. And I quote: "As a child, when I was having that alphabet soup, I never thought it would pay off." Ibid on the commentlessness.
e. Vanna says her favorite food is White Castle burgers. I bet that's not true.
f. Overall, a 'napple and a crabbie, in all fairness.

This post has led me to put on August and Everything After, which is most often followed by laying on the floor and staring at the rug for a while, so I should really get on that.
...As many pineapples as I can muster.

And by the way, Holiday Junior Mints? Red and green inside? You betcha.

Let's Call it 1993: One Pineapple for Natalie Imbruglia

So you hear a song and it makes you think of a person, or a place, or it forces you to mush together 3 years of memories into a single instant and suddenly the only important thing you did between 1999 and 2001 was eat congealed macaroni and cheese out of a pan with no handle using a big wooden spoon while sitting on your blue and tan couch that only has a cushion on the leftmost side while watching WWF on mute and just then realizing that you look totally dumb wearing a tube top in February, especially since it's tie-dye (and especially since you've chosen to pair it with mesh shorts), and that it's just not okay to make-out with a 17-year-old even if he's 6'3"-looks-really-(really)-good-in-a-visor-and-you-called-dibs-first, and that you really should stream some 409 on the ashy crap on the coffee table before you fall asleep because it might stain the yellow stars you painted so neatly to cover the gray-black residue that happened last time you had a similar thought and did nothing about it. But moons or puppies could look nice too, since you've already painted stars and suns and amorphic flagella-ish creatures that sorta resemble lizards. And then -abruptly- your very critical rumination is shattered as a guy named Skizzy throws a Kurt Engel action figure at you, knocking your spoon onto the carpet and solidifying the instant's indelibility.

Of course, this is all to the tune of DMX's "Bring it...Whaaaat? We riiiight here. We not goin anywhe'...."

I would obviously never use an example from my own life.

But that's not my point. Not really. Yesterday I'm running along the bike path, and (after inadvertently performing The Real Slim Shady for three Brigham's workers) Natalie Imbruglia's Torn comes on my Shuffle. Strangest feeling, it reminded me of myself. Like, in general. Not a specific memory, or amalgam of memories, or another person....It made me think of me. period. Totally unnerving, considering that after I was struck with this thought, I began to parse the lyrics, hoping to figure out why it triggered such a moment of clarity/dumbfoundedness. "I'm all outta faith..."; "I'm cold and I'm alone, lying naked on the floor..."
Right, yea, comforting. I'm trying to figure out why it put an extra bounce in my step. Because I just realized that I'm not 13 anymore? Or did I experience a huge life shift in-and-around this song, about which I have absolutely no recollection? Truly, truly frightening.

Okay, I am really going to make a serious effort in my next post to back the truck up. You know what I mean.


ANTM (obliquely): 1 Mulligan for Shandi and 6 Pineapples for Situational Judgement

Uh-oh, I'm getting personal, all-encompassing, and a bit too big for my britches. So kick me.
No actually, don't. I'm already fricking nervous about getting personal.

It's obvious; it's inevitable; so enough of chomping on daisies with wild-eyed stares. Time to be honest. This is what is about to happen:
1. I'm going to start fleshing out and spiraling out pop culture-- away from memey-pockets and into themes. Fun? Fun.
2. This discussion will too often morph into an f up-ed expository piece about the nature of relationships.
3. I will end up turning on myself and disagreeing with the very core of my argument right at my crucial moment of analytic gold. But then I will write a highly ambiguous "bow statement" and you will say okay and think about it and maybe, just maybe, think about not disagreeing completely.

Why? Because this is my default mode: flit, float, wrack, crumble, flirt with redemption. Clockwork of the post-modern variety, so orange it hurts.
So. Theme 1. This theme will most likely get me into trouble, but it's been a major topic of debate among my most favorite Fluffernutters as of late. And I need to explore it more, get some more feedback, since it's been festering among three of us with similar opinions that sort of float around each other but never get stabbed and deflated, or, conversely, aerated and sent ballooning away to higher ground. And, although I most certainly have found myself in the middle of about 672 dating fiascoes, digital and otherwise, this time it's not about me. Rrrright. No, no, no, really. And let's all take a moment to remember Shandi from season 3 of ANTM. See? Yay... now wait for the tie-in.
See, as I'm about to start this story with "see, I have this friend...," I feel like a pre-chewed liar.  But, seriously, I have this friend (I actually have a few, but that's another issue) who is in a very nice committed relationship (I say "very nice" because, really, I don't have all day to expound upon the ins-and-outs, and really, really, who really knows what goes on behind anyone else's half-closed doors anyhow).  So, given that she's taken a few dips in the online dating pool (no judgement, I've taken 450,000 such dips), she's racked up a sturdy little arsenal of...let's call them... "contacts."  With one of these "contacts" she is, quite aptly, still in contact....purely via email; in fact, they have actually never physically met.  Sometimes, these emails transcend the typical "hey was was your day and your turkey roll-up and was your pickle good too?"  Maybe, let's say for the sake of metaphorical consistency (about which you know how strongly I feel), that the conversation is more heavily weighted toward more pressing personal matters...sometimes work, sometimes family, sometimes the aforementioned pickle (I hate that word and I think the metaphor is childish, but i'm over it and going with it because it fits with my how-was-your-lunch opening statement).  More of "let's think about what would happen and how it might go and how it would feel if we...if we...if we..." and so on and so forth.  So what, right? Simple as it seems, I think that's what I'm leaning towards as my stance.  Yup: So what, right?  I feel like I'm going to spiral into a SJP iBook monologue, so I'll really try to rein in the sweeping rhetorical questions, but just let me have two... If I'm not going with the cop-out "so what, right?," I'm bandying about these skittles:
1. Does the sharing of intimate ideas (sexual or intellectual) constitute cheating?
2. Is this a more hurtful offense, in some cases, than the physical variety?
Okay, one more (shut up):
1. Are thoughts of non-sexual passion expressed to the Other-Other actually even more intimate than just simply digifucking?
I am tempted, at this juncture, to freefall into a warpzone explanation of the veil of the digital world, and of the freedom of avatar creation, and of the kicking of inhibitions in the balls (since, of course, they are only composed of data-packets of zeroes and ones in this here-discussed world), but I won't. Why? Because we've all gone one step too far on Instant Messenger one night and consequently couldn't look that hot guy in Sociology in the eye for the rest of the semester. And I hate being all "I know stuff about the digital matrix" unless I really hate the person I'm talking to. And I don't hate any of you at all because, of course, you're spending your time reading my messy drips.
Well, lucky for me, another one of my closest Fluffernutters just had a run-in of her own. An actual physical slip-up from a four-year committed relationship with a hot guy from her office. Oh my god, right? No, not really. It's funny, when she told us the story out at dinner, the other two of us just nodded calmly. No "ohmigods" or even quiet gasps. More like, "oh, yea, I can see that." And that was it. One incident, a kiss (a solid one - and who doesn't want to be pressed, cordially, against the hood of a car?), and it was over, and she felt so much freaking better. Are all flings that innocent- so clean that you can settle for the dustbuster, no need to pull out the big clunky vacuum? Nope. 
See, and this is where I start to crumble and lose ground and feel like I'm moving into "a'ight I want to wrap this up mode" and I'm going to profess a huge generalized statement that only causes people to stir and get uncomfortable and punch me in the face. and then that would cause me to just punch myself in the face and save everyone time. and i don't have time for that...so here are some things upon which I will remain pointedly non-committal:
1. If you ultimately strengthen your relationship by misstepping, is it really misstepping?
2. The digital world bursts open a means by which we can play out our fantasies without swapping bodily fluids. For good or ill? Or-- neither-- because it's all basically the same underlying motivation and the motivation is the breach?
Okay, wait, I thought I was done, but I'm not. I was about to ask the question: "Can you have a passionate relationship with someone other than your mate and still have a 'committed' relationship?  I'm not willing to be non-committal on this bad-boy. Yes.-- and you should. Wow, I'm powerful. But no double-snaps yet. Does sex automatically get to be the scale-tipper? 
Now I'm going to spend the next twenty years trying to define "passion" while alternately slapping myself in the cheek in a snowstorm. Wish me luck.
And, if you don't remember Shandi's story (since she's my damn lynchpin here)...I'll toss out a quick summary so i can get back to overgeneralizing: undiscovered pretty girl from a Nebraska Walmart gets on ANTM, has a cutie-pie boyfriend at home who tells her how much he loves her eighteen times at the end of every maple-syrup-drenched phone convo, makes it to the final 5, goes to Italy (France, England?) and finds herself in a jacuzzi with beautiful Italian men, beautiful Italian wine, and beautiful revived emotions of how good it feels to be touched. fucks a random Italian guy. Calls her boyfriend in a frenzy the next morning and admits her wrongdoing. he flips and tells she her ruined the greatest thing ever, calling her a stupid bitch or something of the like. We find out in an ANTM "where are they now?" special that the pair ultimately got back together and are still engaged. So my sweeping statement for this particular tale is that if Shandi's boyfriend is over it, then who am I not to be over it, too? I'm assuming Shandi went home and got tested for every STD ever and begged forgiveness and they parsed the situation and decided it would be better to work things through than not. So, situationally, the physical fuck was forgiven because it didn't involve an emotional bond. I know, I know, I'm assuming things. Come on, when are we not? Alcohol, hot bubbles, hands... All I need to say is "ahem."

I'm sleepy and I shouldn't think about the digital shift and it's impact on relationship ethics right after eating salsa. 'Night.


ANTM: Eighty-Six Crabapples for Jeff Guinee

Hold it. America's Next Top Model doesn't allow male contestants; and Jeff is a male name; and...hmmm... who is the hell is Jeff Guinee? Is he related to Bob the bachelor? Valiant attempt, but that would actually be Guiney (and that little furry thing that ferociously drinks dribbly-drips out of a metal straw... guinea)... But back to the matter at hand-- Jeff Guinee, founder of.........

Yes, m'am and/or sir, we have here a petition. Guess what, though... guess what, guesswhaa...guesswhaaat... Manny doesn't want to keepmanny. And (here comes the ANTM tie-in)... he reminds me a bit of Cassandra from the current season of Top Model. Quick background: Cassandra, gorgeous pageant girl with long wavy chestnut hair...during the ladies' initial makeovers, Cassie's hair was cut pixie-short and dyed champagne blonde. She flipped. But stayed. And honestly, her hair was totally cute and totally flattering and she definitely had the bone structure to get away with it - no questions asked. But then for the next shoot they wanted to trim it up just a little, fix a little shaggy-baggy mild mulletness in the back. Total flip-out: screaming, screeching, bawling, instances of throwing things interwoven with uneven, strobing convulsions. Why now, Cassie? They already cut 15 inches off, and you mini-spazed, but then you dealt, and you did well, and your reel was great, and everyone told you how flattering the shape of the cut was to your cheekbones. Another fraction of an inch was your tipping point? Well, sorry, Lady Cassandra, you missed your "understandable freak-out" window, and now you just look like a fool. A lit-tle-tiny-baby fool.

Now, I know this analogy has to be reshaped a great deal to wrap around Manny's frame, but come with me for a second... While Manny can't trade himself, his ardency to leave (albeit media-siphoned) can easily be transmitted and eaten up by thirsty fans. And, because we know he's a 10-5 vet (10 yrs in the majors and 5 with the sox), we know he holds the authority to approve any trade in which he is a pawn. That said, I would say we're allowed to consider him more than a caddy in this whole deal, which makes the whole situation a lot more mannypersonal. So, let's say he holds 2 cards out of a full deal, and we're allowed to see 1. Now (since I'm in the mood for a metaphorical journey) let's call his raw hitting talent an ace, his symbiosis with Ortiz an ace (not that big papi can't shake that thang alone...or..um...leave too...sorry, sorry...ouch, i just got slapped), we still know that the one other card Manny is showing us is nothing better than a random non-trump low. And he's fiery about showing it. So is he hiding another ace in there somewhere? Or, is he like Cassie-- realizing that he can't beat the full house he senses across the table but simply can't be professional about trying to find a solution? Let's not tempt him with that extra quarter-inch, Jeff Guinee. My very circuitous point is this--- if Manny wants to go, let him say so in his own special manny-way before he starts convulsing and throwing things. because don't think he won't. and then that's just embarassing for all of us.

But, here's the thing- no crabapples for Manny. Despite tripping over invisible spickets, he gets an eternal pineapple (sure, sure, whatever, for being Manny...). The crabapple barrage is targeted at Jeff for likening the imminent trade to that of Babe Ruth (check out the site for the exact quote). Jeffie, do you really want to listen to Dan Shaughnessey blather about The Curse: The Sequel? (and subsequently, how he coined the term?) Me neither. So shut up about it before he catches wind.
For preemptive ditch-digging and unnecessary curse allusions, 85 crabapples, and for forcing me to compare Manny to a 90-pound chick, 1 more.

Now, everyone disagree with me and go sign his fricking petition.


ABS: Fifty-Seven Crabapples for Slimy 'Fants

Raise your hand if you like to watch childbirth! Come on, guys, the juice of life! Babies! Brand new ones still covered in placenta goo!

So TLC has this concept going... let's take normal-looking people and watch them do normal things with no extra drama. Great. No, seriously, that's cool. Sure, sure, I'm all for really pretty people doing really crazy shit and yelling at each other and turning every moment into a project and filling their agenda with so much cream and sugar that their metaphorical coffee cups inevitably overflow and get their shiny floors all sticky just so they can yell at the janitor, but hey, regular Joes doing regular Janes? Sure, I'm in.

A Makeover Story, A Wedding Story - fabulous. But watching babies being born? That's when I need just a tad more than narrativity-layin-low. Unless it's my own baby, you need to help me form some sort of connection, or I'm just going to throw up in my hand when the KY-slicked fetus slides out. I'm not sold simply by seeing the crib that daddy built or some teeny-tiny Uggs. Awww, cute... but still... puke everywhere.
Am I cold and unfeeling? Maybe. But sitcoms and soap operas use fake babies for a reason. Most people don't like gooey infants and anonymous slimy vaginas unless it's:
a. his/her own baby
b. a relative's baby
c. a highly fetishized porno

Fine, tell me all you want that I can't pull the wool over my eyes forever and that I'll think my own sticky baby is the most beautiful sight in the universe. Honestly, I totally believe you. Nonetheless, TLC producers, for refusing to compensate for the fact that you're asking me to emotionally invest myself in someone else's baby without seriously pulling some mad narrative strings and/or maneuvering your dirty producer fingers adroitly inandaround my sensory control panel - 57 crabapples.


WNTW: Two Pineapples for Stacey London

Today I learned that Stacey London from TLC's What Not To Wear graduated PBK from Vassar College with a degree in German Lit and Philosophy, that her mom is a romance novelist, and that she is a two-pack a day Camels smoker ("but is one of those smokers that only takes, like, two puffs and then throws it away"). [Thank you, answerbag.com.] I also learned that "She gets up, and will eat a bagel. If she feels good about herself, she'll indulge by also ordering some spread on her bagel as well."

a. How do you know that, Answerbag poster? [also: you are scary.]
b. What kind of spread?

This will be short, considering that my obvious aim is to even up the crabapple, mulligan, and pineapple tallies because I'm OCD like that.
So, for not making me want to punch you in the face when you say "shut. up." (and saying it with a more infectious tonal pattern than Kristen Cavellari), and for always finding classic ways to "disguise problem areas" and "work with one's body shape" - two pineapples. Now go nab yo'self some strawberry cream cheese, girlfriend.

Laguna: One Mulligan for Talan

And I quote: They began dating a relatively short period of time ago. It would be in the category of weeks as opposed to months...

So says Elliot, Kim Stewart's rep.

I have three questions for Talan:

1. Was the engagement rooted in the fact that Morgan wouldn't sleep with you?
2. Was the engagement rooted in the fact that you so obviously slept with Kristen and really liked it and assumed that all hot blonde rich girls would provide comparable experiences?
3. Did your rep make you do it?: "Really, Tal, you're going to spend all that money on amps and music equipment? Really really? OOOOHHHH, look at these pretty, shiny, f-ing gigantic rings that hot girls like!"

One clarification in this whole situation came from the MTV website. Talan's profile lists his "mood" as "flirty." Oh right-right, okay.

[As an aside - the concept of eternal mood stasis? Brilliant.]

I'm not mad at you, Talan. Not at all. Which is, of course, why I am bestowing this honor upon you...

Without further adieu, for giving us something neat to talk about other than why you should never get a record deal even though you have a terrific ass (dude, the fashion show performance was televised... we fricking know), and for somehow actually being able to have "conversations" with J-Wol, you get my very first Mulligan. Hoorah!

Additionally, Kimberly gets two pineapples for repeatedly wearing horizontal stripes and still looking skinny.