A Baggie of Mulligans for Whomever Designed This Place: Howe'er Many You Need

I saw, this past weekend, the single most absurd thing that I have ever seen.

I'm sitting on the bus, reeling from the fact that I kinda just met a celebrity at a bar... Okay, now I'm about to markedly digress simply so I can gratuitously name-drop, but that's what this blog is for, right? So, Ken Howard. Know him? Yea, me neither. But the bartender did. And she told me that he was in Crossing Jordan and Curb Your Enthusiam and Murder, She Wrote and some other crime/supernatural dramas that I can't really remember because I'm totally not into them. (Not to mention a couple of West Wing epis, KD... imdb him.)

Anyway...
He was star-poweredly funny. He yelled at the waitress dramatically as he was getting on his coat to leave: "The food was awful, the beer was awful, the service was awful... and I'm leaving in a huff!"

Then he guffawed a Hollywood-guffaw and smirked; and then... then, he turned on his heels in clean military-style and left. All at the bar stared and laughed with exaggerated animation. I may have even lifted my hand and slapped my knee lightly, in spite of myself.

Bravo! Bravo! Celebrities are cool. Even if I didn't know he was a celebrity until I was told that he was a celebrity.
I want that kind of presence.

So, anywayanyway--- single most absurd thing ever...

On the bus, I am... and I see this super-frazzled-looking woman trying to climb onto the bus holding this fricking huge huge HUGE box of Tide. She's totally laboring and sweating and huffing like a dog.

and finally she hoists it up and sits the mega-box on her lap. The thing is like a fricking hippo on her fricking lap. Foolish. And no one cares. No one is even looking.

Meanwhile, I am gawking.

All I can think is, "Seriously shit-crap, who designed a world in which a woman would find a need to carry a box of laundry granules bigger than her torso onto public transportation?"

Forget war and hunger and bird flu and Michael Jackson kissing Lisa-Marie, this is proof enough for me that either something went really, really wrong somewhere along the space/time continuum-- or that it's completely correct for me to find this sight totally fucking hysterical. And absurdly, absurdly, absurdly tragic.

15 Blushing Crabapples for Underage Taco Tasting

You're all aware (unless you close your eyes and hum while you read this) that I engage in much TV watching. What that means, consequently, is that I also engage in much TV commercial watching. Sure, I have my favorites-- but that's not what today is about.

Today is about the Totino's Pizza Rolls commercial. You know it. A bunch of kids skulking around the kitchen trying to be quiet about making a Totino's snack... and then they nuke 'em up and begin to eat them and soon thereafter can no longer contain the bursting attack of cheesy-saucy goodness that has, clearly by the grace of none other than our magnificent and benevolent holy lord, come to fill their mouths.

And so... like any fucking totally annoying 6th graders would, they begin to scream.

"MINE TASTES LIKE A CHEEEEEEESEBURGER!!!"

And then... then... in a prepubescent shrill designed specifically to kill me:

"MINE TASTES LIKE A TACO!!!"

Come on, ew. Now I just feel uncomfortable.

I half-expect the little red-haired punk to shriek wildly, "MINE TASTES LIKE YOUR FUCKIN' MOTHER!"

I half-want him to. If merely to prove a point.

For being inadvertently gross and causing me harrowing nightmares about little boys shoving taco nuggets into their huge gaping devilmouths at hyperbolic warpspeed, 15 crabapples-- thrown with due force.

And speaking of junk food, please enjoy my pop art representation of Boston's newest acquisition. I am proudly ignoring the fact that Theo called this man's arm "his weakest tool." As if that's even relevant... sheesh.
2 tentative pinapples.

Oh, and K-Cav update: today I got seekers from Peru, Australia, and Spain. Bogglingly cool! Pineapples shipped (UPS Ground) to all corners of the earth. Za-zzoom!!

In other news, I realized today that I really wish my name was "Candie," spelled just like that.
Wouldn't that just be neat?

One more thing-- since we're talking about things that near-rhyme with "Candie"...

Bambi 2 arrives in theaters next week. And I feel a bit bad saying this because I'm honestly not sure, but didn't Bambi die?

If I Had a Pineapple for Every Mile: Installment Uno

Runners play funny games sometimes. And, as someone who likes to attach as much metaphorical baggage to any and all anecdotal nuggets of daily life, I’ve found that every one of these games, tricks, and mental frittatas have braided themselves into the way I think, see, and carry myself (shit—that’s frightening). As such, I warmly welcome you to the first installment of an original CF series, titled, splendidly:
If I had a pineapple for every mile…


Yesss! I’m psyched! If I had a pineapple upside-down cake right now, I would bury my face in it and then spin around really fast (arms outstretched and flailing, of course) so I paintsplatter fleckity drips of pink and yellow frosting all over my walls. But I don’t. So…yesss! My landlord is psyched, too!

One of my favorite running games is called See How Far You Can Spit. To play this game, you spit; immediately thereafter, you…umm… see how far it went. Seems simple, right? All you bitches are like, “damn, Gina, I could win that game. I can spit like a teenage llama in heat.” Hold up, muchacha—this ain’t so easy. There is this thing that I like to call velocity. Some people call it wind, but that is because they never took physics. It makes this game very difficult, even for the gifted. You will be running, remember? And if you don’t suck and you are running at a decent clip, you hazard spitting in your very own eye.

[note: extended metaphor begins here]

And it is hard to measure, because your starting point is never fixed. But, because I am most often playing against myself, I usually consider myself the winner; that is not to say that I wouldn’t be able to win against absolutely anyone else (except, possibly, my dad, as he taught me nearly everything I know about spitting technique).

So, let’s quickly foxtrot back to this morning. [shoobity, doopity, doop] I’m running, and because I'm getting a bit distraught after listening to Ani, Kurt, Fiona, and Eddie V. (in that order) on my Shuffle, I need to search out a little funky-lite playtime in my head. (And, for the record, this Shuffle thing is luck-o-the-draw for songs that bizz-buzz to my earbuds from my library, so don’t ask why I loaded Depressive Mix 18 as a playlist). Anyway, I decide to play See How Far You Can Spit against myself. Fun so far, right?

Right. Until I realize that I had (had) been chewing gum when I made this valiant phlegm-toss attempt. When did I realize? Funny you should, ask, really. I realized when I stepped in a fricking hugeass load of gum about 30 yards later. Sticky-ugg-shizz, all over the bottom of the shoe, made worse because it had caked up dirt and little twiggleberries in it. If I was in The Crow, I would say “Shit on me... Shit on me… Shit on me.” But I wasn’t— so, instead, I just said “shit,” and left it at that.

For bringing to light that if I am going to spit into the wind, I should remove my chewing gum first, because I seem to step in my own gum wads often… and mostly because I refuse to look in the direction that I spit after I spit….
9 pineapples.

Okay, so that isn’t the most concise universal truth ever, but it’s merely the first installment. I’m just gettin’ heated up.

Spit on, good people—but watch yo' footing in the aftermath.

For Unsheathing Absolute Truths: 77 Pineapples for K-Cav

Over the past fews day I’ve tried to keep my nosy little fingers on the pulse of all that is Googlicious. “I will tackle the big issues of our day!” I shouted, hands firmly planted upon my hips, neck elongated and rooster-chested.

And I started getting more and more readers! Success!

Kinda.

You see, at least 50 % of my readers come through searches for “Kristen Cavallari + something [insert: pigtails, red carpet, new show, boyfriend, taser gun]”…

And I haven’t even said a damn thing about Kristen in weeks. And, to be honest, I’ve never ever ever said anything worth its weight in guano.

When I got a hit from Malaysia yesterday for “Kristen Cavallari + hot bikini,” I admittedly felt a bit defeated. MSN, AOL, and Google consider me a leading source on the subject. And I tend to trust Google--- have I mentioned??

Ladies and gents—I have nothing further to say about Kristen at the present time (and I understand that by continually repeating her name I am only bringing in more KC traffic), but I will certainly be back with updates after her new show premieres on Feb. 7. Maybe I’ll even begin my in-depth look at possible reasons why she’s garnered such a loyal following (yes, including myself) so quickly.

Until then, 77 pineapples to K-Cav for teaching me that all branches of the world enjoy a sneering blond with a don’t-fuck-with-me-attitude.
As long as she’s hot.

Seriously, readers… I’m here for all of your breaking news needs.

And it's not just because I have mulligans on the brain...

I’m wondering why I care so much about Google.

And the truth is: I don’t.
At the root of it, I’m more concerned about 522 other things that I would never dare admit to myself, let alone write about in a public forum. However, Google is more than a larger-than-life metaphor for just about anything (except maybe for a llama who is obsessed with baby rattles that resemble Princess Di), it’s a study in how and why people take sides.

Let me (oh please) extrapolate.

Let’s go back to, say, four days ago.

Two Google stories broke nearly simultaneously.

1. Google resists US governmental requests (I use that term loosely) to disclose caches of search terms.
2. Google enters the Chinese marketplace, genuflecting awkwardly to governmental dictates for highly-censored search results.

Immediately, Google consumers split, in major part, into two distinct camps:

1. The Aidan Shaws: Remember that Sex and the City scene where Carrie stands at the bottom of Aidan’s stoop, blathering, begging, pleading for a second chance after cheating on him with Big? Erstwhile, Aidan stands there silent, memorizing treetops, wearing that amazing white-on-white embroidered thin white buttondown shirt… (sorry, sorry-- gratuitous detail), mulling? Carrie continues, and continues, and cont—until Aidan interrupts her with a sharply detached: “Carrie, you broke my heart…”
2. The Dow Quixotes; This one’s easy. Just replace “windmills” with “stock value.”

Google became either a bloody red hypocrite with a Marlon Brando eyebrow furrow…
or an ever-sage Girl Scout swaddled in do-gooder badges and wielding carts of Do-Si-Does and puppies cured of leukemia.

I didn’t have a camp. And damn it—I felt left out.

Then this nice man named Tom Hazlett from this little place called The Financial Times invited me to make lanyards and toast marshmallows and hold my hand while I walk to the latrine.

His article, titled Google’s Beautiful China Paradox, not only balances even arguments with thoughtful reactions, but he does so in a way that is extremely difficult to disagree with. He’s smuggled a crafty documentary on Google’s business media functionality within a one-page online article. Tom— if I had your number…oh. boy.

And I quote:

Is this not the same Google that stands up for “freedom of the net”?

The criticism is proper and even productive – unlike a lot of other chatter. Companies ought to pay some price for selling out. But Google – as far as one can tell – has not sold cheaply. The Chinese government has the ability to do far worse than deal with Google; it could choose not to deal at all. And the terms of the agreement struck will push modern communications yet further in a basically authoritarian society. That triggers an underlying dynamic that ultimately, will undermine restrictions, allowing civil liberties – not Chinese government censors – to triumph.

Sounds utopic, right? Tommy ate his Froot Loops with a sprinkling of hyperchimeric flax seeds?
While I will contest that it’s very…ummm… nice… to think that Savior Communicado will rise up like the Michelan Man, unpoppable and heavier-than-he-looks, I’m heading over to Tom’s camp in this regard to say that not only is it nice, but it’s also quite plausible.

Sure, Google was making a business decision when they decided (months, years ago) to start recruiting a sales and development team in China. And, sure, very often, such decisions postpone issues of ethics and cultural conscience (mindfully or not)… if only because their paths are shadowed by a swelling market cap. Even so, these issues can’t be postponed forever. And Google isn’t contesting that they were trying to.

Google has been very up-front in saying that this certainly wasn’t their ideal situation; regardless, they’d rather get their foot in the door, even if their toes are lodged under the crack at the bottom. For all of those media critics who continually use Googles’s motto of “Do No Evil” as part of a sneering pun (from the so-awkward-that-it-can't-possibly-be-funny Do No Evil Except If It Affects the Profit Margin to the simple-yet-lame Do No Evil??)... get over it for, like, a minute. I’m not saying that my mind doesn’t whisper “hypocrite” in a scary baritone whenever I pull up my gmail account and see that happy-serif, rainbow-colored Google logo, but I’m willing to wait it out for a reasonable period.

It's easier to kill the King if he's the one who ushers you in the front door.
Even easier if he gives you the key.

With new access to the second-largest (and exponentially-growing) pool of internet-users in the world, and allowance to tag a warning message to the bottom of any “limited” search page, indicating that “results have been removed because of censored content,” I’d say that Google ain’t in too bad’a place. They hold the match and the rotting frame of what the owners call a house.

****

We have every right to treat our Google stock like a fragile princess: feed it airy crumpets, dress it in peach silk, throw it dolla'dolla'bills, y'all.

or

We have every right to be pissed, throw ibooks (not mine, please), and wave our don’t-tread-on-me flags with vigor and vim.

Just not yet.

2 Crabapples for Not Shutting Up About Google

I admit it-- my current obsession with Google's acquisitions (and subsequent stock value fluctuations) is starting to take over my life. But I've also had periods in my life where I was utterly absorbed by, say, soy chicken nuggets... or...umm... my eyelashes. So this curious stroll around the Google block ain't half-bad.

I have crap to do tonight, so I can't be as self-indulgent as usual, but I do want to bring up one mini tid-bit. The Bloomberg feed tells me this (like how I say that so breezily, like I own one?)...

Frank Husic of Husic Capital Management in San Fran says of Google, "The growth prospects are so relatively open-ended.''

Relatively. Open. Ended. Hmm. And America is relatively democratic. I love when people say words.

Hey- I'm not saying that to be linguistically catty or blow snot-rockets at men who have more money in their jeans pocket than I do in my bank account. But I'm willing to wag my tongue out the window and say that, in a business, media, or...what shall i call it?...societal (said with an exaggerated eye roll and hair flip like it, like, means something) sense, nothing having to do with Google is "relative."

Because if it's relative to every damn thing ever, then it just is.

Before I continue on with a soggy, foggy, and --heck-- groggy Existential manifesto, I'll press the publish button. No one wants to read a rant so folded in upon itself that it begins to resemble corduroy. And that would be all I have to give you tonight; it is, of course, Tuesday.

Go watch yo'self some Scrubs. Zack directed the 9 o'clock episode himself.
Oh, and I'm not ready to talk about Theo yet. The mulligan awaits.

shit-- one more thing-- an AP report just hit the wires saying that UPN and the WB will shut down and will be used to launch a new network. I can't go into it now, but if America's Next Top Model is taken away from me, there will be tears. Vengeful, vengeful tears.

15 Pineapples for Giving Automation a Shot

What, what, whaaaaat? Ye olde love of authenticity? Ye olde devotion to making jewelry out of subway tokens and aspiring to own a hand-lathe when ye grows up? Ye are giving automation a chance? Walter Benjamin would fricking eat you alive.

Stop- before you come at me with sticks and stones and kitty litter... Let me explain. I am NOT -- I repeat NOT -- a rescinding narf. Especially when it comes to the celebration of organic ideas sprung from tap-dancing in mud puddles while eating a turkey club.

But, hey... Google's acquisition of dMArc (and rumored forthcoming snatcharoo if Spot Runner) will make old media ad placement far more automated. To clarify a tidge, dMarc/Google will allow ads to enter a hugeass filter that will collate and assign them among and within specific sites (of the old-fashioned variety) according to an arkload of variables... marketing logic and savvy collapsed neatly into a pretty pattern of ones and zeros.
Well, well, hi there, sweet little mass media matrix.
[As a qualifier, dMarc is to radio as Spot Runner is to TV.]

However, I'm going to have to argue that this also makes the ad process (on a mass scale) far more efficient, more effective, and, quite possibly, more elegant. Wait a daggone second-- you're calling adspace treated like mad libs "elegant"? Jaynie, sweetie, are you a ramblin' fool? Quite possibly, sure... but not in this case. While googleadbots may not win any Clios, they will get their job done cleanly, quickly, and on a fucking huge scale. All you naysayers and holder-onners to "the integrity of advertising"... I first ask you to repeat that last phrase to yourself and dare you not to smirk, and then I say this:

a.) I swear to you that this isn't the apocalypse of "ideas." Google's aerial view of the marketplace and unmatched business acumen was borne of creative genius; the end-product doesn't need to be made of felt and pipe cleaners to be original, nuanced, and (oh, I fucking hate this term) "culturally sound."
[Why do I hate that term?... because, by nature, it can't stop undulating along its own continuum for long enough to ever contain fixed meaning of any modality.]

b.) Remember when New Media emerged and we all ducked and covered? And then you realized that sublime human interaction is surely still possible if you work within the media (or, alternately, you're still crouching under a desk, trembling like a pussy cat while the rest of us sashay in search engines...and, like, still maintain our "sense of Self").

We should only be scared of Google if we are too scared to try to understand its methods.

I ain't scared, Mr.Googleman. Bring it.

Alert and Avert! Heedless Crabapple Throwing!

1. Jake Delhomme is homely. I'm sorry. 15 crabapples because he comes within 100 yards of irking me as much as Joe Buck.

2. Wonder Bread is coming out with a white wheat bread.
Oh come on. That's like Hershey's coming out with a pear.
128 crabapples thrown by Jake (FTR, I never disrespected his arm.)

3. It's decided. I'm going to the Boston Wine Expo. I will meet Todd English and he will tell me that I can go to Olives for free for the rest of my life because he really likes my hair. 66 piney-As.

4. Speaking of, Miss Texas totally got robbed in the Miss America pageant last night. The tall OK (the state, not the affirmation) gal who won had a bit too much pikachu/giraffe in her. But she did have nice legs. And a hot dress. But that's all material. And that does not keep with the spirit of the Miss A foundation. Seriously, condemnophiles... greater good at stake here.
5 crabbers.

5. Google is going the way of old media, becoming a sort of brokerage octopus... elegantly stretching its arms (legs?) in and among the puddin' pies of TV, radio, and newspapers, proving more and more every day that the once-forsaken Google ad team is now my Pimp Daddy-- and yours, and yours, and, yes, yours.

6. My new favorite site? Oligopoly Watch. Hats off to Steve Hannaford for explaining pseudo-variety without sticking a fat, clumsy knife into the blow-up doll of consumerism (as I most likely would have conceded in doing).
[I just double-checked the URL and noticed that Steve wrote about the Google/dMarc bunny hug today as well... As I said... Google- My Pimpdad and yours.]
Hmmm... 92 pineapples for Steve-O Hannaford. And a preemptive crabapple to me in case he finds out that I called him Steve-O (the original of whom, by the way, is rumored to be dating Nicole Ritchie...didya hear?)

7. Speaking of Google (wait- were we? yes.)... I made a beautiful baked haddock last night. The trick? you ask (too polite, you are)... Sub Cheez-Itz for breadcrumbs, add some slivered almonds and buttermilk ranch seasoning (from the new Penzey's Spices with the shitty parking lot in ARL Heights)...
Fish swaddled in velvet, folks.
I amaze myself.

I've been handing out too many mulligans lately...

so I can't give one to theo.... yet.

I'll wait until his full statement next week. Then we can all reconvene. You know where to find me.

I know that I said out loud (to many people with solid memory-capacities) that I would be livid if he walked... and then walked back.
But I may need to throw around my mully power if the delegation of tasks between TE and LL seems logical; as in, all decisions regarding baseball proper are tossed to Theo (you know... the nitty-gritty... like, "strategy," and, like, "mining through buckets of stones to unearth a Dave Roberts-v.2.0"). And if he admits that the gorilla suit thing was retarded. And if he gets off his cell phone for four consecutive seconds.

FYI- Theo majored in American Studies at Yale, so it can (and will) be posited that he has upped interest in said program directly and indirectly, thereby lowering my already eentsy-weentsy chances of getting in; and i can't say that I don't hold irrelevant grudges.

but hey-- lookie, lookie -- we kinda have some semblance of a bullpen, too.

Mully pending.

2 Wishful Mulligans for My New Friends

This morning was an event.

Let me set the scene:
6am (and throwing on sneaks and a quick pee later), nearly pitch black, raining pretty hard. I'm running down a main city street.

I see two dogs. In the middle of the road. They were very scared. Because there were cars. And lights. And noise. And they had probably never seen any of these things leashless. Like mom and dad just dropped you off for the first day of your freshman year of college, and you immediately spilled into a frat party at 2am where everybody is already drunk and making out.

So, anyway, we have here a graying black lab and a shepherd-mix type, who I noticed from about 100 yards back trotting along Milo&Otis/The Incredible Journey style, stopped --like dogs in headlights (well, yea...)-- in the middle of a busy street.

Of course, I try lamely to be a hero.

I motion them towards me (who do I think I am-- the pied piper?)
"Babies...c'mon honeycakes...c'mere...come to me, sweeties, here, here..." Now, granted, they had every right to be offended by my infant-catered tone, but shouting brusquely didn't seem like a better option.

They were frozen, looking at each other and back at me, wildly. They may have been discussing amongst themselves, but the rain muffled the sound.

So, inevitably, I proceed to slide into a state of panic, trying ardently to mask it (listen-- dogs know).

I decide, quickly, that my mission on this dreary morning is to save puppies' lives.

Since the dogs were not responding to my sweet beckonings, I could either:
a. Run back to my house and call animal control (they had tags).
b. Run to de Policia Stationia and tell them and see if they can contact animal control.
c. Run to the nearest Dunkin' Donuts in the hopes that there is a cop sitting at the counter.

Okay, so three Dunkin Donuts' later (shocking, really), I find a cop sitting in the parking lot.
I begin my sob story with the always-effective: "This is probably a stupid thing to tell you, but..."

Shizzling forth...
The cop listened intently, expressing only mild annoyance, and then said "okay."

"Okay?"

Now, I understand that I didn't just tell her that the town hall was being bombed by guerilla monkey children (as opposed, of course, to the less dangerous-- and more predictable-- gorilla monkey children), but still.

As such, I continue to press: "Can you call animal control right away?"

She replies, so totally bored with me and my dog-anxiety already: "sure."

I continue to babble: "I'm sorry...I'm just scared for them...I could tell they were disoriented and frightened and..."

I could read the cops eyes: "Please go eat shit and leave me alone, over-humane puppy-girl." No, really, they said that... her eyes.

BUT-- BUT-- When I ran back through the scene of the original doggie sighting (5-7 minutes later), there were two cops cars parked on the side, holding patrol. So then I obviously (and freakishly and obsessively) ran up and down all the side streets around and checked the main drag for dead dogs in the middle of the road, of which I thankfully saw none. So hey hey-- here's hopin'.

Godspeed, new doggie friends.

They don't give mulligans for manicures up there...

This really has nothing to do with anything, but I made a promise, and, while I may be stubborn and judgemental and impatient (not to mention really cool), I goshdamn surely keep my promises. Unless, of course, I forget... which is really no one's fault. 
 
So heee-ey, dead people getting manicures. Holla back, y'all.
 
This past Saturday, I'm sitting there, getting a little manicure action, pointedly not minding my own business (but doing so quietly and politely), when my radar tuned into this:
 
Nail Tech (yes, they refer to themselves as such): I'm sorry to hear about your mom.
[note: Arlington is a city where you can't pump your own gas or buy alcohol, so you are forced to ferret your way into other people's lives.  I belong there.]
 
Lady: Oh, thank you. Well, the services were beautiful and everything went smoothly, so that's all we could really ask for...
 
Nail Tech: Do you know who did her nails for the casket viewing?
 
 
Horses and men of the apocalypse, I call you forth.
And another thing: "Huh?"
And one more: "Really?"
 
 
I know that's your job and all, but do garbagemen* go into Dunkin Donuts and have this conversation?:
 
Garbageman: Large black and a blueberry scone.
 
Dunkin Person: Anything else with that, sir?
 
Garbageman: Yes, actually, I was wondering who takes out the little trash receptacles in the women's bathroom stalls?
 
 
Some things aren't, like, filler fodder.  Some things are sacred.  For example, dead people.  And, like, private female bathroom trash.
 
That's really not what I wanted to talk about today, but I do feel better that I didn't tease you and leave you like all the other metaphorical sluts in your lives.  15 pineapples for keeping promises; 88 crabapples for drowning the dead with trivia.

Check out my thumbnail though... they did a good job, even without social grace.
 
*Sanitary Engineers, Garbagewomen... I'm there, I'm there... I knooow... storyteller's license on this one-- opting for a male ups the skeeze of the scene. 

68 Pineapples-in-Waiting

I had planned to write a little ditty today about my rising anticipation for Love Monkey, the new sitcom that looks like a compressed, procedural form of High Fidelity, with Tom Cavanaugh playing John Cusack. I'm loving this new trend of Sex in the City goes bachelor. Not just because I like to look at Big 3 network character development, but because I like to look at 5 retired fratboys in a bar kabibbling about women; Fun/Hot. But then my head got stuck in po mo gear, unable to drop anchor on any thought-in-specifica, and I've decided to give V-Woolf a longhorn salute and ride the consciousness jetstream for all it's worth. I'll try my best to make it Love-Monkey-centric.

So here's the thing (because you know there's always a thing)...

The Love Monkey execs are touting it as "random," "unsafe," "different." Okay- but what brand of unsafe? Unsafe in a clever way (I'm thinking Simpson's, Family Guy, even Seinfeld)? Or unsafe in a (for lack of a better word) shittyass way (that would be you, Roseanne)? The tipping point between clever-unsafe and shittyass-unsafe seems to be the successful (or not) treatment of "playing against type." Roseanne, as a character, is a "different, sure" type of persona than we are accustomed to... according the the trad-fam-sitcom formula; however, the fleshed-out version of her "type" is no more than just that: a type, a...umm... trailorpark/mullet/most-of-my-compound-words-involve-the-word-"crap" type. She's fat and trashy and has a vulgar mouth and an erring, inelegant way of carrying herself, speaking, and treating others. So? Where's the allure? Give her an affinity for wearing baby pink pumps and a tiara with her overalls, and we have a (very minor) start. Or jesus, give the bitch a British accent... something. Without that "something's-off-but-what?" factor, we get bored, if only because the characters become nearly transparent in their stereotypical fulfillment of themselves.

We've all met people like that. And promptly forgotten about them. Without trying.

Why does Seinfeld work? Because, as a comedian, Jerry should be funny and confident and outgoing, not brooding and idiosyncratic. Pair that with a love of neatly-arranged breakfast cereals and Superman, and we have a clever use of playing-against-type. Simple, but effective enough to allow Elaine/Kramer/George to fill their supplementary roles using the same formulas, sui generis. It's done cleanly, so cleanly that we don't even notice it; we just continue to tune in. Seduction can be formulaic, but only if it's hanging its barefeet outta the car window.

68 anticipatory pineapples for cheeky-keen Love Monkey characters that I can enjoy for more reasons than that I am mentally making-out with them in the bar bathroom.

12 pineapples for learning stuff

**There was a photo right here yesterday. I took the it out while I decide if it's a bad idea.**

as much as I buck and pull--- I finally got my ass in gear this morning and learned how to take stills with my movie cam. So I set it up in my huge studio and had a fantastic photo shoot filled with tulle, crepe, gossamer, and -of course- faux beaver pelts. I ordered people around and requested half-caf chai tea and Baked Lay's and gasped dramatically when they pulled my corset too tight for the Victorian montage in the dandelion field.

actually, I struggled with cords and downloads for four hours and then got frustrated that the world-at-large hates Mac users (and, in this case, namely, me) and finally figured it out after obviously taking it as a personal masterstroke against my intelligence and then put the camera on my desk atop an upsidedown coffeecup and tried to look not-totally-dumb and pressed the button and hoped that my head was somewhere in the shot erstwhile concealing my not-so-new T-shirt from the Barcelona Olympics because I couldn't see what I was doing because I, like, live alone.

I'm dying to write about dead people getting their nails done, but that'll have to wait until tomorrow.

12 Pineapples for Critical Fluff enhanced with original photos! You all best watch your backs.

13 Crabapples for Calling Culture Culture

Yesterday, I was sitting around a lunch table (can I call it a lunch table if it isn't formica nor smeared with PB&J?) with a bunch of high-powered people at a work function. The conversation, which was as contrived as the wine-shitake sauce that reigned the room, turned to "culture" at one (quite pointy) point.

And I quote:

Lady: "Culture is really going down the tubes."

Other Lady: "It sure is. Devastating" [shakes head downwards like she has just seen a man in a suit butt-fucking his dog]

Man: "It's this upcoming generation. Really changing culture for ill."

Other Lady: "For example, my son thinks it's okay to say the word sucks. To me, that is still a bad word."

Hooooooooold it, sistahs and hotboyz. For the record, this "culture" animal of which you speak: is not a singular thing, is not an object that you can pick up and judge like a balled-up sock or a pear. Culture is always relative, always arbitrary, always composed of such a web of dangling signifiers, misplaced modifiers, and volatile meaning-makers that it can never be tested holistically and concretely by any method-- no matter how epistemically sound. Also, it is always already affected righthererightnow by you, Other Lady; you are not immune because you have on ugly pearls and a suit jacket that is the pukiest shade of puse ever. We can do our darndest to judge culture in pieces, and I do so lamely and futilely to help me sleep at night, but I would never attest that I can in any sense make a conclusion. That's plain silly. And, despite my messy use of anaphora and my stuffy assertion of the future anterior tense, no literary device or turn of phrase can ever unravel this inherently inextricable batter of signification into a clean pattern that we can resolutely name "culture." Can you take the flour out of the cookie dough? Hells no. And why would you want to? It tastes so fricking good. [I urge you to stop me before I get into the chicken and the egg metaphors.]

I can't do it just as much as you can't, Other Lady; the difference is that I admit it.

Why? Because you suck.

13 crabapples for shoving culture in a pet carrier.

1 Mulligan for the West Virginian Wannabe

This morning, my brain got sad. My brain got sad because the first story that it ate up from the local NBC news was the fact that a 16 year-old kid was shot by police because he tried to rob a liquor store and then tried to run over cops with his car.

That much is fine.

What bothered me was how they framed the news story. The newsguy says "the teen, who went to the junior prom last year with his cousin, was shot and killed by the troopers..." Wait, what now? Come on, fuckers, why do you need to tap on the inbreeding shit? Like: oh, see... the punk-ass lad is troubled, so he was obviously a threat to society. Listen, I don't care if the kid fucks his sister and his tabby cat; that's not really the point here, now is it?

***

On an unrelated note, I have made a personal vow to pass on some important buzz about Kristen Cavallari. Ready? Cool.
She is slated to guest star on Veronica Mars in early February as a closeted lesbian cheerleader.
Love. It.
Also, Kristen's hosting gig on UPN's new "Get This Party Started" premieres on February 7th at 9. And she is supposedly playing a pretty substantial role in an upcoming Al Pacino flick. The girl, the girl, the girl is on fire. Her agent definitely does not fuck around... or his sister.

***

Because my radio at work only tunes into top 40 (or, at least, that's what I tell people), I am "forced" to listen to poppycocks like James Blunt. I actually think I might have a thing for him. He sings that "You're Beautiful" song, and he sounds like the guy that sang "The Blower's Daughter" (aka the soundtrack to the opening sequence of Closer). He's all affected and angsty and floaty, and I either love him or want to punch him. I'm leaning towards heavy liking, which is akin to heavy petting, but on a purely emotional level.

There is also this song by The All-American Rejects that I can't stop humming. I'll keep you my dirty little secret, dirty little secret, dirty little secret... Adultery made hip n' cool. Duuude. So rad.

***

Remember when Baby Jessica fell down the well?

dole this, mad dogs.

So, today I have been thinking about renewing my vows with the following former loves,
some recent-former and some pretty-heavily-former-former:

Jason Mraz, feta cheese, hope, disillusionment, chambourd, the word "canapes," Scott Wolf in his Party of Five days, dusk, and fashion headbands.

Let me break this down.

I first gave a small chunk of my heart to Jason in the "You and I Both" video of early '03. He wore a Tarheels-blue tuxedo and had crazy/funtastic curly hair. And he was so fucking wicked endearing. And then I ruined it for myself by putting the song on a mix CD for this guy that I just just started dating. And I didn't even really like him very much. Stupid, stupid, stoopid. And then he tells me that he thinks about "us" when he hears the song. I instantly cut off all ties with said guy; subsequently, hot & innocent Jason got shoved away as well. Sigh. Jason, 45 retroactive pineapples.

I ate feta cheese today and really appreciated it for the first time in a while. I would give it pineapples, but that would leave a bad taste-feel in everyone's mouths; instead, I will give it 56 sun-dried tomatoes as a one-time sub. Kinda like a loose argument for retaining Doug Flutie.

I also decided that I have sorta forgotten how to hope for things, so I'm going to make a point to filter this abstraction into my psyche. Results pending.

And a little disillusionment is oftentimes comforting. Like you just stepped in a dirty marsh with one leg and you don't have a change of pants and you have to walk around all day with one half of one leg all dirty and algae-y and wettish. Seems to heighten your awareness in the same mode as a Johnny Walker on the rocks in a bar with a mahogany glow in a town whose name seems to have too many consonants in a row.

On the other end of the alcohol spectrum, you have chambourd, the Phillips Exeter of hard liquor. And it tastes like berries and sweetness. Kinda like I imagine Prince William would taste.
(Again, some semblance of kidding, some semblance of not...)

"Would you like a canape, sir?" Yea, that's that for that. Just fun.

The Party of Five thing came up this morning because I heard "Closer to Free" while I was running. It forced me to look for overturned trash barrels, snow chunks, and dead kittens to jump over gleefully. I'm sorry-- dead cats aren't funny. But it is funny that Scott Wolf has beautiful dimples, and I wish that show was on now rather than then, because I would have appreciated it more. (my verb tenses just folded atop themselves grossly)

If the light was good enough... I would like to read Catch-22 in a meadow with a black lab at dusk.
[That sounded a bit too much like "I would like to accuse Colonel Mustard of killing Professor Peacock in the parlor with a candlestick"...but I was totally attempting some degree of sincerity there.]

Fashion headbands: I bought one. And I will wear it. And I'm a little bit excited about that. Not as excited as I am about being disillusioned, but pretty damn close.

5 Crabapples for Lack of Lyrical Follow-Through

Lately, I haven't been drinking as much coffee as I'm used to.

This morning, however, my head was mumbling random phrases such as "electric ostrich," "big phatty egg-based pastries," "Max Headroom is yo' mama," and "I'll fucking kill yo' ass if you don't feed me java." I took the cue from the Max Headroom blather and oiled up the coffeemaker. Ain't nobody poke-a da-funna at my momma.

What that means is that I am now sleepy. Because when the devil went down to Georgia, he found caffeine. And then he gave it to us laypeople to caress, love, and exploit.

What that also means is that you get a semi-shitty list today. And I am semi-sorry.

1. hi. If you have the time and inclination to go back to my new year's post, you will see that I predicted that Gwenyth would get pregnant again. This fact was confirmed this past Tuesday. What do I say to that? I say, with due emphasis, bizz. bizza. bizz-Natchez.

and "yay"; I will also say "yay."

2. I was thinking this morning what I would have as my goal if I went on MTV's Made. My first response would have to be to star in Chicago, but I'd also take being a Big 10 Cheerleader; alternately, I'd like to become Natalie Portman. But I don't think MTV can do that-- turn you into other people-- but maybe. I think i am too old anyway. But sometimes I watch the cheer competitions on ESPN and I remember (for a few seconds at a time-- because otherwise it makes me stand up and make rigid arm movements and yell like a 'rangatang about "having spirit") how much I used to enjoy cheerleading. Go ahead, mock away; I think it is cool. I enjoy listening to cheermixes in the privacy of my apartment and cheering for the man who walks his welsh corgi -- like I am Peyton Manning in that Visa (is it Visa?) commercial, but shorter and a little bit cooler and a tidsy bit more into accessories and flavored lip gloss. Maybe I should write to that TLC show that is kinda like Made but for grown-ups; I think it's called Faking It. Yes. I totally will write a letter. Forget getting a phD... I want to be tossed in the air and yell things like "Go! - Big! - Blue!" and wear sparkle hair-spray and severe eyeliner and two tight french braids with curly ribbon on the ends. Either that, or again, I'll play Roxie. Dealer's choice.

I'm kinda kidding. But really, I'm kinda not.
Regardless, I give myself a mulligan to become some sort of starlet that involves fishnets and/or a side ponytail.

3. I wish I could find the lyrics to the Making the Band song. The Lately I've been looking for a man... song that I talked about before. I keep having blog visitors looking for the lyrics ever since I mentioned it, and I'd really like to stand and deliver. But i did figure out the next line, if that's even 5% helpful. I think it's "with a bod so good he got me eating outta his hand."

This is obviously a crucial song for the welfare of our nation, not to mention the escalation of bird flu in the northwest, so I will do my best to find more. Remember though... I can only do what I can do. 5 impatient crabapples to me until I find these lyrics.

4. I fricking love Ryan Cabrera. And I need him to get back together with Ashlee. A year or two ago (whenever Ash's reality show was on), they showed the two of them making the On the Way Down video together, and she wasn't scripted to kiss him, but she did, and that was the first time they kissed, and it was so cute and hot in, like, a 17-year-old way, and that's so exciting! Yay! I say "yay!" 94 pineapples for first kisses against brick walls in front of 80-member production crews. That's my new goal. Maybe I should slap on some Love's Baby Soft or whatever assy-lassie perfume I wore when I was 17 and see what happens. Or maybe I should just cut to the chase and become a teenage pop star. Cher was really onto to somethin' with that "turn back time" bizalaky.

5. The new Honda truck commercial soundtrack sounds eerily like the Roseanne theme song. It makes me chilly and mournful. 6 crabapples for not double-checking to see if your adspace is cluttered with shitty sitcom allusions. BOO. I said BOO! Not "yay." And I say "yay" easy-pleasey now'days.

6. Urgent memo: Vanna White is getting a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame! I told you she was awesome (refer back to --eeh-- mid December, maybe?). Check out the pic of Vans doing her best Jennifer Beals impression. Getta frickin' loada that there thigh tendon-- she's so cool.

10 Pineapples for Cello-wrap

A new type of breast implant has hit the market. Called the "Gummi Bear," this new material possesses a squeeze-feel that can be likened to our favorite bite-sized German forest friend. Fascinating. As the presence of this wondrous product escalates, the Brach's bins in your local supermarket are bound to become more unsanitary than ever. Safe munching kids; look for your candies wrapped.

I instantly regret my verb choice.

So, hey, let's talk about the resurgence of my life:
January 9th: The Bachelor- Paris
January 12th: Beauty and the Geek 2
January 17th: American Idol, Season 19

LA. LA. LAAAA.

Now, let me tell you why I am looking forward to this blast of sofresh&soclean so-what-if-i'm-an-Ahole TV...

1. I've been thinking a lot about the confessional motif of reality TV. In the most reduced sense, I'm thinking inandaround the Confessional Booth on The Real World. How do the secrets conspicuously kept battle the "truths" disclosed?... Are we supposed to view these character confessions as performative acts? Does this construct mirror the traditional teaser method employed by all forms of media; but, has the producer-as-puppeteer taken on a mini-me in the Reality TV character?

2. The new Bachelor is a very nice-looking man. And it is always fun to pick out the Bachelorettes with gummibears on the first show of each season.

3. I'm wondering, as reality TV becomes naturalized (and the mediascape smudges in with "real life"), are we becoming more adept at fully exposing (read: crafting) slices of our selves, or are we (as both characters and voyeurs) beginning to lose our collective footholds, resulting in Woolfian confessionals that are, consequently, more authentic.... though "authentic" is inherently slippery anyway...

4. Will we begin to see gaps in Reality TV personas-as-Objects that I can stick my pinky finger in? The balance of Object/Social Subject has traditionally been painstakingly contrived; and, although producers will strain to keep it that way, have the media-consumers become conditioned and versed in these methods enough to start pulling nuggets from the Social Subject angle that are plump enough to juice?

***

I wait and wonder like the doesthisevenmattermonger that I am... are we heading toward thick lines of demarcation between real/mediated images and personas, or more towards a watercolor-wash of the two?

[I hope for the latter, as this sort of analysis is less concrete and more making-animals-from-clouds... which, of course, is the only technique I know for lulling myself into a warm-milked sleep.]

100 Pineapples for Sauce that Definitely Tastes Like Something

I'm sitting here and it's quiet. And I have all of these strands of narrative and hyperanalytic jibble-jabble that are trying to coalesce into word-signs and take their place in the world as pieces of meaning, but I'm just not in the mood to let them tonight; I'd rather play with the strands.

I've always loved the concept of narrative, of a traceable plotline, of characters that can be parsed down to the syllable/letter/handstroke, of picking apart a story's "devices" and treating them like something I can put in a cup and drink, taste, swallow, inhabit. And lately I've been burying myself more and more into narratives outside of myself (or what I think is outside of myself)... because it's easier, more dramatic, dynamic, pretty, whatever. --So Lindsay Lohan admits she's bulimic and a cokehead, huh?-- And know what? I do care about that. I do, I do, I so fucking totally do. I care in this desperate way that is beyond, or maybe, more aptly, apart from, disparate from, my need to eat food and pee and have sex and make my bed just-so and ask my lamp if it had a good day and oftentimes actually wait for an answer. But why?

----I care because the collective we, for whatever reason, feels a need to imbue Lindsay with meaning, amplified meaning. We could talk about her cute freckles, or her boobs-grown-overnight, or her suddenly-pencil upper arms. Or we could admit that we've made a decision somewhere along the way to deem what she "means" as important, as freaking "interesting" in some way. And I sure as all-fuck want to figure out why. Because there are certainly other freckle-faced cuties with big tits that don't make the cover of People for tossing their cookies in wicked nice bathrooms. Her signification combinatorics are spot on for the righthererightnow, and I'd love to pick her apart until I collapse. But can you really boil down the cultural episteme into a thick enough sauce to pick up any actual flavor? Is it fair for me to stick my finger into the pop culture identity pot and try to figure out what it's made of? Curry? A touch of nutmeg, maybe? Scotch on the rocks--make that a double? Or is it enough to feed off her composition and take away what I, perhaps we, will? Can we find identity in a cyclic fight of why "we" may/may not identify with this Pollock of meanings that we name, simply, "Lindsay"?
I can't just like what I like because I like it. Because:
a. I'm judgemental and overanalytical by nature. But I need a reason to act this way, however tenuous and, possibly, false.
b. Treating pop culture narratives as up-for-grabs intro-to-Bio cadavers makes my mind make a phat-ass whirring sound.
c. Seeing pieces of meaning bond together into words that my mouth understands how to say is so totally beautiful. and frickin' really cool.

----I care because I keep seeing narratives in my own line of vision come together in these amazing ways that I wish I had written. And when I see the lives around me being circled by tricky lighting and then illuminated by this eerie glow that is, at once, both deeply haunting and simply logical, I stop wondering why I fixate upon mediated images and stories that have already been illuminated for me. They're lovely little placeholders until I find my own story; and I intend to suck the life out of them while I wait.

----I care because I want to tape all of these strands to my wall right now so I can manhandle them later: touch them, braid them, hold my lighter under the frayed ends to see if they curl and filigree as they burn.

I can never decide whether I should put the collective "we" in quotation marks; maybe that's the root of my 'ssues.

45 Crabapples Dipped in Skippy (chunky, of course)

Yesterday, I had an epiphany.

After nearly careening off the highway because I was hell-bent on remembering the 5-4-3-2-1 hand gesture combination from the Miss You Much video, it hit me like a bucket of melons:

I truly miss Miss Janet Jackson.

I miss the one I used to know. The Control days, the Escapade days, the "it's Janet, Miss Jackson if you're Nasty" days, the days of studded black leather and moths to flames burned by the fire, days of bald men's heads used as tetherballs between her legs.

Janet? Where did you go, darlin? And, for the record, Jermaine Dupri is not not (not) hot.

5 pineapples for promoting a new brand of Alpha female nasty-cool. 6 crabapples for lovin', leavin', and dating someone I don't approve of. Aren't there any grown-up members of Menudo left that you can lasso? I don't know much Latin, JJ, but I know this: cave canem.


***

In other news, I saw a picture of Kelly Ripa on the cover of one of those $1.99 celeb 'zines. Her chest is frighteningly bony and ribcage-ish, like Debra Messing's chest the season before she got pregnant when she was freakishly skinny and they always put her in tight deep V-neck halters with no bra. I don't understand those bones; does the ribcage really start that high, or are some people's chestbones ribbed like that? I just felt mine, and I don't think it would look corrugated like that even if I was 32 pounds. Although I haven't been 32 lbs since I was 8 months old, so I don't really remember. And I just looked at a bunch of Kelly pics online and saw none of that hyperboniness from previous years. I noticed it initially last week when I was home for xmas break and could engage in the luxury of morning show fa-la-la. I promise to keep tabs on this and keep you updated. Kell- 45 crabapples. I recommend slicing them up with a little PB.

Also, the new Fall-Out Boy video for Dance, Dance is such a crappy Outkast rip-off. 77 crabapples, you lameass copykittens.

And as a closing FYI, Lindsay Lohan's New Year's Rez is to "do more charity work." Mine is to stop calling her a high-flyin', low-lyin' skank-ass hoe.
66 pineapples because.

33 Pineapples for Pie Abuse

Know what I hate?

Pie-eating contests.

They make me uncomfortable, nauseous, and scared. I expect that I would feel similarly if I saw a circus clown wearing a navy uniform.

But speaking of navy unis,
Know what I love?

Crisp white pants. on anyone. They are far more universally flattering than we have been led to believe. Like the rest of life, it's all in the cut.


Anyway, the first episode of Celebrity Fit Club 3 was on last night. Bruce Vilanch, best known as the tubby Hollywood Square, has the absolute worst attitude ever-- like a newborn pitbull restricted from breast milk. or whatever doggie-mom-milk is called.
And they haven't even started dieting yet.

And know who else is on there? Jeff Conway, aka Kinicky from Grease. He will be fun to watch because I am 159% sure that the rainbow of "vitamins" he was taking during every water break were quaaludes.

*I was searching for a picture of a "pie eater" to include with this post, but I have been scarred for life after turning up a photo of a man in bed with the Pillsbury Doughboy with --uh, let's call it "Meringue"-- all over his face.

sadly, I will never be able to eat a crescent roll, cinnamon bun, or slice-n-bake cookie ever again.

1,256,722 Pineapples in Confetti Form

The Manhattan is a drink created in 1874 at the Manhattan Club in NYC for Lady Rudolph Churchill.

Lady Rudolph Churchill can kiss my ass right about now.

But hey, happy 06. There's snow; it looks nice.

My mind is low-functioning. So here-- here are some simple predictions for all that will be bigger than large in JaynieK's version of 06 (I'm too sleepy to justify any of them, so I ask you to kindly pick up your wings and prayers and hop aboard):

1. Ryan Seacrest and Dr. Phil will host a show together. They will be firebombed, together, on stage.

2. The hot Italian chick on the Food Network will pose for Playboy.

3. Lindsey Lohan will marry and subsequently divorce a 40+ man with a crack addiction. [Think Robert Downey, Jr., but not as cute].

4. Gwenyth will get preggers again. Like, by March. She will name the baby Peta, regardless of gender.

5. Kevin and Brit -- done. Kevin will date Ashlee Simpson. Oh jesus, pleeease.

6. There will be more talking goats and/or applesauce on primetime (now this really is turning into a wishlist.)

7. Maria Menunos will start dating a soap star, or a NBA star, or a hot has-been (I'm thinking along the lines of Dean Cain).

8. Topher Grace will start dating me. As soon as I take 55 advils.

9. Roy will get bitten by a tiger again.