Sweetney

Kiss me, I'm Irish(ish)*

Well my weekend was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

The only highlight to speak of was getting drunk at my friend Angela's candy store's Grand Opening on Saturday, proving once again that I will turn any occasion -- however inappropriate -- into a means by which to transform myself into a crapulous, wildly gesturing maniac (who would like to GIVE YOU A HUG! HUGZ 4 EWERYBODY!). I think, but I'm not 100% certain, that at some point during the proceedings -- perhaps after I'd taken it upon myself to walk over to a restaurant several doors down for the sole purpose of buying a full bottle of wine off of them (and lo, it was a bottle of Maryland red (represent!) that set me back DOUBLE DIGITS! Someone stop me before I put mid-grade gas in my car at its next fill-up! I'M OUT OF CONTROL!1!!) -- I may have told a complete stranger, apropos of nothing (that I can remember), that they could "like, totally crash at my house, borrow my car, whatever," and offered to pick up someone's shift bartending at a local lesbian club later that evening. Yeah, I have no idea.

Beyond that spot of blistering, high-voltage thrills, I watched a lot of television. Which, you know, I normally do quite a bit of anyway. BUT NOT IN HAIKU.

Joel McHale on TV
Chat stew and dog's tail clipped
My underwear wet

---

My So-Called Life
Remembering '94
Grunge fashion sucked

---

That Juliet hag
Ratted out sweet preggo Sun
I'd punch in the face

I could go on and on. But I'll spare you that particular torment. Because I love.

Any plans to celebrate Saint Patty's today? Or did you -- like me -- get your fill of public drunkenness and/or green-tinted beer this weekend?

. . . . .
*I am, in fact, quite Irish (hence the unspeakable, unpronounceable horror that is my gaelic-flavored maiden name, Gaughran). This fact probably serves as a neat explanatory footnote to the aforementioned public drunkenness. I also love potatoes and leprechauns, if that helps with authentication any.

Mishy-mashy-meltdowny (updated)

1. I think I have the blogger's version of ADD right now. Are there any drugs yet available for that? BESIDES COKE, I MEAN. jeez!

2. Today marks 80 days since I quit smoking. (wee hurrah!) That's 1,920 hours worth of pure, unadulterated lung sacs, people. Not that I'm, err, obsessive-compulsively counting or anything. cough.

3. My friend Angela was over at our house last night (we have a standing date to watch “Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew” each Thursday, because we're so totally awesome like that), and gave good quote, as follows:

“Libertarians are like well-spoken retarded people.” - Angela

I'm thinking someone might need to get some sloganized bumper stickers, coffee mugs, and novelty t-shirts printed up, no?

4. Remember that whole bizarre and frightening “Inside Edition” thing? Well fasten your seatbelts, because the piece is airing TONIGHT*. As in... (gulp) mere hours from now. Which begs the question: if I being drinking NOW, will I still be conscious at 7pm when the segment airs? Or should I perhaps just go ahead and ask a friend to swing by around 6:30pm and bop me on the head with a hammer or something?

Hold me?

For the record, I am in reality much, MUCH more articulate, attractive, and funnier than I appear on TV. No, seriously. It's like TV is a car's rear-view mirror, and I'm an object that is much larger than it appears. Wait, that came out all wrong...

5. In light of the impendingness of #4, I feel I should now say: WELCOME, INSIDE EDITION OVERLORDS! Please make yourselves comfortable... kick off your shoes and have a cocktail, fer crissakes! And in case any of you were wondering, here's a sampling of what this blog is like when I'm not yammering on endlessly about my dorktastic dog. (Okay, so YES, there's still dog-yammering involved there... but we're talking a trivial 8% net dog-yammering when adjusted over 12 months. I should have some graphs and pie charts made -- maybe a powerpoint presentation, yes?)

6. Oh to hell with it.

I vant to be alooooone, far from the maddening crowds....

I has outside!

*UPDATE: Literally TWO EFFING MINUTES after I posted this, I got the following email in my inbox form the person at “Inside Edition” who'd written this morning to inform me the Truman piece would be running tonight:

“I JUST GOT THE NEW RUN DOWN FOR THE SHOW TODAY. THE SHOW WILL NOT BE AIRING THIS TODAY. Sorry for all the confusion. Due to Heath Ledger passing away we are doing a lot of pieces on him. I will let you know when the new air date is.”

Sorry everybody.

If you need me I'll be hiding under a large rock, mortified and blushing, until further notice. over/out.

A logic puzzle

Tracey likes to take pictures and share them on the internet. Recently, a photo of her dog was lifted from her website by a large media corporation and broadcast on television to millions. During the ensuing fracas, Tracey was contacted by a well-known TV newsmagazine and asked to give an interview about her experience, allow said dog to be filmed wearing a ridiculous santa costume, etcetera. The filming is set to take place tomorrow morning. Given this information, how freaked out is Tracey?

Answers:

1. OMFG WTF BBQ!?!?!
2. Think I can lose 20 pounds in the next 24 hours? Wait, the camera puts on 10, right? So make that 30.
3. aaaaiiieeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!
4. (brain silently explodes)
5. The dog's name is not Rex or Misty.

More than one answer may be correct. Tracey may also have just wet herself.

“Pizza? Now that's what I call a taco!”

I can't explain why this makes me so happy. It just does.

TACO TOWN!!!!

Have a good weekend, kiddos.

Bodymore, Murderland

Excellent timing, this.

I say that because my hometown paper, The Baltimore Sun, is the focus of the final season of HBO's The Wire, which premieres tonight at 9pm. And so I must take advantage of the synchronicity and use this opportunity to bludgeon all of you with my love for this show, which is fairly epic. Devotees of The Wire feel me in this, I'm sure.

Without overstating the matter (I swear!), it is perhaps the finest television show ever made -- complex and finely wrought, with characters so fully realized you feel as though they truly are real people. The Wire's stories of the post-industrial city and its inhabitants are always multi-dimensional and multi-faceted, expressing hard truths about our society -- and about humanity, broadly -- that don't have simple answers or neat conclusions. I deeply admire everything about the show, and hope this year will see it get it's due in the form of many shiny statuettes (hint, hint, Hollywood types).

You should so totally be watching, if you aren't already. I'd come over to your place and bring my DVDs of the first couple of seasons to convince you if I could, believe me.

/end obnoxious evangelizing. Go in peace, my bruthas and sistahs.

PS: I love this man. (Sorry, I couldn't resist a parting shot.)

All I want for Christmas is for FOX to stop using my copyrighted photos in their NFL broadcast without asking my permission

UPDATE!
. . . . . . . . . .

Is that so much to ask? Seriously?

SO. Here's what happened.

Earlier this afternoon I was in our kitchen doing dishes, minding my own business. Jamie was in the living room, watching some NFL football.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Suddenly, Jamie called to me from the other room, claiming I had to come see something. When I entered the room, he unpaused the broadcast he had been watching (thanks, TiVo!), and immediately I saw the image of an adorable pug, dressed in festive Santa gear, pop up at the bottom of the screen beside FOX's Happy Holiday's ticker. I vaguely remember Jamie saying something to me to the effect of, “Gee, that dog looks a lot like Truman, doesn't it?”, but I couldn't really process something as complex and nuanced as language at that moment, what with MY FREAKIN' HEAD EXPLODING ALL OVER THE PLACE. Because that adorable pug? That pug didn't just look a lot like Truman. THAT ADORABLE PUG *WAS* TRUMAN.

After making Jamie pause and rewind and unpause and re-rewind the incriminating footage several times, I was convinced beyond a shadow of doubt. FOX had gotten hold of one of my photos of Truman -- specifically one in a series I'd recently posted here with him wearing a Santa suit -- very slightly doctored the image by removing the flash-flare lighting his eyes (good aesthetic choice there, FOX!), slapped a superfluous Santa Hat on his head, and then dropped the purloined pic into the on-screen graphic rotation for their Saints/Eagles telecast.

I know. Can you even believe that bald-faced shit?

It took another appearance of Hijacked Truman on FOX's broadcast to convince Jamie. Always the eternal doubter and naysayer, it wasn't until FOX threw up on the screen a second, much larger version of the same photo, and I stood beside the television with my laptop in hand pointing studiously to my original photo and then to the nicked one on the television, that he became a believer. See for yourself:

EXHIBIT A: The original photo many of you already know and love:

Durr? You gonna eat that pizza crust or what?

EXHIBIT B: Shot of the screen during Truman's appearance:

OMFG! I've been sucked into an alternate dimension against my will! LE HALP!

EXHIBIT C: Detail of original and FOX's broadcast of the image:

I can has all rights reserved copyrights nao?

Yeah, so as you can imagine, I'm a teensy-weensy bit... oh, how shall I say? On the enraged, indignant, and generally pissed-off side.

I'm trying to imagine what went through the person's head that did this. Did they think that FOX, being a big ol' monolithic Capitalism-with-a-captial-C company could sort of, err, do whatever the hell they wanted? That the words ALL RIGHTS RESERVED and COPYRIGHT somehow didn't apply to them, despite being visible on my flickr stream and on every page of this site, respectively? Did FOX Broadcasting, without my knowledge or consent, sign a contact with Truman behind my back giving them rights to all extant images of his adorable, fawn-colored smushiness? I mean, I know Truman's a bit hungry for fame, but I never expected this kind of shameless Eve Harrington shit out of him. Traitor.

What really, REALLY sticks in my craw is that following all this I was forced not only to sit through several more hours of football just to make certain they didn't show the image again (yes, please shower me with your pity), but I also had to endure the endless tape-loop of FOX's NFL copyright warnings, which seemed to repeat every five minutes or so. Hilariously enough, FOX Broadcasting and the NFL are apparently very, very concerned about legal rights to their telecasts and rebroadcasts of their telecasts. They're concerned about -- ho ho, it's rich -- PEOPLE STEALING THEIR SHIT. But as far as them stealing other people's shit goes? Errm, not so much. See also: Please to go fuck yourself if you aren't us.

Oh and let's not forget that this is the corporation who sued YouTube over leaked TV Shows. Because people, traffic of content between the web and broadcast TV matters. Like, a lot and stuff.

Oh god, I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Listen, the bottomline is that this kind of thing has to stop. It's ridiculous. Hello, I OWN MY FREAKIN' CONTENT. How many times, and in how many different ways, do I need to say this? I have indicated on every single page of this site that my content is copyrighted. I have all rights reserved on my photos. So reason suggests that if you want to use a photo or some other content I've created on a national TV broadcast, YOU SHOULD ASK FIRST AND YOU NEED TO PAY ME FOR IT. And not in NFL-logo water bottles, commemorative hat pins, and autographed copies of The OReilly Factor For Kids. No no no. Greenbacks pleez, beeyatches. Dolla dolla bills, y'all.

In case it wasn't clear, FOX Broadcasting picked the wrong stupid Mommyblogger to mess with.

Oh and FOX legal -- if you're reading this -- you might want to get in touch. Jus sayin'.

PS: God bless us, every one! snort.

Try Try Try to Understand, He's a magic man

Last night Jamie stayed overnight in DC at a friend's house to watch the football season opener, drink some brewskies, and engage in the vaguely homoerotic-tinged behavior typically associated with male bonding (intimate-proximity arm wrasslin' and overheated discussions of gladiator movies, I reckon). So being home alone and carefree as I was, how did I take advantage of all this rare and glorious time to myself?

Well I spent a good chunk of it pondering the finer points of one Derren Brown.

Something is clearly very wrong with me. HALP.

Recalling the greatness

I posted about Louis C.K. here and on MamaPop a long while back, but then today my friend Kelly reminded me of the awesome, which you might have missed if you're living in some kind of backward-ass bizarro world devoid of all that is right and good. I've probably watched his HBO special Shameless about fifteen thousand times (give or take a thousand), yet the funny never, ever gets old:

Kelly's going to see him perform live tonight in Pittsburgh. I want to beat her face in with a rock, such is my jealousy.

Already missing Big Love? Have I got a show for you!

Mormons have always had a peculiar hold on the American imagination, but few know who the Mormons actually are or who they claim to be, and their story is one of the great neglected American narratives.

AMERICAN EXPERIENCE and FRONTLINE, two of PBS' most acclaimed series, join forces to present The Mormons, a new documentary series about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In two, two-hour episodes, filmmaker Helen Whitney (John Paul II: The Millennial Pope and Faith and Doubt at Ground Zero) explores both the history and the current reality of the Mormon faith. Whitney gained unusual access to Mormon archives and church leaders as well as dissident exiles, historians and scholars both within and outside the faith. “Through this film, I hope to take the viewer inside one of the most compelling and misunderstood religions of our time,” says Whitney.

Watch the entire program online here.

Dorky McDorkingpants

Now I just need to get my Flight Of The Conchords “Eat. Sleep. Folk.” T-Shirt and I'll be close to achieving Maximum Awesome.

Hug it out, betches, hug it out.

Antidepressant TV

I wrote about this over on ye olde MamaPop, but feel compelled to apply with a virtual sledgehammer my enthusiasm for HBO's new series Flight Of The Conchords here, which you should so totally watch and TiVo and love as I do. Its the one thing that's managed to cut through the melancholy of this past week for me, and so if it doesn't do well and gets cancelled you'll have to listen to even more of my whining. And no one wants that, right? Right.

OBEY MY WILL, INTARWEBS. C'mon, I'll buy you a kebab! Bwahahahaaa!

The Miller Metamorphosis

I've been far too busy recently to have many deep thoughts about much of anything, but if there's been one Big, Weighty Matter I've been mulling over in my head at all of late, its most certainly this: I am utterly horrified by what's become of Dennis Miller.

Thinking perhaps a leeettle *too* differently

This is brilliant:

For shame, Apple!

PS: Since starting up Sweetney I've liveblogged the Oscars here every year, but with the advent of Mamapop I'll instead be doin' the do over there this Sunday night, starting at 8pm EST. Join me, won't you?

Oh and speaking of the bald, shiny guy: have you yet entered the Mamapop Oscars Challenge? And have you seen the luscious booty to be bequeathed upon the winner? Time's-a-wastin', folks!

My Valentine to you

Continuing forward with the current Mental Instability & Music theme: Lookee! Steve from Blues Clues! AND! AND! JON STEWART!

I for one am feeling the love (oh yes, and the crazy, of course).

Thanks to Ozma for the heads-up!

Status Report From Toothless McGee

My friends, the toothy damage, she is done. But its nothing that a prescription for Vicodin can't fix. Apparently.

Wheeeeeeee!

But more of my root canal trials and tribulations later... In the interim, please join me over at ye olde Mamapop tonight roundabout 8pm for some good old fashioned liveblogging of The Golden Globes, which promises to be a fabulous spectacle of flash over substance that even those not pumped full of narcotics will appreciate (though -- and this probably goes without saying -- the drugs DO help. Wheeee!). Be there or be, like, L7, dudes.

Oh, and did I mention? WHEEEEEE!

I have a terrible, foreboding sense that once I run out of painkillers I'm going to be in for a mighty, painful crash. But in the meantime? EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL AND I LOVE EVERYBODY.

I know. Enjoy this while it lasts. I sure am. [Stifles superfluous “Whee!”]

My New Year's Gift To You

I can't think of anything that could start 2007 off on a better foot than this video of a conversation with Stephen Colbert (out of character) at Harvard:

I'm Going To Bake A Cake In The Shape Of The Moon Blowing Up

Its been a rough 24 hours here in the land of Sweetney, so I've decided to spend all my free time today watching Mr. Show, like so:

Somehow Mr. Show makes it all okay.

More soon. I owe ya'll some xmas shopping countdown booty, I know. Sorry for the delay.

Charlie Brown Christmas: The Alternate Ending

(NSFW language.)

Bowie

Oh man, this is seriously the funniest thing I've seen in a long, long time:

Guess this means there's YET ANOTHER freakin' television program I'm going to have to watch now. [grumble]

[Props to Amanda]

Borat's Guide To Wine Tasting

Yeah, its All Video Morning... But I had to share this:

I am CRYING from the funny, people.

More Borat guides to life here.

Aside To Those Of You Similarly Engaged In The Televised Self-Abuse Otherwise Known As Big Brother

Every time the words “chill” and “town” are employed, I feel myself drawing closer to some sort of psychotic break. One that might involve me tracking down Julie Chen and punching her in the face.

And seriously, did they bring the goods branded with theaformentionedpsychosisproducingtwowordsishallnotspeak into the house themselves, of their own free will? And are they TWELVE YEARS OLD? Did they, like, build a fort in the backyard so they could have a quiet place to perfect their drawings of the Van Halen logo on their Trapper Keepers? What?

Harm City.

Yesterday I got an email from the illustrious Bret McCabe, Arts Editor over at ye olde Baltimore Citypaper, apologizing for not showing up to Saturday's Rock-n-Romp, at which a mutual friend of ours played. He explained that he'd been doing rewrites all weekend for a Citypaper cover story, and that [I] would like to say that my absence turned into a solid cover feature on the new season of “The Wire,” but at this point I've seen it so many times I really can't tell anymore.

In replying, I simply stated that, Dude, you write a piece doing that show justice and ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN. And I'm pleased to report that, having read the article this morning, I will not have to kick Bret McCabe's ass.

Rockstar: Supernova Aside.

That Lukas kid? Oompa Loompa meets young Marlon Brando.

Did I just nail it, or what?

Okay, here's another for you, because I love: Broody Ryan? One hundred percent David Blaine.

[Bows] Thankyouverymuch.

Mars, Bitches!

How much do we miss Dave Chappelle?

Introducing...

My favorite thing EVER.

No, I'm serious here. EVER.

PS: Yo Mullah Is So Fatwah...

On Watching Rock Star: Supernova.

Without consciously realizing it, I must be filled with self-loathing, spiked with a streak of masochism.

Yes, quite clearly I hate my guts.

PS: Nevertheless, my money's on the Oompa Loompa guy. Won't someone please tell him about the hair?
PPS: Is Zayra trying to be Bjork or Karen O? And do you think she knows the answer to that question?

I Love This Woman.

If you don't already read Amalah (and DUH, who are you?), this is exactly why you should.

When we were at the beach, Noah was kind of coveting M_'s Blue from Blue's Clue's stuffed animal, to the point where she felt it necessary to go up to him and say, and I quote: “Umm, Baby? Don't suck on my Blue.”

Precious moments, indeed.

Did he think Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper were just a little bit snotty?

This morning I've been sitting here, idly trying to think of questions I'd be asking Steve Burns were I interviewing him (shakes fist at Marrit). You know, stuff like: on a scale of one to ten, how gay is the Present Store cash register? And do you hate Joe as much as we do? And umm would you like to make out with me? So much to know!

And I haven't even begun to broach his failed career as an indie rocker yet (though perhaps failed isn't the right word; once a member of the Flaming Lips produces an album of yours, I think you're probably treading into avant-garde territory, where failure isn't really part of the lexicon).

I know he has in his possession the original Thinking Chair. I wonder if he still sits down in it and thinks. Thinks. Thi-i-i-inks.

Does he miss the throngs of worshipful moms (oh yeah, and kids. Whatever.)?

Does he still wear his green striped shirt? How about the fluffy bunny slippers?

Does he still love us, as we love him (sniff)?

OMG, LIKE, YOU GUYS!

News flash! I've just learned that my dearest Marrit (who's a freelance journalist, if ya didn't know) is going to be interviewing... wait... for... it.... STEVE BURNS.

Yes, THAT Steve Burns. Steve! OMGWTF couldn't you just DIE?

If you've been reading sweetney for any length of time, its probably become abundantly clear to you that I have, well, something of a wee girl crush on Marrit. But now I'm painfully torn between my long-standing desire to (oh-so-lovingly) kidnap her so that we can run off together to a land where pure lady love can flourish unimpeded (and please don't sully my love with your banal sexuality; I'm talking here about a love that transcends the base appetites of this mortal coil, man), and the sudden impulse to claw her eyes and pull out handfuls of her hair while maniacally shrieking: GET AWAY FROM HIM, YOU BITCH!

There is, apparently, a razor-thin line between psychotic stalkery love and lunatic jealous hate. Sad, really.

Unrelated PS: For those of you following this comments thread, I've just posted a couple relevant follow-ups there, so check it.

Gore On The Daily Show.

What, you were expecting original content from me, the link master?

Behold, an intimate glimpse into one of Tracey's dreams realized:

Two men I'd like to kiss.

Admittedly this would've been improved upon if Jon had, for example, had his shirt off. But beyond that? Perfect.

Lost Geekery.

Lost action figures coming, Fall 2006!

“McFarlane Toys' Lost Series 1 captures six fan-favorite characters from the series' first season: Jack, Kate, Locke, Hurley, Charlie and Shannon.”

Umm... Shannon? Dude, what about Sawyer?! DUH!

Anyway, I know you're all going to be watching the American Idol finale tonight instead of Lost. But if you're anything like me, you'll be TiVoing Lost for viewing RIGHT FUCKING AFTER Taylor's win. Because its just that important. [cough]

Down The LOST Rabbit Hole.

Jamie sent me an email with the following info and this note from him: “Bye-bye freetime and good parenting!”

Sadly accurate.

In what's being hailed as the largest interactive challenge based on a TV series, ABC and 19 other networks stretching across five continents are introducing “Lost Experience” — an Internet game that will feature a parallel story line that will give insight into the top-rated show. It is world-wide, and fans from different countries will have to reach out to each other and trade information if they want to start sleuthing. “The game reaches back into 'Lost' history and looks forward to future episodes,” said Mike Benson, senior vice president of marketing for ABC Entertainment. The game is specifically designed in a manner that is not dependent on information from season one or season two.

EDIT: Yet another email from Jamie: "Its hard to read as a huge link, yo." Sigh.

David Blaine: Drowned Alive.

I know. I can't believe I'm watching this either.

PS: Thank christ he's underwater, because having to listen to his nasal drone for an hour might be enough to cause me to undergo some sort of catastrophic mental break.

PPS: Anybody know what the odds are in Vegas right now for Blaine actually drowning?

PPPS: Yes, indeed I am that ghoulish.

This Exquisite Moment Courtesy Of The Email Spammers Of America.

A little something-something, composed solely from email subject lines received in the past two weeks (General Foods International Coffee-drinking in conjunction with reading this HIGHLY recommended):

Need chrysanthemum highhanded

Do chorale it cattlemen
Made abysmal red
On scathe or explore
Or form may gasp
YOUR ASSISTANCE IS SPEEDLY NEEDED.

Little baptiste the backplane
May experience aforesaid
Cliff, or prison
Again typeface but adoption
The provoke sang.

--by Ezra Pound (HA!)

[wiping away a single, perfect teardrop] That was almost as moving as the email I received today from Scotland's National Lottery informing me that I AM (somehow, mysteriously) THEIR WINNER! ONE MEEEELLION DOLLARS (or whatever their fakey monopoly-money-like currency is over there)!!!

[Insert Chappelle's Show closing credit clip:] I'M RICH, BEEYATCH!

You little people will still love me when I'm all flush with Scottish pelf, won't you?

In other news from other media, I have succumbed to the seductive, antiseptic wiles of that medical drama-type show House, and shall now commence with having vague, semi-sexual fantasies about its title character, who somehow manages to make limping borderline HOT.

PS: Besides me, who else here is totally the bitch of delicious dried mango slices?

American Idol 5: The Ridiculing.

Bucky: Lose The Pseudostache, dude. Cause you're seriously creeping me out with that.

Ace: I'm sorry, but you're not THAT cute.

Kelly: Self-destructive much, honey?

Daughtry: Tonight was it Nickleback, Creed, or Live? I can't quite put my finger on it... [Aside: Dude can sing, no doubt. But he's completely undynamic -- one note, cranked up to ELEVEN, for 3 full minutes -- and I find that, well, boring frankly.]

Katherine: UGH! Am I the only person who thought that was HORRIBLE? I don't know what the judges are on (okay, so I know what Paula is on, but that aside), but in my book that was a virtual cringefest.

Elliott: BLINK, DAMMIT, BLINK!!!

Taylor: He just finished the Elvis gestalt of that song.

Paris: I guess a person can rock out to elevator music.

American Idol Aside.

Paula Abdul? COMPLETELY DRUNK.

As I'd be if I had to judge this snoozefest. Did somebody slip some quaaludes in all of their Cokes before the show or what?

The Men Of American Idol In Two Sentences (More Or Less).

While the underdog-lover in me truly wants Taylor Hicks to win (if only because he's old -- well, relatively -- and as a decrepit mid-thirtish Elderly Lady, I like to see the oldsters come out on top), deep in my heart I know he's the Marty of Rock Star: INXS to Chris Daughtry's J.D.: the dude with more talent and personality who just plain isn't cute enough.

And, relatedly, a little heads-up to Chris Daughtry: this world does not need more Creed.

Blonde. Blonder. Blondiest.

I found the Periodic Table of Blondness particularly disturbing, but the whole thing is a more than a little, durr, creepy in its replicant/stepford wives-ish homogenization.

Newsflash: Heidi Klum is a B-yatch.

Like you're surprised.

I for one know precisely what I'll be doing tonight.

And will Bravo, which has its chief stake in Heidi Klum's bigger show, allow this display of her callousness to appear on her program's spinoff, “Project Jay”? Apparently so, as it's here tonight.

WOO-HOO!!

we the people of the united states of america speak as one: please send more drugs.

so i just saw one of those slick, cinematic pharmaceutical company commercials with dulcet-toned voiceovers and lots of vigorous, energetic people of indeterM_te age Being Active in various upper-middle-class-looking situations and environments, hawking a drug designed to treat something called Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS).

and i have to say that i think something about this commercial disagreed with my central nervous system, as immediately following its viewing i felt sudden and intense waves of nausea, coupled with hot flashes and (inexplicably) painful and persistent itching in my rectum. in short, its my belief that the images and sound in the commercial, combined with the substance of its message, triggered a condition i've recurrently suffered called What The Fuck (WTF).

THINK THEY GOT A DRUG FOR THAT?

bite-sized tv nuggets.

1. Number One Single: oh my god, lisa loeb is so cute IT BURNS. seriously, i thought i would surely hate her as i hated that song “Stay” of hers, but NO! she's perky and fun in a way that, oddly enough, isn't totally irritating. she's like the perfect archetypal materialization of my ideal little sister (except, uhh, she's older than me). and she gets all doe-eyed and tearful at the right moments. and she collects hello kitty memorabilia.

so what i'm basically saying is: i think i want to marry lisa loeb.

2. Project Runway: like him or no, its still santino's show. he's grown on me, despite my initial reluctance. maybe it was his impression of tim gunn that pressed me to finally say to hell with it and surrender my heart, maybe not. but regardless there it is, quivering meatily in his hands.

my money's on daniel, though.

3. damn them for no new LOST episode. damn them.

random golden globes* thoughts.

-- luke wilson is one fucked-up looking motherfucker.

-- terri hatcher: “all i'll say is that my daddy didn't give me enough hugs.”

-- OMG did he just say angelina jolie is coming up?!?

-- re: gena davis: MENSA *and* funny! who knew?

-- re: steve carell: what, no thanks to jon? LET US ALL GIVE THANKS TO JON.

-- no jolie yet. *commence with jolie watch 2006.* EDIT: i may have imagined the mention.

-- whooo... who's the pride & prejudice dude? RAWR!

-- jamie on mariah carey: “look! her boobs are bigger than her head!”

-- gwyneth paltrow: “i'm pregnant! and adorable! don't hate me!”

-- please don't tell me that joaquin phoenix is a scientologist (just a little spooked by that embrace with travolta). after beck, i can't take another one turning all “going for clear” on me...

-- YAY LOST! dudes!

*or, as jamie just renamed it, “the oscars for poo-poo heads.”

think of, like, Planet of the Apes... but with lots more drool and a noticeable absence of opposable thumbs.

slack mofo that i am, a holiday vacation isn't considered merry or complete by yours truly without obsessive television consumption. the present fixation du jour? The [Motherfucking] Dog Whisperer! (okay, so the series title is a little retarded. and yes, i did add the whole 'motherfucking' bit to emphasize the hardcoreness (or dogcoreness, if you will) of the dude in question.... but o ye of little faith, T[M]DW will make you believe.... and then rub your very sensitive nose in it.)

besides his [i was going to say 'animal magnetism' here, but then decided that stooping that low grossed even me out] spicy, south-of-the-border hottness [okay, so that phrasing may be even slightly more repulsive. i'm sorry.], dog whisperer dude Cesar Milan turns evil, snarling, frothing demon dogs into mellow, obedient throw pillows in minutes. i'm serious as a freaking coronary -- literal minutes. in one episode, they show T[M]DW turn a dog almost instantly supplicant simply by setting his steely, canine-bewitching gaze upon the pooch (who, receiving T[M]DW's Evil Eye, then rolled on its back in full-on I Give The Fuck Up BECAUSE YOU SO ROCK submission) -- such is the preternatural puppy-mastery of T[M]DW.

i've been applying T[M]DW's techniques with Cujo Truman the past few days, and the change has been quite seriously astonishing. like, we're able to have him in the same room with us without having to, you know, scream bloodcurdlingly at him every 3.5 seconds because he's trying to inhale one of the cats or something. all of a sudden he's noticeably calmer, he listens to us like the underling he's supposed to be, and he's stopped deploying the chompy pirana-mouth thing he's had going on relative to many of our appendages since we got him over a year ago. friends, its a Festivus miracle!

so if you have one of them dog thingies, i strongly recommend you devote several hours to obsessive Dog Whisperer viewing this week. because if the human race is to remain the ruling species, we must surely continue to assert our dominion over the canines among us and remain forever vigilant, so that they don't turn rogue and start secretly plotting the dog revolution.

oh happy day.

okay folks, now hear this:

if you ever, ever listen to me about ONE THING, let it be the following: IMMEDIATELY RENT THE FILM “RIZE.”

The film features an abundance of dance footage, which in a fictional context or without benefit of cultural background would feel excessive. But LaChappelle's celebratory approach to the material, which follows several groups of dancers as they reveal their philosophical manifestos, relishes the social and political underpinnings that make their movements not mere choreographic wonders, but almost unwitting expressions of rage, frustration and liberation. The dancing adopts proportions larger than the set of circumstances from which it came – and which will no doubt be shared by many of the film's most dedicated audiences – and achieves a certain, human poetry; viewers will find themselves not just bouncing to the beats of the music, but vibrating with excitement at the prospect that these people endured some of the worst conditions available in America and triumphed, resoundingly, to great personal and professional success.

There have been other films about dancing, about competitions and about achieving victory over insurmountable odds. But the key difference between that film and Rize is that there are no tangible victories for LaChappelle's subjects. The film doesn't culM_te in a cathartic victory that validates their efforts, but witnesses the transcendence of these individuals over the adversity of their upbringing and a much more ambiguous “win” over the destructive pressures of their environment.*
[-Todd Gilchrist]

by far the best film i've seen in... forever. unbelievably moving and multi-layered. imagine if Do The Right Thing were a film about a modern dance movement (it'll make sense when you see it). were i still back teaching at Michigan State, i'd be using this as part of a discussion of race in present-day america.

run. go. now.

i'm all about the random linkage right now.

can you tell i'm busy these days with, you know, my war on christmas?

seriously though, check it: this site cracks my shit up. in particular, behold the rehashed glory of this and this... oh and this.

perhaps i am too deeply in love with pop culture. huh. is that even possible?

mr. and mrs. cutiepiepants.

so we watched mr. and mrs. smith last night, and enjoyed it far more than expected. twas unexpectedly funny, and some of the action/fight scenes were simultaneously hilarious and spellbinding (the culM_ting shoot-out is so john wootastic, it bordered on explicit homage). two thumbs up! two thumbs up! oh yeah, and it certainly doesn't hurt that two of the most freakishly beautiful human specimens on planet earth are on screen together during 90% of the film. say what you like, but i'm anxiously awaiting the spawn of that union. jolie needs to stop adopting other people's babies and get on producing the pitt-jolie SuperBaby, which will doubtless have crystalline blue eyes, flowing golden tresses, flawless skin, and gorgeously pouty lips. they'll have him/her under contract to a major studio while still in-utero, such will be the promise of the SuperBaby.

additional catty aside: what THE HELL was aniston thinking in letting him make that movie (i assume she saw the script and knew who was cast as the mrs. beforehand, but perhaps not...)? the mind boggleth.

f**k christmas.

GENIUS!

and, to follow-up, just a little clarity regarding what christmas is all about.*

we call it xmas around here, incidentally.

EDIT: d'oh! i posted *this link and then later realized the original source is here: fuckchristmas.org. just, uhh, clarifyin'.

But I don't need any of your pity /I got plenty of my own friends /They're all above me

had the most crapful of crappiest days (more on that tomorrow, once i've reconstituted my crushed soul by way of a little H20 and a ribbed circular jello mold), but if seeing the white stripes on the daily show wasn't the cure for what ails me, it was damn close.

praise hayzeus for The Jon and The Rock.

LOST: its like falling in love all over again.

that ana lucia sure is one tough cookie.

[squee!!]

RE: tonight's LOST.

OH.SHIT.

getting my geek on.

a little birdie (a sparrow, in fact... amanda sparrow!) directed me to this fine New York Times product:

A 'Lost' Ship With Leaks

just so you can begin, as you should, getting all hyped up about tonight's new (and apparently deadly) episode.

huzzah, fellow nerd.

she's kind of like billy bob thornton's character in “sling blade”... meaning, you know, retarded.

so i just endured watched the season finale of My Fair Brady... because, yes, i like pain... and i have to say that as irritating as she so clearly is, that adrienne chick is so guilelessly simple-minded that i can't help but find her ever-so-slightly endearing.

which isn't so say i wouldn't punch her in the face if given the chance. or, say, let loose a pack of wild, rabid attack ferrets in her bedroom late at night. because i've seriously considered it, believe me. noM_l winsomeness only gets one so far here in sweetneyland.

gravitas

colbert v. stone phillips on the former's new show.

added to the list of people i'd pay 1K+ to punch in the face.

every single teenager featured on Mtv's My Super Sweet Sixteen.

it would put me in debtor's prison, but i'd go to lock-up happily, knowing i'd really made a significant contribution to society in my lifetime.

define masochistic.

because we just bought her a boombox for her birthday, this evening i actually -- of my own free will, and without any coercion -- downloaded the Lazytown CD for M_ from the itunes music store.

christ do i love that girl.

pictured: the evil masterminds behind what will no doubt be my soundtrack for the next 70 gazillion hours.

goddammit.

do you guys know about this lazytown shit? or am i just living in some alternate, more grotesque and hellish dimension?

i've got your society of the spectacle right here.

what is it with you people who don't watch LOST? are you just trying to be contrarian? or -- oh -- do you not even own a tv, because its lowbrow spectacle ceased to amuse you once you worked your way through the greats of both ancient and modern literature and started hand-rolling your own cigarettes while listening to NPR and drinking french press coffee every morning? hmmm? (note: that last sentence shamelessly paraphrases something the old hag said, and she's worth stealing from err quoting). too good for us, are you?

listen, cut that shit out and climb aboard the happyland train with the rest of us amusing ourselves to death. ITS FUN! and, seriously, a single episode of LOST is probably more edifying than reading, like, most contemporary poetry. and probably all of the Beats -- with the possible exception of things written by paul bowles, who isn't really a Beat anyway. and pretty much everything written in the 1970s besides Gravity's Rainbow. so yeah, cross the latter half of the 20th C. off your literary To Do list and JOIN US.

Lost.

no, i mean really lost. heh.

anyone know if JJ Abrams is a comics dude, or has some background related to comics?

know what i'm sayin'?

its still pretty fucking impressive, regardless. i can't believe they let a show this smart and multi-layered on broadcast television.

the emmys: why do i do it to myself?

(a running monologue. imagine me drunk and slurringly swearing at the TV, and you'll instantly grasp the tone)

-- if everybody loves raymond wins any more emmys, i'm going to go on strike. on strike from life, by gum.

-- i still love ducky. [insert strains of please please please let me get what i want]

-- jon stewart should never lose anything, you hear me?! bastards.

-- is it wrong of me to say that i find hugh laurie's oozing, bitter indifference sexy? would that make me, umm, oh-so-slightly psychologically unwell?

-- i would like to state for the record that i am FUCKING APPALLED that The Wire was noM_ted for *nothing*. its criM_l, and it disgusts me. you emmy people should be ashamed. /end righteous indignation.

arrrgh!! everybody loves raymond DIE!!!

-- when i look at neil patrick harris now, all i can think about is him humping the back of the driver's seat in harold's car. its, well, disturbing, quite frankly.

-- crap! i had no idea The Wire was noM_ted for writing! but let's just agree that this doesn't excuse the general lack of recognition for what is clearly the best drama on television. period. hrrmph.

-- to the miniseries/made for tv movie portion of the show: you bore me. [taps foot impatiently]

-- the shatner doing the star trek theme bit: genius.

yawn. i'm outie.

i [heart] reality tv.

to anyone else watching rockstar: INXS: is it just me, or is marty walking away with this thing?

if certain someones were smart, certain someones would be releasing that trees song, pronto.

and i like his dancing. i mean, think about the first time you saw jagger doing his spastic aerobics onstage.

yes, i just made that comparison.

okay, i'm done being a dork for the day. as you were.

stossel enlightens us with regard to the homosexuals.

for some absurd reason or other jamie and i are presently subjecting ourselves to the televised abomination that is 20/20, and that withered soul john stossel just said: “gaydar comes from radar... an ability to see what is hidden.”

anyone know how i can get in touch with stossel? i'd like to make an appointment to meet with him in-person so i can, you know, punch him in the face.

i'm calling for a national day of mourning.

somebody get me a bottle of whiskey so i can pour a little out for my homie.

[sniff.]

this week's Six Feet Under (spoilery).

man, narrative arc *complete.*

sure its sad, but you gotta hand it to the writers -- that shit is smart, on many levels.

its almost like those folks read themselves some narrative/film theory or somethin'. heh.

durrr...

tube-related aside.

are any of you watching that morgan spurlocktastic “30 Days” on FX?

tonight's episode centered around a middle-aged mother's attempt to prove a point to her college-aged daughter by binge drinking greek-style for, you guessed it, a month. as it turns out, proving said point involved a lot of vomiting. and some bowling.

now that's what i call quality television, people.

for your viewing pleasure.

1. check out life on the emo farm. [snort]

2. starting this evening, HBO is replaying all of season 3 of The Wire wednesday nights at 8pm on HBO2. so fire up the tivo, and give thanks to supernatural beings you don't really believe in that this show will still be around after Six Feet Under's demise this summer.

i [heart] dave.

i caught some of 60 minutes this sunday (because i'm an old person, and that's their target demographic), and lo there was a timely repeat of an interview with dave chappelle that originally aired about a year ago, and lo, it was good.

funnest fact? dave lives not in NYC or LA, but in middle-of-nowhere ohio, on a humungo farm he bought there. quoth the dave: “It's all paid for, baby... This is the kiss-my-ass farm, show business. How about that?”

i wish i could fly to south africa and kiss the man.

baby, one more time.

the best thing about all of this is the forthcoming UPN reality tv show.

i think this calls for the creation of a new tagline for the network. here are some suggestions:

UPN: Oops! We did it again! (okay, that was a cheap shot)
UPN: Ranked #1 in Trailer Parks nationwide!
UPN: We're the assholes who brought you The Mullets and WWF Smackdown!
UPN: The Scrapple of televised entertainment!

and so forth. please add your own in the comments.

kitchen confidential.

apparently there's a sitcom in the works based on anthony bourdain's kitchen confidential.

its a great book. so i can only imagine that they're going to royally screw that shit up.

stupid FOX.

still sans pulse. details at 11.

enlighten me, dearest interweb: how is the pope's death still, and i quote, a “developing story”?

i mean, the guy's dead. there's not really much “developing” beyond that, right?

well, unless the pope visited this page recently.

he who embodies the lead singer of every sub pop band circa 1992.

i can't believe that constantine dude on american idol just said “during the 90s i was really into grunge.”

dude, that was BEYOND stating the obvious. like that was so stretched past stating the obvious that it now exists in a future temporal dimension of the obvious. yeah.