Monday, January 31, 2011

Respectfully I Say to Thee

The grocery store was truly cranking out the hits tonight, and the disco hit parade included a song I’d never heard before. Not only was it notable for being new, but it also included lyrics I would never have expected to hear in a pop song: “Respectfully I say to thee / I’m aware that you are cheating.” Which is rather a polite way to call someone out for being a lying bastard, no?


Please note the many kinds of crazy going on in the above video.

Turns out the song is “Upside Down,” by Diana Ross, which I find strange because I was under the impression that Ross was a great singer, yet there’s nothing vocally spectacular about this song. Still, the choice of words — especially the thee, given what’s been on my mind lately — seemed remarkable. Overall, the weirdness of the song reminds me of a far less important pop cultural footnote, but it’s also one that I’m happy to post as often as possible: that time Padma Lakshmi sang.


Here’s to all the awkward songs.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

The End of Crocodile Dundee Did Not Come as a Result of Australian Wildlife

The Crocodile Dundee saga has a rather tragic epilogue, and it’s wholly unrelated to the box office receipts of the third movie. While mentioning the character immediately brings to mind Paul Hogan, the actor who portrayed the fictional character on screen, few realize that the outback-enduring, walkabout-taking, chazwazza-taming 80s hero had a real-life inspiration: Rodney Ansell. As Wikipedia explains, he survived a trip up the FItzmaurice River in 1977 and subsequent two-month trek through the rugged Northern Territory terrain after his fishing boat sunk near the mouth of the Victoria River. Once he returned to civilization, Ansell became a national hero. Media attention surrounding his ordeal inspired Hogan and writers to compose the script for the 1986 movie Crocodile Dundee. But while Dundee ended up marrying citified New York reporter Sue Charlton and Hogan ended up marrying the actress who portrayed her, Linda Kozlowski, Ansell fell on far rougher times, ultimately “attacking” a home near Darwin (whatever that means) and ambushing the responding officers. He killed one, but the slain officer’s partner fatally shot Answell.


And that’s what became of the man who, kinda-sorta in a movie, taught America to laugh at how confusing bidets are.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

This Is Between You and Me

Today, the word of the week is a handy, French term that I first encountered on the blog A Walk in the Words, which I found when one of its featured the word longicorn and cited my blog as the source. A reciprocal move seemed appropriate, and this word fit the spirit of polite give-and-take.
tutoyer (too-twa-YAY) — verb: to address familiarly
If you’re at all familiar with Romance languages, you could have guessed that this was a verb. Its components, however, are the French pronouns tu, “thou,” and toi, “thee” — that is, the informal forms of the you in the nominative and accusative cases. So, literally, this word means something like “thou-thee-ing somebody.” But given that English no longer uses thou except in old phrases (such as holier-than-thou) and instances in which formality is needed (such as Star Wars’s “What is thy bidding, my master?”), I’m not sure that explanation gets the point across. So try this: Tutoyer is the “Hey, buddy” of verbs, the “All right, listen, lady” you’d use when it seems inappropriate to say, “If you don’t mind the intrusion, madam.”

Since I’m on the subject of you and thou, I’ll point out that the transition away from separate, singular and plural second-person pronouns is interesting, at least to me. It was French influence that flattened these terms into just one, all-around usage. French has polite and impolite pronouns, tu for your drinking buddy but vous for, like, your boss or the king or God. As a result, tu and its related forms can sound rude or even condescending. This rule got mapped onto English, and you became a safer bet than thou. It’s ironic, then, that thou today has an air of formality, history, ceremony and nobility. Personally, I think English would benefit from an accepted plural, second-person pronoun, since you can be confusing as a result of this lack. And y’all elicits weird reactions when you don’t have a Southern accent. If only youse guys would catch on.

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Friday, January 28, 2011

Well, Doctor, It Kind of Looked Like Chocolate

I have no control what kind of food comes into my office. That much must be said. Also, I don’t eat most of it, because any relief from hunger would be offset by the sensation of garbage food liquefying in my stomach, then solidifying, then causing digestive distress for days.

Ahem.

However, I have to admit that I have a sick fascination with these horrible food things that I haven’t been around since my freshman year. Some are even new to me. And they regularly fascinate me in their awfulness. Here’s the current champion:


Yes, Special K’s Chocolatey Drizzle. Chocolatey Drizzle. Not Chocolate Drizzle, which would make sense, but instead a spattering of chocolate-like or perhaps chocolate-looking goo. Personally, I don’t think a food-like product should share a name with a polite descriptor for a symptom of food poisoning. But even more than that, I’m bothered by the use of chocolatey over chocolate because I wonder if it’s not chocolate at all. Instead, it’s a chocolate-like substance that Kellog’s can’t legally market as chocolate but can as being chocolatey. You know, in the way that a purple SweeTart is grapey or a Slim Jim is meaty. Finally, I want to express concern that people should not be eating anything that they could conceivably expel from their body in more or less the same form. (Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and chocolatey drizzle to chocolatey drizzle.)

Look for it on the shitty food aisle!

Fringe Event in My Office Parking Lot

My weirdness for the week: Olivia Dunham works in my office complex.


Parking placard for Peter Bishop — which, yes, does exist — will be photographed as soon as I can do so without looking creepy.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Everybody Party Party

In the Glenda Goodwin post, I mentioned having to find an image of Mena Suvari dressed as and rapping as Aaron Carter. You know, for work. Here it is, for the world to enjoy.


Best Mena Suvari role ever. Seriously. Everyone remembers her for American Beauty. I remember her for this. (Read the sketch here.)

Each Shirt Comes With Unique Pattern of Stripper Blood!

I don’t know what I did to make this Google ad show up, but I’m honestly sorry.


It’s even more distressing imagining what kind of people would want to be more Charlie Sheen-like.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

A Whole List of Stuff That’s Gonna Freak You Out

On Saturday, November 9, 2002, I stayed in, despite it being the autumn of my third year of college and despite Isla Vista parties abounding around me. Two roommates and I drank beer and watched a Nia Vardolos-hosted episode of Saturday Night Live. Second from last in the queue of sketches in this glorious, Tina Fey-era episode was one titled “Glenda Goodwin, Attorney at Law.” I loved it, but I’d wouldn’t watch it again until tonight.

As near as I could tell, neither Comedy Central nor E! reruns of SNL ever bothered with the Nia Vardolos episode, possibly because network execs had since realized that the success of My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding was a fluke and that people didn’t care for Vardolos. Perhaps they objected as well to the musical guest, Eve. I’ll never know. But I can say that videos of this sketch have been impossible to come by, possibly because every other person on the planet didn’t enjoy it as much as my twenty-year-old self did. I had given up. However, today, I had to sign up for Hulu Plus for work purposes — oddly enough, to get a decent screengrab of a 2001 episode of SNL in which Mena Suvari appears as Aaron Carter and raps about helping wash his grandmother’s hair — and I realized after work that this had finally given me access to this much-sought-after (by me) sketch. I rewatched it, for the second time ever and for the first time sober. I still enjoyed it, though not as much as I thought I would. So I got drunk and rewatched it. I still just enjoyed it, and though I plan to continue drinking until it’s hilarious — I’m blacked out as I type this, BTW — I figured the least I could do would be to reproduce it for people who read this blog and the surprisingly many people who stumble onto it looking for Glenda Goodwin. I’m not sure how to steal Hulu’s magic and reproduce the video itself, so I felt the best I could do would be screengrabs and a synopsis, which, yes, would hammer Maya Rudolph’s comic timing into plain text but at least would get the point across. So here, then, in the best way I can imagine, is “Glenda Goodwin, Attorney at Law.”


[Dated clip of two cars crashing]


Have you been injured in an auto accident? Fallen and hurt your back? How about burnt you hand on a fryer?


Sure, personal injuries are serious business. But who’s going to represent you when you have personal injuries of a more unusual nature, like being attack by werewolves? Or what about pirates? Hi, I’m Glenda Goodwin, attorney at law. Have you or a loved one been injured in some freaky situation that you are scared to tell other attorneys about?


Well, now you don’t have to worry about it. Because I am here to represent you in all personal injury claims, no matter how scary. Like…






>You think I’m foolin’? Well, why don’t y’all listen to this?


Testimonial: I rear-ended a pick-up trick, and was going to have to pay thousands of dollars in damages. Then i talked to Glenda Goodwin, and she convinced me that an invisible robot took control of the wheel and forced me to hit the truck. And then the invisible robot forced me to flee the scene. I know it sounds crazy to sue an invisible robot, but Glenda Goodwin convinced me she could get me a settlement of over $6,000.


Case pending!


Thanks, Joan Petriccelli. But the horror doesn’t stop there. You heard about that guy who was stealing construction equipment? Turns out a mummy put a hex on him and told him to do it. And I will do my stuff and get him his money from that mummy and the U.S. government.


Case pending!

I also got a whole list of stuff that’s gonna freak you out. You can come to me if you’ve been bothered by any of the following, such as:


Cyborgs


Tyrannosaurus Rexes


Alien dudes


Count Draculas


Sleestaks


The boogeyman


Outlaws


Hunchbacks


Sea monkeys


Minotaurs [pronounced “MY-no-taurs”]


Lou Ferrigno


Portraits with moving eyeballs


Gremlins


And Forny Numbskruls [Unsure of transcription here. Anyone?]

Man, I almost broke into a sweat just looking at those things. But don’t take my word for it. I got a whole bunch of people that want to talk. Just listen to this:


I was using a ladies’ room at Target, but there was no sign to indicate that they had just mopped the floor. I was coming out of the stall, and slipped on a [Dubbed over in Glenda Goodwin’s voice: Thunderwolf]. Luckily, [Dubbed: Glenda Goodwin] got a settlement of over $50,000. Thanks, [Dubbed: Glenda Goodwin].


Hey, no problem. No case is too big, too weird or too small. Call me, Glenda Goodwin: I’ll believe ya. And I may be able to get you some money, too. [An ape in a space helmet charges into frame.]


Aaahhh! I’ll sue you!


[fin]

That’s it. Didn’t enjoy it? Go have a few and try again. Glenda showed up in three subsequent sketches that I know of: one in the Kate Winslet-hosted episode about Halloween costumes and another in which she hosted a community forum talk show alongside her “stone cold lesbian” friend Renata (Rachel Dratch). Easily her most famous appearance happened long after Maya Rudolph left SNL, in the Will Ferrell-hosted season finale that aired in May 2009. Maya randomly showed up at a funeral and sang about sasquatch. (And she did so to much applause, considering the obscurity of the original sketch.)


The important thing to take away about Glenda Goodwin is this: She is the single recurring SNL character who most believes in sasquatch.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Blocks, Blocks, Blocks, Blocks

Hey, remember Tetris?


It’s, um, the Russian one with the blocks. And it’s relevant today, says me.
tetromino (tet-RAH-mi-noh) — noun: a plane or solid figure constructed by joining together four identical polygons edge-toedge
Though I can remember Nintendo Power back in the day referring to the Tetris blocks as tetrads, the term used by non-video game dorks (though still by dorks, because come on) is apparently tetrominos, and not because Tetris blocks fall from the sky and tetromino happens to sound like something parachuters would yell. The term comes from the combination of the root tetra, meaning “four,” and domino. But in inventing this word, someone made an interesting assumption, whether consciously or not.

Like tetrominos, dominoes are shapes constructed by joining identical polygons — just two of them instead of four.


And it would seem that someone decided to treat -omino as if it meant something on its own, and the initial “d” like it was a contraction of di-, a word that can mean “two.” That’s not the case; domino comes from the Latin word dominus, “lord” or “master,” either because whoever wins gets to claim that title or because the black titles used in the game resembled the domino, a black garment word by certain officials in the eighteenth century. However, domino got reinterpreted and -omino took on meaning on its own. (In that way, it’s a lot like helicopter, which breaks into word parts a lot differently than most people would guess.) Now we have triominos (which have three squares) to dodecominos (which have twelve squares) onto infinitominos (which I just made up, but which theoretically exist). We even have n-ominos to represent every size of polyomino in between. And yes, there’s even a monomino, which is fun to say but is basically just a square and is therefore the most boring of the lot.

So there you go: The next time you’re trying to clear a four-liner and you get a worthless two-by-two when you needed a one-by-four, curse your lousy luck with tetrominos, not tetrads. Or, you know, you could do something more creative with them.


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Sunday, January 23, 2011

Geese Can Be Troublesome

What could be better than walking into a restaurant and seeing something new on the menu? Well, I guess that thing being not poisonous and actually also good-tasting, but still — there’s something in novelty. As of tonight, I’m stoked on the menu at Animal. Even though it changes daily, the current sample seems promising: from interesting riffs on the familiar (flatiron steak with sunchoke hash and truffle parmesan fondue) to unusual (rabbit legs, potato puree, mustard, bacon, green beans and chanterelles) to “I’m ordering this so the table next to me thinks I’m cool” (pig ear, chili, lime, fried egg). But then I got stuck on this one: grilled octopus, chorizo and chowchow. Chowchow? Really? I know the protein is usually listed first in any dish description, but maybe the good chefs at trying to downplay the presence of dog in their menu?

No, of course not. I’m just a rube. Though the initial search for “chowchow” didn’t do much to put my suspicious to rest, a search for “chowchow food” made it better. Depending on where you’re eating, chowchow can refer to a North American pickle relish made from some combination of green tomatoes, cabbage, chayote and other vegetables, but it can also be a Chinese preserve of fruits, peels and ginger. The former can also be called piccalilli. The latter does not have an alternate name, but I really wish it did, just so it didn’t reinforce those connections between Chinese food and dog meat — the meat of a Chinese dog, no less — that I’m not supposed to think about and certainly don’t want to think about when I’m ordering.

But now we know.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

With Hair Like a Japanese Horror Movie

I know it’s wrong to map human emotions onto animals, but if I were to do so, there’s a lot I could read on this dog’s expression.


Also, it looks like a Dr. Seuss character, so bonus points for that.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Peter Brady on the Go

First, we were in too much of a hurry for yogurt. Now it has come to this:


Not going to knock the packaging: It made the product as appealing as anyone could have hoped for. However, even mod-retro graphics won’t stop me from running out the door, frantic for a quick energy boos and oh-so-thankful for my GoGo Squeez AppleApple, and then consequently, accidentally splurging a load of applesauce into my eye because I was in that much of a hurry.

Words Fail Me / Words Fail Crustaceans

Last year, I ate a less-than-exalted crustacean, the langostino, for the first time. That night, I thought I should write about it on grounds that this cheap source of lobster-like meat linguistically interesting. But in trying and failing a few times to state what I thought was so interesting, I realized that the topic was hard to put into words — appropriately, since this animal stand out as a good example of how sometimes language sometimes just can’t accurately describe a given thing. Finally, months later, I produced this.

a langostino (he’s doin’ the sit-’n’-reach)

Here’s the deal: Among Americans, the more elegant term for this edible shellfish may be langostino, but the common name is squat lobster, which sounds like a sadder, pudgier version of the B-52s song. The distinction between these two names is more important than you might expect. In 2006, a lawsuit was filed against the Rubio’s Mexican seafood chain — where I ate my langostino taco, I should point out — over whether it can legally market this kind of shellfish as lobster. Biologically speaking, this tasty but controversial little guy is literally neither here nor there, since the term squat lobster can refer to three different families of sea bugs, none of them being lobsters at all. In fact, according to Wikipedia, they’re all more closely related to the kinds of crabs people don’t usually eat — hermit crabs and porcelain crabs — than the ones we do.

The judge ultimately made no ruling in the Rubio’s suit, but it’s apparent that English lacks the words needed to refer to this thing in a way that everyone finds both accurate and appealing. As far as names go, lobster isn’t right. So what’s left? Squat as a noun can mean literally “nothing” or at least “a worthless thing.” It’s a tough name to be assigned, even for an unassuming, bottom-feeding crustacean.

This got me thinking: Why the hell do we English-speakers use the word squat to refer to the stuff we’d rather not have? It comes from the Old English squatten and goes back to a form of the Latin verb cogere, “to force together” or “to compress” or “to compel” or other similar meanings. For a number of reasons, my reaction to this etymology is “Oh, like feces,” since this particular substance is usually unwanted, it is compressed (at several points along its journey), and depending if you’re camping or not, you may actually have to physically squat to finally rid yourself of it. So, I guess for a creature whose name amounts to “shit lobster,” the langostino didn’t taste half bad, though the fecal connotations might have made me subconsciously lower my expectations. But at least it makes sense that we call it langostino then, right?

Unfortunately, the term langostino still sucks, inexplicably marine-y thought it may sound. Its meaning is far from universal. From Wikipedia:
In the United States, the Food and Drug Administration allows langostino as a market name for three species in the family Galatheidae: Cervimunida johni, Munida gregaria, and Pleuroncodes monodon. In Spain, it means some species of prawns. In Cuba and other Spanish-speaking Caribbean islands, the name langostino is also used to refer to crayfish. In South America, the name langostino is used to refer to red shrimp, Pleoticus muelleri.
According to Webster, langostino comes to English from Spanish, where it is a diminutive of langosta, the “spiny lobster,” which are also not technically lobsters and which are known to various English-speaking people as rock lobsters or, confusingly, langoustes. To complicate matters more, Southern Hemisphere English-speakers refer to spiny lobsters as crawfish or crayfish, even though Americans use these terms to refer to yet more varieties of crustaceans, and that’s only when they’re not calling them crawdads. Langosta and langoustine both come from the Latin locusta, which meant “lobster” as the term is strictly understood today, but could also be used to refer to any lobster-shaped animal… including the locust, which someone at some point thought looked enough like a lobster that it should be lumped in the same category.

If that all weren’t confusing enough, yet another species exists with a similar name: the langoustine. Also known as scampi, Norway lobster or Dublin Bay prawn (even though it’s not a prawn), this creature, Nephrops norvegicus, actually is a true lobster, though you’d hardly be able to tell for sure if you were ordering it off a menu. Honestly, the fisherman, the cook and the waiter might not know for sure, given the similarity of langostino, langouste and langoustine.

Why should anyone bother to discern one from the other? They taste different, depending on where they’re caught and what they’ve eaten, and I suppose some might consider one more prestigious than another, even though each is just a subtly different version of the same basic sea bug model. (When I think about the qualities that insects and crustaceans share, it actually seems less strange that locusts would be mashed into this verbal bouillabaisse.) However, I say good luck to you, Mr. or Mrs. Seafood Connoisseur: I just wrote those preceding two paragraphs, and I’ve already forgotten which word refers to which sea bug. And Neptune help you if you’re trying to order a specific variety of crustacean off a menu printed in a different language, because even a linguistically educated guess could steer you wrong. I mean, would you be able to guess the langostino from the langoustine on a menu at a Portuguese seafood shack?

This verbal chaos makes a lot of sense, however, when you consider the subject at hand. To most people, ocean floor-dwelling creatures are little understood and rarely considered, at least until the end up on a dinner plate. And if there would be any one cuisine that would most easily fall victim to a complicated, overlapping and often erroneous set of names, it would be the one that, back in the day, would have been experienced by sea-faring people moving from one port to another, speaking all manner of languages and trying to explain their meal in whatever terms were most familiar to them. (“It look like lobster, no? I call it lobster.” Head nods, revealing a smear of delicious seafood grease catching the light.) And, again, it should only pose serious problems to picky eaters and diehard food journalists who want to be sure, beyond the shadow of a squat lobster, what they’re eating.

To me, the classification doesn’t matter. I would gladly eat another langostino — in taco form or whatever other shape it chooses to crawl to me from the filthy ocean ocean depths. However, I wanted to point out an instance when words truly do fail us. In discussing these wonderful, edible animals, it would be very difficult to know for sure what you’re eating, especially if the person speaking with you didn’t realize the complexity of the matter. (But you know now! Kinda! Enough to be suspicious, anyway!) And despite how much I love language and words and all that, I’m endlessly fascinated how these constructions can sometimes utterly fail to do their job.

As for the sea-edibles themselves, I just eat them all with lemon and they taste pretty great.

Food and words, previously:

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

As Was the Style at the Time

If you’re like me, you woke up thinking, “Gosh, today would go a whole lot more smoothly if I saw a photo of Edith Wharton carrying two small dogs on her shoulders.”


I do what I can.

Monday, January 17, 2011

A Word for a Holiday Weekend

No post on Sunday and nothing today until it’s practically over. This word made the most sense.
perendiate (puh-REN-dih-nayt) — verb: 1. to put off until the day after tomorrow. 2. to stay at college for an extended time.
It’s like professional procrastination, for when ignoring work for just twenty-four hours doesn’t quite demonstrate the extent of your laziness. According to A Word a Day, perendiate comes from the Latin perendinare, meaning the same, and that word goes back to the Latin perendie, “the day after tomorrow.” In case you’re wondering, procrastinate came to English in a similar manner: from the Latin cras, meaning “tomorrow.”

Of course, the extension of the word to refer to people on the Super Senior or Super Duper Senior plans is just awesome.

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Saturday, January 15, 2011

Strategic Rope Placement

The most amazing part of this photo is not how like us the lesser simians truly are but instead the fact that someone took the photo at the moment its genitals were obscured.


They don’t teach you this in photography school.

(From the Telegraph’s collection of 2010’s best baby animals photos.)

Friday, January 14, 2011

The Theme of the Prom Was “Illicit Sex”

Funny when you remember stuff. I was driving across town last night, listening to music but not to Bruce Springsteen or anything even Bruce Springsteen-like, when I suddenly thought about the Springsteen song “Secret Garden.” You know, the one from Jerry Maguire. No clue why.

The song has only been significant in my life exactly once. Before a prom, can’t remember which one, eligible students received some kind of invitation to it. (Do schools even send out invitations to prom? Isn’t that kind of a waste of money and paper? Wouldn’t a poster-painted banner reading “Prom: Go or Suck It” do the trick just as effectively?) This particular prom had a “Secret Garden” theme, which basically equated to a green photo backdrop with, like, plants and shit and maybe an old gate. But to introduce the theme, the invitation had lyrics to “Secret Garden,” which was probably still on people’s minds as a result of Jerry Maguire. And that would have been fine if the song wasn’t clearly about sex, with the garden symbolizing vagina, as it so often does.

Here are the lyrics that went out on every prom invitation that year:
She’ll let you in her house
If you come knockin’ late at night
She’ll let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
She’ll let you deep inside
But there's a secret garden she hides

She’ll let you in her car
To go drivin’ round
She’ll let you into the parts of herself
That’ll bring you down
She’ll let you in her heart
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice

You’ve gone a million miles
How far’d you get
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget

She’ll lead you down a path
There’ll be tenderness in the air
She’ll let you come just far enough
So you know she's really there
She’ll look at you and smile
And her eyes will say
She’s got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away
Which, of course, is pretty tame by today’s standards but still grossly inappropriate for a high school function. I may not remember correctly, but I think apologies were sent out the following day. I couldn’t tell you whether it resulted from incompetent oversight or the students trying to sneak a smutty joke onto official school material, but I’m willing to bet it’s actually neither of these and, instead, simply the prom being planned by people who didn’t take advanced English.

Again, don’t know why I thought about this, but I think about it whenever I hear this particular Bruce Springsteen song or, apparently, no Bruce Springsteen song at all.

Problem No. One: People Enjoying Olive Garden

Among many problems I have with the commercial where the cousins all like going to Olive Garden together, the one that most confounds me lies the one male cousin saying to a female cousin, “You gotta tell me Aunt Jessie’s story again.” The hell? I can accept that these young, apparently related people convene at Olive Garden for some kind of bonding-through-suffering ritual or possibly in preparation for a fart contest later in the night, but I don’t understand why one cousin doesn’t seem to know his own aunt, or why he needs another cousin to re-tell her story. It’s completely baffling. Who wrote the script? Why was this the only bit of banter that made it to the final cut?

More: Am I supposed to take away that my peers could conceivably enjoy Olive Garden, or that I should go there with only cousins, excluding the very young and middle aged-to-old members of the family? That is: Is Olive Garden courting the twentysomething demographic or the even harder-to-snag cousin demographic?

Thursday, January 13, 2011

The Bucket of Truth

To be honest, I had reservations about moving to Los Angeles. It has a lot to offer, sure, but accessing these offerings can pose problems I wouldn’t face in the other cities I could have moved to. Waiting for long lines of movie stars to cross the street, for example. It’s a hassle. And Reese Witherspoon has spit in my face on three separate occasions, once without provocation. That being said, Los Angeles also offers certain advantages. For example, I live in an apartment I would never have found in San Francisco or New York. No exaggeration: This set-up simply does not exist in those more compact cities, and certainly not at the price I’m paying now. I love it. And my love for this apartment is probably crippling my social life, solely because my end game is always to come back to it.

However, this apartment is not all perfect. It isn’t haunted — which is what I assumed would be the case when the landlady quoted me the price — but it does have a certain sinister presence. It’s the mirror.

Are you familiar with the Upright Citizens Brigade? The TV show? Specifically the pilot? It concerns a house that features a Bucket of Truth, a simple plastic pail on a pedestal that, when you gaze into it, offers you an unyielding glimpse at your actual self. The result of such perception is hysterical screaming, because no one can comprehend a completely honest vision of themselves without their psyche shattering. (Go buy the DVD. You won’t regret it. The house in the episode also features a Hot Chicks Room.) My apartment essentially has this in the form of the bathroom mirror. Something about the positioning of the mirror beneath the fluorescent light just happens to make anyone, everyone, you, me and your supermodel friend all look like roasted shit.

No lie: The week I moved in, I was under the perception I had given myself two black eyes and then had somehow forgotten that either one had happened. They weren’t at all noticeable when I saw myself in other mirrors. I erroneously assumed that these mirrors were all broken. Now I understand that the fault lies in my mirror, which is probably cursed. In addition to the it making my face appear to be about six different colors — black, blue, occasionally yellow and always least three shades of red — it highlights every dermatological imperfection, every stray facial hair, every single goddamn pore. The pimple that went away months ago? Its wraith still festers on your face when you look at yourself in my bathroom mirror. Shadows are deepened. Oil shines. The basic configuration of your maxilla actually changes, so that the right shifts away from the left, droops down and turns you into some kind of radically asymmetrical monster. It’s fucking brutal.

It’s not completely disadvantageous, really. If I can make yourself look halfway passable, I’ll eventually see my reflection somewhere else and be delighted at how non-ogre-like I look. But even looking forward to that possibility, I still must work up courage to step into the bathroom and now that my confidence will take a critical hit.

So that’s the story with my new apartment and the dark secret it holds. I mean, there was that one time when I woke up in the middle of the night and used the bathroom and my reflection had glowing red eyes and swore at me, but that was probably a dream, right? Right?

Yeah, seriously, I hate my bathroom mirror.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Say EYEYSSES to the Dress

Glancing up at the office TV — which happened to be playing Say Yes to the Dress because I have no say in watch channel it’s on — I at first thought I was having a stroke, that the part of my brain that controls reading had ceased to function.


Then I realized that this was not the case, nor had the captions started running in some Indonesian language. And then then it occurred to me that what this caption might be trying to say was “This dress is shit.”

Least helpful caption.

Dance of the Lemurs

Yes, more lemurs. According to The Sun, what appears to be a funny dance is actually the lemurs springing into the air to escape a predator.


What I think: The lemurs actually move in this manner to disable bystanders with laughter, so the predator instead turns on them.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Pope: “I’d Rather Not Learn New Saint Names”

There is a German man who lives in Italian castle. Some people believe this man to have magical powers. And because of this, world media has to take note when he makes a statement, even if the statement has no bearing on life as it is lived now on this particular planet. I think it’s like when Carlos Santana gets a Grammy nomination, and everyone involved quietly acknowledges that the nom is a nice gensture even though Mr. Santana’s time has passed and his new music doesn’t have the impact the old stuff did way back when.

But the pope’s most recent statement doesn’t only remind us how out-of-touch and backwards the Roman Catholic Church is but also indicates that Pope Benedict is just old, as it’s one of the most classic old people statements he could have made. The statement goes something like this: “Names aren’t good today! Your new names are stupid! You should name your kids good, old-fashioned names like they had in Bible times!” That is it, basically, with the addendum that children given names not drawn from the Bible or the list of saints are missing out on the Holy Spirit, which apparently prefers Josephs and Margarets to your flash-in-the-pan Carters and Addisons.

i would totally take child-raising advice from this man

To an extent, I agree with the pope’s line of thought. I would be a lot more likely to take seriously a person with a “normal” name, rather than one that seems very off-the-moment (Kaylee, Aiden), stripperish (Amberlee, Jaide) taken from vampire culture (Cullen, Sookie), or like a normal name spelled in the manner of someone trying to get ride of Scrabble tiles (Korynne, Jaysen). A lot of the most popular names of 2010 are actually old-fashioned names, and I’m more or less okay with that, even if I might want to name my child something that would decrease his or her chances of being reduced down to an initial. My name? Not that weird. But I made it through my formative years without every being Drew M. And I like that.

Of course, the pope’s statement focuses more on the religious nature of baby-naming, and on this subject I’ve always been curious: Isn’t it true that if all Catholic children were only named after full-fledged, canonized saints, then there would never be a new saint with a new name? And even if one of those weirdos with a crazy, “new” name — like, say, Jennifer — converted to Catholicism, she should logically drop her pagan name and take a good Catholic one. She could have Jeonilla! After St. Jeonilla! Who was hung by her hair, lacerated and finally beheaded!

Obviously, despite Jeonilla’s steadfast faith in the face of physical suffering, her name isn’t very pretty by today’s standards. And while your new daughter Jeonilla may have a church-sanctioned name, she might also grow into her name and become a plain, sad woman who ends up murdering her mailman, whom she deludedly thought would love her even though it turned out he never could. Not the way to salvation, Jeonilla. (My condolences.)

Which brings up my second point: A lot of saints’ names are pretty awful, and if you saddled your kids with them, you’d probably be doing more harm than good. Please have a look at a list of names that would likely (but not certainly) set children down darker paths:

  • Odilio
  • Fanchea
  • Melchior
  • Bartilla
  • Canute
  • Basilissa
  • Reingold
  • Otho
  • Idea
  • Felician
  • Emerentiana
  • Cadoc
  • Haberilla
  • Chrysostum

No exaggeration: That list represents just only the saints celebrating feast days in January, and therefore is only one-twelfth of the bummer names the church would be okay with you calling a child.

Lest Pope Benedict forget, unusual and decidedly non-Catholic names have been attached to many sainted and beatified people. Take Kateri Tekakwitha, a Mohawk-Algonquian woman who converted to Catholicism in the 1660s. Yes, she chose Kateri because approximated the Mohawk pronunciation of Catherine (as in St. Catherine of Siena), but the connection isn’t obvious and no one refers to her as Catherine Tekakwitha. (Also, she’s not St. Kateri yet, but Blessed Kateri, as she hasn’t yet passed the final stage of canonization.) It boggles me that Kateri could get the pope’s approval by virtue of a tangential relationship to Catherine while something like Jayden (lame and insubstantial as that name might be) couldn’t squeak by with the explanation that it’s a variation on James. And who knows: Maybe little Jayden will grow up to be a bringer of many miracles and a thousand years down the line the Robot Pope will be urging space parents to name their kid-pods after St. Jayden so they might always remember his sterling example.

In closing, I’d like to say that this would be a rare fumble in what we can all agree is a pretty terrific record that the church has as far as interactions with children.