If there is a more sadly ironic song than "Rehab," I would like to hear it. Because really, when they tried to make her go to rehab, she should've said "Yes, please." Then maybe she wouldn't be wandering around the street, teeth missing, her crack-addled body covered only by a pair of jeans likely purchased in the children's section of TopShop, as well as a red bra. Really, I can't even listen to Winehouse's music anymore, because her voice just reminds me of the fact that she has all that talent, and that she's just pissing it away.
Speaking of pissing it away, Oh My God did you hear about Britney Spears' 16 year old pregnant sister? Wow, now THAT's a good sister-- taking all the heat off of Britney like that. Because frankly, the pregnant teenage star of a Nickelodeon show is going to throw the paparazzi off of Britney's antics for a decent amount of time, like maybe long enough for her to pull herself together. Just kidding. I am actually completely shocked that the powers that be over at Nickelodeon didn't whip a black-ops style kidnapping on her, just to "take care of the problem," if you know what I mean. Because there's big money in that image, man! Moms all over the world are now having to explain to their kids why "Zoey 101" is knocked up. You KNOW this would never happen to one of the High School Musical kids, right? Not a chance.
You know that mom already has the last kid on a plane to military school, right? Because that is just SCANDALOUS. I mean, we know they're white trash, but you'd think that all that money and power would give you some common sense. Just....wow. And I thought Jessica Alba was bad. Also to be filed under "surprising" is the fact that a Christian publisher has "indefinitely delayed" Lynne Spears' Christian child-rearing book, because clearly no one wants her advice anymore. Ouch.
I'm so in the home stretch for Christmas, dude. We're leaving on Saturday, my local gifts have been delivered, far-away gifts sent, and pre-holiday errands run. Tomorrow I'm cleaning out the fridge so it won't smell when we get back, and then I AM DONE. Done, I tell you! I even visited my grandma and delivered her gifts in person. Ha! Ha HA! Next up: a report from Carmel, where we will undoubtedly commit some crimes.
I have to say, I've been really stumped for gifts this year. Everyone I know doesn't need anything, I feel guilty about the environment but don't know if people really want me to donate to charity on their behalf, which essentially means that someone else gets a gift instead of them, blah blah blah. I was still out trying to get stuff at 7:30 pm yesterday, and like everyone had the same "I'm so over Christmas" look on their face.
I felt that way, until the moment I found out about this. The most perfect gift ever. The gift....of steak. My in-laws got us this once, and I swear it lasted for months and months, every meal of which we were like "I love them, man. They are thoughtful gift-givers."
Anyway, if you're still looking for something to get someone (not me, because you know I already bought myself one of these), Omaha Steaks is running this totally amazing sale, and I think you should order one for yourself, and one for your hard-to-buy-for relative. Yes, it's organic and grass fed. Yes, it's freaking delicious. And yes, they do send you a free set of steak knives, a cutting board, and some more free hamburgers with every order. It comes packed in dry ice, in case you're doing a production of Macbeth this Christmas and need something for the witches' cauldron. Yes, they also have things for vegetarians, Mr. Picky.
Well, we got back from New York on Saturday, went literally two hours after landing to a Christmas party, and have been in sort of a Christmas fugue state ever since-- a state involving errands, and wrapping paper, and online ordering, and the UPS man knocking on our door approximately every seventeen minutes with something someone ordered for us, or something we ordered for someone else-- you get the idea.
Considering all this, you'd think that I wouldn't have the time to come up with funny stuff for my blog, and well, you'd be right. But-- lo and behold! My charming and clever husband has agreed to be my guest blogger today, providing you with what I think is one of the funniest breakdowns of bad eighties videos I've ever seen. Because frankly, we know you're in your office, and you've probably just given up on working altogether now, right? And now you're just looking for funny stuff.
And now, without further adieu, I give you:
Worst. Video. Ever. by Stephan Cox
So, in a fit of pique induced by
attempting to find the worst rock video ever (and by worst, I sort of mean
best), I managed to unearth a gem I hadn’t seen since it first was aired on
Friday Night Videos in the early 80s. (Note: I grew up in a very rural area that
didn’t have access to cable, thus, no MTV. So in order to see any music videos
at all—without a doubt the lingua
franca of my peers at the time—I had to watch the ghetto version, Friday
Night Videos, on whatever the hell network channel it came on. On Friday nights
no less. It was fuzzy and I had to adjust the antenna (!) to get a picture. I
was probably 14 at the time… Good Christ. This both dates me and makes me look
like a bumpkin loser at the same time.)
All this started yesterday when
my friend Cory, for reasons only known to him, forwarded me the video of ”One Night in Bangkok," by Murray Head:
For you younger folks, this piece of pop culture ephemera comes
from a simpler time. A less ironic time. A tackier time. This was a song from a
hit Broadway show called “Chess,” about, well, chess. The video features Mr.
Head (and BTW, if your family name is “Head,” a) change it, b) pronounce it
differently, or c) for the love of God, don’t name your child “Murray”) walking
along in his skinny tie and suave je ne
saisquoi, surrounded by assorted
musical theater types dancing and emoting Cats-style. This was the 80s, after all.
By any standard, this is a bad video. A cringe-worthy video. But not one for the
ages.
The next video he sent along, to
torture me presumably, was for the cover version of "Puttin' on the Ritz," by a singer named Taco:
Now we’re getting somewhere. This particular video is likely
shown on a continuous loop in Dante’s 8th or 9th circle.
It features a heavily made up, really, really gay man (Note: It’s okay—as Lori
has mentioned before, we were both drama majors, and we’ve lived in San Francisco, LA and Manhattan. We’re honorary gays) sashaying
about a sound stage in thick pancake makeup, wearing a white tuxedo, and
sporting a neon cane.
I remember when preparing for a
garage sale during my youth my parents going through some old boxes, finding
some of their old clothes—two-tone platform shoes and matching vest for Dad,
ultra-suede dress with peasant blouse for Mom—and them blanching about the
styles they wore in the 70s (and these were the clothes they got married in, I
shit you not. I have photos). After watching the Taco video, I can somehow
relate. It’s not that I ever walked into high school in with a neon cane and
white tuxedo, God forbid, but I remember thinking when I first saw that video,
“Hey, that guy’s pretty outrageous. That takes some forward thinking. A man
wearing makeup. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before we’re all doing it.”
Much like my parents likely thought when they ordered out of the Halston
catalogue for their wedding outfits.
The song in the video is
unbearably bad. It wasn’t a song that needed to be remade, and certainly not to
an electronic beat. (Another note to those of you who grew up on the 80s:
remember when you first heard electronic music? I sure do. I remember being so
completely blown away by Depeche Mode, New Order, Yaz. I thought, “Wow, they
don’t even need actual instruments to make this music. We’ve clearly arrived at
the apex. Music will never sound more modern. There will never come a day when
people play this music for kitsch and nostalgia sake. I will never grow old. I
will never die. I think I’ll take up smoking.”) So, as the guy does his little
fruity two-step through the sound stage while lip-synching the song, crowds of
musical theater types dressed like 1930s homeless people pop up hither and
thither, doing little soft-shoe routines. I can imagine the pre-production
meeting for this video: “We need hoboes. But hoboes who can dance!”
It’s a terrible, terrible video
for a terrible, terrible song. Embarrassing. Awful. But not great-awful. Not
even close. Not when compared to the Rosetta Stone that is Journey's video for "Separate Ways." This one has a strange Casey Kasem intro, but don't let that throw you. It's pure Journey goodness.
I know, I know, this video gets voted
worst video of all time by VH1 and whatever the hell, but I promise you, I
hadn’t seen it since it aired on Friday Night Videos back in the day, and I just
happened to remember it in the clutch after Cory had sent the previous two
videos. I needed something good. Something jaw dropping. Something featuring
grown men playing air instruments. I found it.
Please, please, if you’ve never
had the pleasure of seeing this video, do so now. I’ll wait.
There’s so much going on here,
it’s hard to know where to start. First of all, there’s the locale. At this
point, the band is a major touring act, selling out stadiums all over the world.
They have, like, three platinum albums. And for some reason, they’re shooting a
video on a shipping dock in Oakland, and playing air instruments. For no
particular reason.
Then, there’s the woman, who
is... so 80s. The curling-under pompadour, the makeup, the leather skirt. And as
my wife said upon seeing it, you just know she’s got a giant bush. One of those monsters that
creeps up the belly and out over the thighs. No one seemed to mind those back
then. It boggles the mind. Anyway, this woman walks in and out of the frame, and
every time she exits, she walks into the same warehouse. What’s in there?
The most compelling thing, of
course, is just how seriously the band is taking the whole thing. Steve Perry,
with his noodly little arms poking out of a muscle shirt, is giving it all he’s
got, as the band alternately plays a) their actual instruments, b) no
instruments, and c) their instruments on a wall. The drummer actually does a
drum fill on a set of garbage cans at one point. The audio track goes off at a
point when Steve is lip synching. What makes it great is that they’re all just
so damn committed to the song, at one point, fanned out like a gay barbershop
quintet, leaning enthusiastically into the camera and exhorting us that, “one
day, love will find you, break those chains that bind you…”
What is mind-boggling is that
even after a full day spent shooting this video, after watching the rushes and
the dailies of their performances, and then, at last, watching the finished
product, the entire band went, “Yep. Looks great! Ship it!” Not one of them
thought to yank the emergency break on this sucker.
Anyway, lucky for us they didn’t.
Oh, and my friend Jim then sent me this video
of some obviously bored youngsters who did a shot-by-shot reproduction of the
Journey video:
Here's another menorah, even though Hanukah is over. I was so entertained by that sushi menorah, I kept taking pictures every time I saw one. Do you think they ate that one on the last day? I hope not.
We had a great trip to New York-- never long enough, since we are very wistful that we don't get to spend more time here. I got a new agent, which I'm so excited about! We went to a big holiday party last night-- you might known that I have sworn to never blog about my consulting job, so I won't, but let's just say I ate more in one sitting then I usually eat in a week, then followed that up with some dessert wine, champagne, chocolate, and some fancy red wine. Also, many of my colleagues were drunk, and the conversation turned absolutely blue. But, that is really all I'm at liberty to disclose. Tomorrow night we're going to another work-related party, the sordid details of which I will just have to write into another fiction novel. Ah, the stories I really can't tell....
We're back from NYC tomorrow, then leaving again for Northern California at the end of the week, until the end of the year. So, I guess that means if you're going to send me a Christmas present, you should get on the stick and do it before Friday! What the heck are you waiting for?
Oh, last but DEFINITELY not least, UCLA Extension has a story they did about me running on their website, which you can see at: http://www2.uclaextension.edu/writers/ Hurrah!
Well, it's really cold in New York, so I'm not as concerned about global warming as I was when I heard the ice in Rockefeller Center was melting. We checked it yesterday, and it seems fine. The tree looks good, the Macy's windows are all decked out, and it is officially Christmas in New York. Got some great pictures, which I can't upload until I get back to L.A., but when I realized this, I started taking some with my phone.
I think you'll agree, this is the best Hanukah tribute you've seen yet this year:
Yeah, that's a menorah, made entirely of sushi. This just begs so many questions. Do they put a new piece of sushi on the sushi-menorah for each new day of Hanukah? If so, I'm guessing they're not going to let anyone eat it on the last day. Also, is sushi kosher? I suppose this would depend on the way they kill the fish, right, or maybe if the fish is possibly prepared in the same kitchen as something that had dairy in it. Or maybe they don't care if fish and dairy touch. Also, are there California rolls in there? Because those have crab in them, and I have it on good authority that Jews do not eat shellfish, especially not on Hanukah. Or, maybe they can eat imitation crab, better known as Krab, which is what most sushi places use to make California rolls.
Also, we went to MOMA to see the contemporary art exhibit, and I took these photos:
This is Matthew Brannon's "The Never That Lasts Forever" painted on a wall. I thought it was interesting that people are walking so nonchalantly in front of the exhibit, and it looks like they're being impaled. Ouch! Lady, watch out!
Martin Kippenberger's "Martin, Stand in the Corner and Be Ashamed of Yourself." Oh, how I love the Germans and their kooky self-loathing sensibilities. OK, we get it! You guys are sorry about World War II! We forgive you, already!
There was also hilariously bitter and angry security guard working when we were there, and now I have the beginnings of an excellent short story. I think it was John Baddessari's video "I Am Making Art" that really pushed him over the edge. Finally, we saw some lovely people for dinner at Angus McIndoe, which is always good. I would really recommend the Apple Pot Pie, should you find yourself there.
See, you thought I wasn't going to post the whole time I was gone!
We're leaving for New York on Sunday, so I'm trying to get all my funny in before we do, since when I travel I end up writing all my blog posts in a black composition book, then transcribing them when I'm back in the office.
Again, this is something that probably only I notice. The holidays bring up a lot of mixed feelings
for people, and I think those feelings are well reflected in a number of songs
that SOUND cheerful, but in reality are far from it. Think of me the next time one of these gems
pops up on your Holiday Compilation CD you got from Best Buy.
I’ll
Be Home for Christmas. I think the
Frank Sinatra version is probably the most depressing. This song is clearly told from the
perspective of someone who is fighting in an overseas war, so they will
decidedly NOT be home for Christmas. Thus the biting “if only in my dreams” tag at the end. Ew! It burns! He’s probably
holed up in a hospital somewhere with no legs, eating MREs (Meals Ready to
Eat, in case you’re not a military kid like me) and reminiscing about when
things didn’t suck so much.
Baby,
It’s Cold Outside. The original
date rape song. “OK, thanks for
dinner….I’m just going to go home now” “No….baby it’s cold outside, why don’t you stay for awhile….take
off your coat…..” Translation: we’re snowed in, I’m certainly not
putting the chains on my tires to get us out of here, and so, frankly, you’re
not going anywhere.
If I
Get Home on Christmas Day (Elvis)…notice that the operative word in the
title is “If,” not “When,” implying that while he’s going to do his
darndest to tear himself away from the drink and the dice, he is probably
not going to be successful again this year. Elvis also gives us the stunningly
depressing “Blue Christmas,” where he knows you’re going to have a good
Christmas, but without you he’s never going to smile again. So, put that in your cranberry sauce and
smoke it.
Do
They Know It’s Christmas? Remember
this one? Um, I don’t know about
you, but when I’m getting my turkey and stuffing on, I definitely do NOT
want to think about starving children in
Africa
.
The Christmas Shoes, by NewSong. This one is about a little boy who’s trying
to raise money to buy his mama a pair of shoes for Christmas—because she’s
DYING, and he wants her to look nice in case she meets Jesus tonight. Not surprisingly, this one doesn’t get much
airplay anymore.
You know, those Dove individual chocolates are really good. First I started eating the dark chocolate ones, because (I can't believe I'm admitting this) I read in a women's magazine that if you eat a few of them after dinner, it tricks your body into thinking you've had dessert. This is a textbook eating disorder thing to do, but it actually works. Anyway, then I got a box of the Milk Chocolate ones for free (at the Emmys, actually-- the box of chocolates had an Emmy on them, if you can believe it). And those things are just really, really delicious. It was when I was in the midst of eating one of these that I noticed that every one of them has a clever little saying inside, like "Life is Short....Eat More Chocolate." These are called your chocolate moments, you see. This prompted me to go to the Dove website, which led me to this spectacular piece of copywriting geniosity:
We know you treasure your chocolate moments.
That's why we at DOVE® are passionate about chocolate. Whether it's our buyers in search of premium cocoa beans to the chefs who prepare and taste our chocolate each day, we are dedicated to creating the most luscious, silky, creamy chocolate experience for you.
From our silky chocolate pieces to our new ice cream and cookies, DOVE® creates a chocolate moment like no other.
So, maybe I'm the only person who thinks this (I seem to start an awful lot of these posts this way), but when I see a piece of writing that's obviously meant to be faux-profound, it always makes me think of the copywriter, sitting at their desk in their ad agency, chin resting in hand, noodling around on a piece of paper, trying to make words into something that sounds deep. Because someone has to write those words, you know. A real writer, who goes to work every day (or maybe works from home), and they get an assignment, and the assignment is always something like "write us a series of clever haikus that reflect our corporate equity while using the word "leadership." I'm actually not making that up, because that was a project I got assigned, and spent two weeks working on in 1999. The assignment after that involved writing a narrative of a character called <CORPORATION> Man, only the characteristics of the man were those of the corporation, get it? Like, <CORPORATION> Man is trustworthy and brave! He climbs the mountain and surmounts obstacles, rather than taking the easy way out! Through insider connections, I managed to get myself transferred onto another project that made me want to kill myself a little bit less, and pass this gem on to a more junior writer. Now, before you go all "that's cold-- no one deserves a crap assignment like that," understand this: I paid my dues. In fact, one of my very first paid jobs as a freelance writer was to write summaries of catalogs. Yes-- summaries. Of catalogs. But, the summaries had to sound catchy, like "This clever catalog incorporates the best of baby clothing with a variety of products for your pampered pooch!"
Yeah, makes you die a little inside just to read that, I know. How do you think I felt? I got paid BY THE CATALOG. Sometimes getting paid to write is a weird thing-- it makes you feel a little like a creativity plumber or something. Like, creativity is something you're supposed to reserve for your "hobbies," or your "off hours," and yet here we are, trying to be profound on cue. I suppose graphic designers have this problem as well, and fashion designers, and really anyone whose job involves getting a paycheck to pull something (hopefully something deep) out of your mind. I'm just saying it's different than adding numbers to a spreadsheet is all. And so whenever I see a piece of ad copy where it's so clear that someone was standing right over the copywriter's desk, pressuring them to "turn on the creativity faucet and let it flow!" I pause for a moment, because you know, I feel for that person. Sometimes you get to work and you don't feel like writing about chocolate, but no one cares. They need their words by 3pm, and they could really care less if you feel inspired, or if your muse is speaking to you. Pen to paper, man! Let's have 150 words on the chocolate moment, and make it snappy!
On the other hand, I don't get writer's block ever, because I've learned to regard my daily output of words as my utilitarian contribution to society, like being a word plumber or a word UPS man. Because of this training I CAN actually sit down and write something that sounds decent about almost any topic, which has served me well in my life.
Yes, these are the things I spend time thinking about, because I don't have children.
Last week I didn't post very much because I was trying to finish up my word count for NaNoWriMo. Did I get there? Yes. Do I want to send what I have off to my agent right this minute? Um, no. Because you see, what you end up with after NaNoWriMo is like a big lump of clay. You know it's going to be something, probably with ALOT more work, but sadly it still doesn't look like the bust of J. Edgar Hoover that you have in your mind. The end of NaNoWriMo is always kind of a let-down for me, because while I know I CAN accomplish the goal of writing 50,000 words in a month, I also know how much additional work it takes to get it from what you have on December 1st to what's going to actually be a good story, with good characters and a coherent plot. Still, that is a big-ass amount of writing to do in one month, so I suppose I will stop to congratulate myself, before going back to work.
In other writing-related news, It also just happened that a book I wrote a few years ago which never came out suddenly came back to life-during the month of November-- and so I was editing THAT book and adding some more to it, writing my NaNoWriMo project, and trying to keep up with this blog, because you know how you people get when I don't post anything (although, after what I thought was a HILARIOUS post last week about the weird people on Project Runway, a hater called me some names in my comments section, which I promptly erased because I have that right-- I made this money! You didn't!). Actually, that comment got me thinking that instead of witty personal anecdotes and observations, I maybe should just turn this blog into a series of tips on HOW TO MAKE YOUR WEBSITE BETTER, or HOW TO SAVE MORE MONEY, or HOW TO GET YOUR DOG TO STAY OFF THE COUCH. Because I could, you know. I have a million of 'em. And that would probably be a very useful service, and not offend anyone like "Fans of Project Runway" or the Mischa Barton Fan Club.
If there is a more sadly ironic song than "Rehab," I would like to hear it. Because really, when they tried to make her go to rehab, she should've said "Yes, please." Then maybe she wouldn't be wandering around the street, teeth missing, her crack-addled body covered only by a pair of jeans likely purchased in the children's section of TopShop, as well as a red bra. Really, I can't even listen to Winehouse's music anymore, because her voice just reminds me of the fact that she has all that talent, and that she's just pissing it away.
