May 09, 2008
May 08, 2008
Boom, bitch.
I'm not a Mike Freeman fan to begin with. I am what you might call the opposite of a Mike Freeman fan. This is worse than usual fare from him, which is ruh-heeeally saying something. Over here, Ufford takes him apart bit by bit. Enjoy.
May 07, 2008
May 06, 2008
Bird is the word, motherfucker
The fourth episode of the incomparable (seriously, I dare you) Cooking with Coolio went up a couple weeks ago when no one was looking. A reminder: Whoever posts the best video response on his site wins an autogtaphed bell pepper (not a typo or euphemism). I don't know how else to convince you you're MISSING OUT GO.
Two books from the dollar bookstore that are not about what you think they ought to be about.
This is not a seamonster-themed diary.
And this is about Jesus.
May 05, 2008
"Why go PG-13 now? The series has grossed over a billion dollars as R-rated films."
GAH. I'll leave the eloquent attacks to Jesse, but this is fucking exasperating.
[ETA: Reliably, Jesse chimes in with, "Why don't they just set the Future Wars in a field of FUCKING DAISIES?" Why, indeed, Big Daddy.]
First they came for our bacon-wrapped hot dogs...
The street vendors get run off, now our taco trucks have to move around or face fines? Look, if it were possible to get tasty Mexican food for $5 downtown in an actual restaurant, that would be one thing (also, the place would be packed and send the trucks elsewhere on its own merits). But that's very much not the case.
[ETA: See? This is why there are no pirate ships dispensing food on the streets. /shameless plugging of Pirate Brunch]
I quit.
The internets, that is. Because Janie wins them, wins forever, world without end, amen.
Laff Riot REEEEEEEMIX
Summer reruns, original cast. Sounds like a happy medium, but is really just an excuse to repost this one, over and over.
Holly: I did a search for 'penis brittle', and I got back 'How to Field dress a deer'.
'Box: that is very
'Box: very
'Box: strange
Holly: Also one that simply says 'fish'.
'Box: Chuck tried to give me the soundtrack to Rocky IV on vinyl tonight. I wouldn't accept it, and he got really pissed off
Holly: And 'Yeast infections'.
'Box: what search enginge?
Holly: HAHAHA
'Box: I think I hurt his feelings
'Box: he found it in the free bin at a record store and thought I'd like it for some reason
'Box: I turned him down
Holly: "The Church of Euthanasia Butchering the Human Carcass for Human Consumption"
'Box: penis brittle?
Holly: Yeah, I'm going to try other engines.
'Box: I'm searching on google now
'Box: So far I've gotten planned parenthood sites
Holly: Hm.
'Box: nothing as interesting on google
'Box: I'm going to Yahoo
Holly: ''Gourds'.
Holly: 'Gourdiculture'.
'Box: same shit
'Box: weird
'Box: I'm going to AskJeeves
Holly: "What's up with my penis?"
'Box: ok, aol gives you the funky results
'Box: Aesthetic Realism, Eli Siegel, and 'The Sanity of Poetry'
Holly: I still like the deer one.
'Box: yeah
Continue reading "Laff Riot REEEEEEEMIX"
May 04, 2008
I can fly.
The thing is, I love Tony Stark. I've loved him since I was a shorty. As a tomboy growing up around a national defense complex, nothing was cooler to me than making things blow up rill good, and Tony, he was the best. And I saw the trailer and knew Marvel had taken production of Iron Man all on their own and heard the murmurs that no, wait, this one works, it really works, but I stayed away. From the posters, the production stills, Metacritic, all of it. I wasn't ready to get my hopes up, not by Tony, particularly when Tony would be inhabited by one of my favorite actors of all time.
I dashed from work on Friday night with a bunch of post house geeks in tow to line up on the Promenade and see what they'd come up with. I mocked Jon Favreau's body of work on the sidewalk outside the Mann Criterion. And two hours later, bouncing in my seat like I'd snorted Pixie Stix, cheering for our buddies in the credits (The Orphanage & Pixel Liberation Front, holla!), staring open-mouthed in silent they did not they did not they DID glee at Nick Fury's cameo, I wondered aloud: Is it that hard to make a comic book movie that doesn't suck? To hire a good writer? To commit the time and resources to utterly seamless VFX? WHERE IN THE HELL HAVE THESE GUYS BEEN?
The next day I made up for my radio silence. I pored over review after review, trying to find the sequence of keystrokes that could capture the elation, the recognition I saw on face after face as Tony did everything he was supposed to, just the way it was supposed to happen, the impulse to keep turning around in the theater to make sure it wasn't just me. And then I found the AICN review that said watching this movie is "like freebasing Pop-Tarts". And that about covers it.
Marvel did it. The impossible. They made a summer blockbuster deserving of the title and the money, and they did it hand-in-hand with their source material. They hit it over the wall, and I can't see how they'd ever put their properties in the hands of a studio after this.
May 02, 2008
Rocky Top in retrograde?
OK, so, the Lofton thing. Then Marvin Harrison (MARVIN HARRISON) questioned in a shooting. Now Ramar and Duke? If I step outside, will a piano/safe/anvil fall from a great height and flatten me? Is there an orange planet in the seventh house we should know about?
shmoon river
One week ago, I was reading this column at the fine establishment of my future husband and lamented (not aloud, which will come to bear) that for all our frenetic posting, for the last two years of college (the good years; encompassing the Reign Of Tiaras) we didn't do a whole lot in the way of actually taking down what was going on. It's the disadvantage of having a blog read solely by one's high school and college chums; we had to speak in code more often than not, and whatever we gained in inside-joke-twinsy-language proficiency we lost in actual recorded history.
And then last night in the mail I got a fat envelope from Joan, containing a handmade fold-out crossword puzzle encompassing pretty much ever significant person, show, arrest warrant, and cocktail of those two years. I can't imagine how long it took to construct, but it's a thing of wonder, and as usual it was just what I needed even though she had no rational way of knowing. The cortex fusion forged in September 2003 holds across 2500 miles, even after all this time. Lovemaducky!
Home, James, and through the meth labs.
Having no prospect of immediate employment [gulp], I'm extending my trip back to the Motherland a little. Home May 30-June 9, and unless anyone feels like meeting me at the beach house I don't plan on doing much except go to the drive-in and run around barefoot. Y'all come 'round.
"These remarks were taken out of context..."
Corrections, hot and ready. The funny ones are Swindle's. Do enjoy.
"scoring slump" = "months of devastating chemo"
I threw this up in the Twitter feed last night, but if you haven't read it yet, check out Chris Lofton's story. Good grief.
May 01, 2008
I'll do it. But only for the attention.
Just in time to soothe the wounds left by abysmal Baby Mama...best 30 Rock episode I've seen, and the only one I've watched beginning to end without cringing once. Smart people keep insisting how much I'm supposed to love this show (I am not prepared to discuss my Studio 60-related resentment at this time), but it didn't really do it for me until Sandwich Day.
Terror! On the high seas
Have you ever seen a movie so ready-made as this? Look at those faces.
Get it? Because they chop-block. All the time. And it's sanctioned. LOLZ!!
Today on EDSBS, a collab piece that'll blow you away:
April 30, 2008
Anatomy of a bitchslap.
As I sat (with the car in park on the 10) on the way to my job this morning (doing new media things for an old media company--that makes me a Daywalker, right?), I wondered what it would take to get someone, anyone, in a prominent MSM position to point out that there are terrible columnists in a position to do much more profound and widespread damage to the national discourse, that for FUCK'S SAKE Mitch Albom still gets paid to write, that we just watched one of the brightest stars of a new generation of sportswriters get poked in the chest on national television by a grown man named Buzz, and that the millions of readers a day streaming through aren't a blip and are sticking around because we're giving them what they want, in real time. The breadth and eloquence of the responses from Will himself, from Spencer and AJ and Brian and Ken (and Drew with his own particular brand of articulacy) has been captivating to watch. Will it make a dent? What's it going to take?
Cry, the beloved bitchslap.
You'll want to read this.
April 29, 2008
The hits, they are keeping on
Conquered! And conquered my ownself. (Subtext: You thought that my computer/PDA mishaps would save you from the new-Mac-owner LOOK AT MY NEW BAAAAAABY photo spread, but you were WRONG WRONG WRONG.)
April 28, 2008
Light!
Well, this came to a head pretty fast, and I gave notice this morning. My lizard cortex is delivering alternating currents of WHAT HAVE I DONE I HAVE NO BUSINESS LEAVING A JOB WITHOUT ANOTHER LINED UP IN THIS MARKET and waves of pure, sweet relief. I had a long productive talk with my boss this morning (the one that runs our office, not the one that makes me wish our building was taller so that I could jump from its roof) and there's interest in bringing me back for other projects as an *actual* freelancer. I'm all about that. I'd work with anyone else on the roster in a split second, and it's a shame that I got trapped in this situation to begin with, but extricating myself could not be going any better.
In the meantime, I've finally wrested my name.com back from that weird softcore lady and am having all kinds of fun getting it set up as a portfolio site. It's really been surprising, seeing my body of work amassed over the last year and a half all at once. No idea what's next for me, but the hard part's over and I haven't burned any bridges that weren't hitching up their skirts and asking for it. Watch this space.
April 27, 2008
Ladies and gentlemen, Detective Stringer Bell.
Hunter Grayson and I have what we charitably refer to as wildly diverging movie tastes, which is how we ended up seeing One Missed Call on my birthday last year and The Hitcher the year before that. But every once in a while we have to make a deal. Today's compact: Baby Mama for him, Prom Night for me.
While Prom Night didn't quite live up to its schlocktastic trailer, even not knowing ahead of time that it also starred Scott Porter (who might die!) and Idris Elba (WHO HAD FUCKING BETTER NOT), I had two hours of hysterical giggling pretending Brittany Snow was her skinhead character from Nip/Tuck. Prom Night isn't bad enough to be a comedy, but there are some massively entertaining cuts (the juxtaposition of a jaunty tune on the dance floor and the evisceration of a teen promgoer on the floor above is delicious) and it sports a head-scratchingly awesome cast. I could've watched them gut each other for hours.
Baby Mama just pissed me off. I decided I love Amy-and-Tina (and the promise of Prom Night after) enough to set aside my genre disdain. This was a mistake. Surprise: When you're not on a stage in front of a live studio audience, QUIT IT WITH THE DAMN MUGGING ALREADY. It bugs the hell out of me when Tina veers in that direction on 30 Rock, but at least there she's got the occasional justification of looking straight at the camera. Here, they're both tripping all over themselves trying NOT to do it, and failing, and it shows, and it sucks. It's a romantic comedy, you two, and we KNOW you're smarter than the script, but maybe when you've got a scene running longer than 2:45, maybe try acting a little, TRY to sell it? Romany Malco is stuck playing the doorman and he ran circles around the both of you. Stick to short form, ladies.
And the rest of you, skip both of these and see Forgetting Sarah Marshall instead. Twice.
April 26, 2008
"And the seventh seal was opened, and Matt Ryan appeared"
I'm wandering through a poppy field in Antelope Valley fighting off Mojave green rattlesnakes (not a metaphor). Hetero Lifemate-for-Life Joan's Draft Day observations follow...
Update from Holly: I JUST GOT HOME AND FLIPPED ON ESPN AND THE MUSIC THEY'RE PLAYING BEHIND THE TALKING HEADS IS THE SONG FROM KATE AND DOUG'S FINAL ROUTINE IN THE CUTTING EDGE. THE UNIVERSE IS FOLDING IN ON ITSELF.
April 25, 2008
Now that everyone's already left for the day...
Y'all, I don't know what to do about the Laff Riots. I just don't. The posts are getting shorter and fewer, and no one's happy about it, but the simple fact is I've got less material to work with. The laptop FAIL of '07 wiped out six years of work in a single document. Through no fault of their own (well, in Joan's case), Joan and Jesse aren't around a tenth as much as they used to be, and these things aren't the same without them. And I obviously don't have the free time I used to. So I don't know. Shelve the feature entirely until someone, anyone (including me) gets funny again? Continue on in the short, occasional format? Let it die for good? You tell me.
"Excuse me, he's blind."
Today's Corrections begs the question: Is a West Elm joke too much for a college football blog?
April 24, 2008
Nobody does monsters like you, baby.
Franchise: Saved, officially. Let's fuckin' dance, y'all.
steeeeeering!
When the cat's away, the mice will work Sports Night in-jokes and the Black Kids into a single post.
The spite heard 'round the world
Methodism. You call that half-assed sprinkling "baptism"? Our God is an awesome God, but a brahsome God wants your ass in the creek risking parasitic infection or mercury poisoning for His favor. And they do baptize babies, but we all have our trials to bear. Who says the South is a hostile environment for minorities?
The combined loathing of Georgia by Florida and Tennessee fans, properly applied, could vaporize a small planet. Today, the EDSBS staff trains our spite rays on a shared target. The explosion will be of extraordinary magnitude.
The beginning, the beginning, the beginning of our story drops today in full bloom, hitting what I honestly believe to be its contempt zenith, with Stuff Red And Black People Like. Amado mio, motherfuckers.
26/f/Los Angeles by geography, Southern by birth (and the grace of God, right?). Ten feet tall and bulletproof. Steadfast belief in October, Friday night lights, the five-step drop, Tang (The Drink Of Astronauts), and the power of an elegant turn of phrase and a grin. Token XX chromosome 
