This weekend was the host of a Very Large Checkmark In The Con Column in the lives of many people who are tired of living in America. No, I'm not talking about the release of Indiana Jones IV or some mishap involving a bbq grill and a can of lighter fluid, not even of Hillary Clinton vaguely alluding to Obama getting assassinated during the California primary, although that was certainly awkward. No, my friends, this weekend saw America once again missing out on perhaps the greatest spectacle ever to be simulcast on televion: EUROVISION.
Why is it that America, land of the free, home of the brave (eh, ish), inventor of the light bulb and the phone and cable tv cannot enter Eurovision? WHY? Oh, because we're not European? So? Who wants to be European anyway?
Well . . . I do. But only vaguely European. Like, can I be European, but only with regards to cheese? Would that work?
Even though Eurovision coldly and without good reason prevents the United States from joining the competition, it's still one of the greatest things in the world. I first learned of Eurovision like I learn of many things: through television. In this case, I learned about it through an episode of Father Ted, in which Father Ted and Dougal decide to enter a song in Ireland's Eurovision qualification competition. Their song is a MASTERPIECE, obviously:
In all honesty, I didn't realize that Eurovision actually existed. I thought they'd just made it up for the show. I mean, a giant, multi-country contest about SINGING? Seriously? The Olympics aren't cheesy enough, now we have to add power ballads to the mix? This opinion wasn't helped by Father Ted's video for "My Lovely Horse."
I think I persisted in thinking that Eurovision was a made-up comedy bit for about two years, until Courtney sat me down very gently one day and said, "no, no, Erin. You see, Eurovision is REAL. That's where ABBA comes from."
Which is true, ABBA did win Eurovision for Sweden. And even MORE AMAZINGLY, Katrina and the Waves won it for, I guess, England. (Germany? Where the hell are Katrina and the Waves from? I always thought they were Canadian. Don't tell me Canada's allowed to enter!!)
But perhaps you, like me, were unaware of the existance of Eurovision. Or perhaps you, like Meredith, are unconvinced of the awesomeness of Eurovision. Never fear! Thanks to youtube, all your musical prayers are about to be answered.
This year's Eurovision final was held in Belgrade, because Serbia won the contest last year. See, the winner hosts the next year's contest. This was Serbia's winning song/performance last year:
This gives you a general idea of your typical Eurovision entry. There are ALWAYS interpretive dancers in crazy costumes. ALWAYS. Sometimes the interpretive dancers are dressed like VAMPIRES, like in Switzerland's painstakingly literal entry from last year, "Vampires are Alive:"
By the way, the exclusion of "Vampires are Alive" in last year's finals really threatened to put me off Eurovision. For some reason, the people voting (uh, Europeans, I guess) are not quite on the same page as to what Eurovision is supposed to be about. It is NOT supposed to be uplifting Celine Dion-esque ballads performed by spunky lesbians. It is DEFINITELY supposed to be techno songs about vampires. Jeez, Europe. Get a clue, would you?
This year, I missed out on watching the English airing of Eurovision, with Terry Wogan's wry, steadily-getting-drunker commentary about all of the shitty performances, as well as his conspiracy theories about the Eastern European voting bloc and how Eurovision is merely a herald of the eventual rise of Eastern Europe and the fall of London and Paris. Sometimes I think poor Wogan's been through too many Cold War drills. But I can still bring to you some select highlights from this year's Eurovision contest:
Here we have Azerbaijen's entry. As you can tell from the DEVILS and ANGELS and their DANCE BATTLE, this country has the right idea about Eurovision entries:
Germany's entry, however, is not so great. In fact, the less said about it, the better. I do wonder how Heidi Montag (surely that is her, the blonde in white?) got a girl group together and managed to convince Germany to let her perform their entry.
And then . . . we have Bosnia. What they do well, they do REALLY WELL. I mean, crazy Flashdancing by a woman dressed as Raggedy Ann? Robotic lead singer who looks like a Hedwig reject? People in overalls doing dances with brooms for which I can only imagine is an homage to the Buffy musical? Yes, please. And yet, they had to RUIN EVERYTHING by putting a live bird ON STAGE. Bosnia! What are you DOING to me?? The 90s weren't bad enough? Now there have to be birds involved?
And now, let's narrow it down to the winners, shall we? Greece came in third, with their impression of a pre-breakdown Britney cribbing moves from Bob Fosse:
This video reminds me of one of the STRANGEST things about Eurovision: non-English speakers singing songs in English. I don't know why they do it, unless they're pandering for votes from the UK, but it always tickles me, because the songs don't make any sense. "To win a destination in the center of my heart?" Huh? What does that even mean, Greece? Sing in Greek! It's a lovely language! Why are you trying to sing in English?
Also, who is directing this show? Does he have to use the bathroom, or something?
Ukraine came in second, because their Fossian moves were better, plus the entire performance was a bit more eau de strip club:
But because Eastern Europe is going to rise up and take us all over soon, Russia won the show with their song from some guy who enjoys writhing around the floor and singing with a lisp. Well, who doesn't? I presume that they won for their addition of a random, nonsensical ice skater:
Seriously . . .why is there an ice skater? What am I saying? This is EUROVISION. Why isn't that ice skater wearing a live turkey on his head, that's the question I should be asking.
Still, though, if I had anything to say about it, and, as an American, I think we've established that I should have EVERYTHING to say about it, I would have voted Latvia as the winners of Eurovision 2008. I mean, how can you beat PIRATES? You seriously can't.
Sarah, Mere, why didn't we get these guys to play the Pirate Party? Would have been amazing. Plus, I am sorry, but "Wolves of the Sea" is really catchy. See if you don't start humming it to yourself at work.
I mean, it's no "My Lovely Horse," but what can be? Actually, Ireland's entry from this year, Dustin the Turkey, comes pretty damn close:
If you can't beat them, write a song mocking them and have it performed by a giant puppet turkey with what looks like disco balls for boobs, that's what I always say.
Okay, now that you've seen some of the videos, what is YOUR favorite part about Eurovision? And don't you think Americans deserve to enter, even thought we're not technically a part of that continent??
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
26 May 2008
14 May 2008
"i dunno, maybe we should have let them win the war after all," part 1205
My raging case of Anglophilia is pretty well known, I think; it is a disease for which I have found no cure, a disease I often fear is terminal. When a person is sat on a tube platform at four in the morning, staring at rats and thinking how happy she is to be in London, there's really no hope for her. (I often wonder how the English, being the parents of the language, can so horribly mangle the English language and its grammatical rules. And I also wonder why I pepper my own natural south of the mason-dixon dialect with other countries' shitty slang.) And while I certainly understand that my Anglophilia causes me to have blinders about some things - are sausage rolls really the ne plus ultra of breakfast foods? Actually, yes, yes they are - there are some ways in which it is QUITE CLEAR that the land of Her Majesty the Queen has it all over us poor American slobs.
Okay, one way. Well, two, but Magners is actually Irish and thus doesn't count.
That way? Television.
I'm sorry, but it's true. British TV wipes the floor with American TV, almost all the time. Sure, America's capable of producing some shows that England couldn't imagine in their most fervent nerdy wet dreams - The X-Files, for example, could never have worked over in England. They aren't nearly paranoid enough about their government (I mean, CCTV! And NO ONE questions this?? People, rise up!) to relate to Mulder, and also I don't think the British Parliament is so loose-fisted with their security budgets as we are - how else do we explain Scully's season 4-and-later wardrobe? Plus, no offense, England, but I've seen your iconic sci-fi show, and apart from the charming and hot Scottish fellow playing the titular character, it kinda blows.
Also, England could never produce something like Gossip Girl, because all of their soap operas are about really ugly, middle-class, downtrodden people. I don't get that. If I wanted to see ugly people's ugly problems, I'd go outside and make friends. No! I want to see pretty people's glamorous problems! From the safety and comfort of my couch!
But apart from sci-fi metaphors of our search for God in a godless world, and shows about Blair Waldorf being awesome, I have to say that England tends to do it just a bit better than us. Here are three examples, from three different genres, that wipe the floor with any sort of American counterparts:
Surreal Comedies:
This is The Mighty Boosh:
Pretty much everything you need to know about The Mighty Boosh can be summed up by this photo: two men, one has great hair, the other a great mustache.
No, really, The Boosh is an amazing surreal comedy about two friends, Howard and Vince, and the trouble they get up to going about their daily lives. Vince befriends polar bears and is worshipped by aliens and loves Gary Numan and has an amazing assortment of hats. Howard loves Jazz and accidentally gets taken to Monkey Hell and is hated by the Wind and had his first kiss on a rooftop on his 32nd birthday. With Vince.
Okay, so there's really no good way to explain The Boosh, except to say that it's like watching someone else's pot-and-ecstacy-inspired daydream, and that there's singing involved. Singing, Mod Wolves, people with heads made of cheese, a mystic shamen who has an ape as a familiar and a villain called Betamax.
And while The Boosh does air, edited, on BBCAmerica and has gained some popularity over here in America, the truth is that we just can't deal with such a strange, surreal comedy. The most surreal comedy we have is probably Flight of the Conchords:
And they're from New Zealand.
Reality TV:
No, Anne, I'm not going to mention ASBO Teen To Beauty Queen, even if it is possibly the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life. :)
The truth is, we steal a lot of reality tv from the Brits. You can blame them for Dancing With the Stars (aka Strictly Come Dancing, a title that makes no sense to me no matter how many times people explain its origins. Yes, yes, Baz, I know.), American Idol (aka Pop Idol, originally, and now in the form of the fantastic The X Factor, which is so much better than AI, I cannot even tell you), America's Got Talent (we do?), Trading Spaces, What Not To Wear; NBC has even picked up the terrible Baby Borrowers and will be airing the American version this fall.
But for the most part, these reality shows have about the same level of quality (if any) across the ocean. Only one really stands head and shoulders above the rest, only one is so far superior in its UK version than in its poor American imitation, only one can tempt me to actually BUY A HARD DRIVE to store it on during the summer.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Big Brother:
(Hi, twins! Hi, Chiggy! Hello, Emily, you racist slut! Cheesy Quavers! Oh, all my old friends!)
I've only watched one season of America's Big Brother: last year with Evil Dick and his fascinating rape fantasies. And it took me approximately one week to cycle through all the stages of Reality Show Depression: shock that this show made it to air, obligatory old-man comment about how it used to be different in my day, guilty facination despite myself, outrage when someone is kicked off before their lamer/viler/uglier/dumber co-contestants, oversaturation, total boredom.
Big Brother US is just not fun, guys. It's missing - well, it's missing everything that makes Big Brother UK so great (and it is so great) - Julie Chen's weird bobblehead in no way bests Davina McCall's excited shrieking, the US tasks aren't nearly ridiculous enough, and no blonde, vapid US villians will ever be as amazing as Nikki:
Oh, Big Brother. I can't wait until June, when you're back in my life! Like an old friend, you always know just what to do to cheer me up. And it usually involves someone shrieking about ass herpes.
Dramas About Time-Travelling Mancunian Cops
Okay, so this is a bit specific, but it was brought on by mere forwarding me information about the ridiculous, blasphemous, sure-to-be-shitty David E. Kelly remake of one of my very favorite shows, Life on Mars. ABC picked up the series for this fall, and guys, I know I am the girl who cries wolf about this stuff, I know that I basically threatened people with bodily harm if they watched the US remake of The Office, and yes, I can admit that that ONE TIME, I happened to be wrong (although to be fair, based on the first six eps of the first season of The Office US, I was still right. And how was I to know the appeal of Jim Halpert?), but PLEASE BELIEVE ME when I say that the US remake of Life On Mars is going to be one of the shittiest things on television. I can say confidently, without hesitation, that David E Kelly will fuck that show up so very bad that you'll want to throw away all your Bowie albums just because he'll remind you of this soon-to-be show. Trust me. Because, friends, you may be able to, if not upgrade, at least pay loving homage to Ricky Gervais and Steven Merchant, but no one, NO ONE, will be able to upgrade these two people:
This? Is Phillip Glenister and John Simm, better known as Gene Hunt (Trust the Gene Genie) and Sam Tyler. They make Life on Mars. They are Life on Mars. They elevate it from the quasi-spooky, vaguely hokey drama that it could have been into the witty, cutting, quasi-gay, heart-wrenching, edge-of-your-seat-must-see-more SUPERNOVA OF A SHOW that it turned out to be. Please do yourself a favor and watch the original (read: BEST! ONLY! TRUE!) Life on Mars series. It's only, what, 16 episodes long? I watched all of them in a week. In Mississippi. If it can be done there, it can be done anywhere. Because, I promise you, if you happen by this shoddy American remake on ABC this fall, if you accidentally catch a few minutes of its watered-down, sentimental claptrap, you will have spoiled yourself; you will have ruined what could have been the greatest relationship between you and a television show you'll ever have. Love yourself, people. Watch Life on Mars before it's too late.
Also, if it helps? The soundtrack's amazing. And that fellow on the right gets naked.
Okay, one way. Well, two, but Magners is actually Irish and thus doesn't count.
That way? Television.
I'm sorry, but it's true. British TV wipes the floor with American TV, almost all the time. Sure, America's capable of producing some shows that England couldn't imagine in their most fervent nerdy wet dreams - The X-Files, for example, could never have worked over in England. They aren't nearly paranoid enough about their government (I mean, CCTV! And NO ONE questions this?? People, rise up!) to relate to Mulder, and also I don't think the British Parliament is so loose-fisted with their security budgets as we are - how else do we explain Scully's season 4-and-later wardrobe? Plus, no offense, England, but I've seen your iconic sci-fi show, and apart from the charming and hot Scottish fellow playing the titular character, it kinda blows.
Also, England could never produce something like Gossip Girl, because all of their soap operas are about really ugly, middle-class, downtrodden people. I don't get that. If I wanted to see ugly people's ugly problems, I'd go outside and make friends. No! I want to see pretty people's glamorous problems! From the safety and comfort of my couch!
But apart from sci-fi metaphors of our search for God in a godless world, and shows about Blair Waldorf being awesome, I have to say that England tends to do it just a bit better than us. Here are three examples, from three different genres, that wipe the floor with any sort of American counterparts:
Surreal Comedies:
This is The Mighty Boosh:
Pretty much everything you need to know about The Mighty Boosh can be summed up by this photo: two men, one has great hair, the other a great mustache.
No, really, The Boosh is an amazing surreal comedy about two friends, Howard and Vince, and the trouble they get up to going about their daily lives. Vince befriends polar bears and is worshipped by aliens and loves Gary Numan and has an amazing assortment of hats. Howard loves Jazz and accidentally gets taken to Monkey Hell and is hated by the Wind and had his first kiss on a rooftop on his 32nd birthday. With Vince.
Okay, so there's really no good way to explain The Boosh, except to say that it's like watching someone else's pot-and-ecstacy-inspired daydream, and that there's singing involved. Singing, Mod Wolves, people with heads made of cheese, a mystic shamen who has an ape as a familiar and a villain called Betamax.
And while The Boosh does air, edited, on BBCAmerica and has gained some popularity over here in America, the truth is that we just can't deal with such a strange, surreal comedy. The most surreal comedy we have is probably Flight of the Conchords:
And they're from New Zealand.
Reality TV:
No, Anne, I'm not going to mention ASBO Teen To Beauty Queen, even if it is possibly the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life. :)
The truth is, we steal a lot of reality tv from the Brits. You can blame them for Dancing With the Stars (aka Strictly Come Dancing, a title that makes no sense to me no matter how many times people explain its origins. Yes, yes, Baz, I know.), American Idol (aka Pop Idol, originally, and now in the form of the fantastic The X Factor, which is so much better than AI, I cannot even tell you), America's Got Talent (we do?), Trading Spaces, What Not To Wear; NBC has even picked up the terrible Baby Borrowers and will be airing the American version this fall.
But for the most part, these reality shows have about the same level of quality (if any) across the ocean. Only one really stands head and shoulders above the rest, only one is so far superior in its UK version than in its poor American imitation, only one can tempt me to actually BUY A HARD DRIVE to store it on during the summer.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Big Brother:
(Hi, twins! Hi, Chiggy! Hello, Emily, you racist slut! Cheesy Quavers! Oh, all my old friends!)
I've only watched one season of America's Big Brother: last year with Evil Dick and his fascinating rape fantasies. And it took me approximately one week to cycle through all the stages of Reality Show Depression: shock that this show made it to air, obligatory old-man comment about how it used to be different in my day, guilty facination despite myself, outrage when someone is kicked off before their lamer/viler/uglier/dumber co-contestants, oversaturation, total boredom.
Big Brother US is just not fun, guys. It's missing - well, it's missing everything that makes Big Brother UK so great (and it is so great) - Julie Chen's weird bobblehead in no way bests Davina McCall's excited shrieking, the US tasks aren't nearly ridiculous enough, and no blonde, vapid US villians will ever be as amazing as Nikki:
Oh, Big Brother. I can't wait until June, when you're back in my life! Like an old friend, you always know just what to do to cheer me up. And it usually involves someone shrieking about ass herpes.
Dramas About Time-Travelling Mancunian Cops
Okay, so this is a bit specific, but it was brought on by mere forwarding me information about the ridiculous, blasphemous, sure-to-be-shitty David E. Kelly remake of one of my very favorite shows, Life on Mars. ABC picked up the series for this fall, and guys, I know I am the girl who cries wolf about this stuff, I know that I basically threatened people with bodily harm if they watched the US remake of The Office, and yes, I can admit that that ONE TIME, I happened to be wrong (although to be fair, based on the first six eps of the first season of The Office US, I was still right. And how was I to know the appeal of Jim Halpert?), but PLEASE BELIEVE ME when I say that the US remake of Life On Mars is going to be one of the shittiest things on television. I can say confidently, without hesitation, that David E Kelly will fuck that show up so very bad that you'll want to throw away all your Bowie albums just because he'll remind you of this soon-to-be show. Trust me. Because, friends, you may be able to, if not upgrade, at least pay loving homage to Ricky Gervais and Steven Merchant, but no one, NO ONE, will be able to upgrade these two people:
This? Is Phillip Glenister and John Simm, better known as Gene Hunt (Trust the Gene Genie) and Sam Tyler. They make Life on Mars. They are Life on Mars. They elevate it from the quasi-spooky, vaguely hokey drama that it could have been into the witty, cutting, quasi-gay, heart-wrenching, edge-of-your-seat-must-see-more SUPERNOVA OF A SHOW that it turned out to be. Please do yourself a favor and watch the original (read: BEST! ONLY! TRUE!) Life on Mars series. It's only, what, 16 episodes long? I watched all of them in a week. In Mississippi. If it can be done there, it can be done anywhere. Because, I promise you, if you happen by this shoddy American remake on ABC this fall, if you accidentally catch a few minutes of its watered-down, sentimental claptrap, you will have spoiled yourself; you will have ruined what could have been the greatest relationship between you and a television show you'll ever have. Love yourself, people. Watch Life on Mars before it's too late.
Also, if it helps? The soundtrack's amazing. And that fellow on the right gets naked.
04 March 2008
Things (I Did In February) That I Love
Right, so I'm finally getting around to my February-in-review, only 4 days late. February's a great month: it's short (even when it's been extended, as it was this year), there's still pretty good weather in Texas, and it's Black History Month, which means that I'm more likely to find a James Baldwin display at Barnes and Noble. My February was pretty jam-packed with both change and fun: I moved offices, bought a car, and had some great nights out with my Houston friends.
I started off the month participating in Meredith and Matt's TV Marathon Extravaganza. Along with Mandy and Bill, we each picked three hours of one tv show to watch, and came up with food and drink which tied into what we were watching. It was a lazy, drunken, gluttonous good time! Matt and I hosted our shows on Friday night. Matt decided to show Smallville (which basically everyone I know watches, but I don't, because the only character I like is Lex, and he's not naked enough) and made awesome Red Kryptonite drinks (raspberry lemonade with a healthy splash of vodka) and the best chicken and dumplings I've ever tasted. Those chicken and dumplings were such tasty business, I swear. After watching four episodes and following the rules of the drinking game (I won't go into them in detail, but suffice it to say that one rule is drink anytime someone says "Clark." Have you ever watched Smallville? Watch one ep and get back to me on the relative state of your liver.), we were pretty trashed, but we still had enough in us for more.
I showed The X-Files, obviously, because I will take any opportunity to push that show on an unwilling public. In this case, though, everyone was perfectly willing because Matt, Mere and Mandy are all watching the show from the beginning. It's so cute! They still think everything's going to make sense! Anyway, for my part, I served individual sweet potato pies (because we watched "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space'") and make-your-own dessert monsters, in honor of "Post-Modern Prometheus." I had marshmallows and chocolate chips and coconut and all sorts of black-and-white edible fun. All our monsters were totally cute, too. And very tasty.
And in honor of The X-Files, Rupert, Mandy's dog, wore his bumblebee outfit. Thing I like? Dressing up dogs.
Isn't he totally cute?
On Saturday it was Mere and Mandy's turn. Meredith decided to show the first four hours of Twin Peaks, which was an excellent idea not only because we all love Twin Peaks, but because she had the most amazing food to go with it. She ordered strawberry rhubarb pie from House of Pies (probably the best place to eat in Houston. Its name says it all. IT IS A HOUSE OF PIES.) and make little sugar cookies in the shape of Douglas firs. There was a cheese log in honor of the Log Lady (someday my Log is going to have something to say about this cheese log!), and swedish fish (not in the percolator.) But best of all was Jerry's Perfect Sandwich. Remember when he first makes his entrance and he's going on and on about this perfect sandwich made with brie and butter on a baguette? Well, Mere decided to try it out, and let me tell you, Jerry may be sort of a crazy playboy who makes tragic sartorial choices, but the man knows his sandwiches. That was the best sandwich I've ever had, and I'm a girl who's eaten a lot of sandwiches.
Mandy wrapped things up with a marathon of Arrested Development, which included my favorite ep of the series, "Pier Pressure." And that's why you don't teach your kids lessons! She made Carl Weathers' Stew (I love stew) and we had Unlimited Juice and Mandy made little chocolate conversation hearts that spelled out "MAYBE TONIGHT." All in all, it was the best way to spend a weekend - vegging out, eating great food, getting drunk and watching some of my favorite television shows. And Smallville.
Then that next day, we all met for brunch at Hobbit Cafe. I love Hobbit Cafe - it's quaint and charming, and they give you enough food to feed an orc. We all looked super swank and uptown, see?
There's Matt, doing his best suave hipster impression. He's really good at it!
There's Mere, looking dreamy and hip.
And of course Mandy and m'elle got on like hotcakes, being as they both posess approximately the same level of maturity.
Speaking of the offspring, she's started showing an interest in cooking. So I tricked her out with an apron and hat. Doesn't she look professional?
So far she can cook grilled cheese and green beans with shallots and mushrooms. And she can make coffee, which I actually can't (I don't drink it so I never bothered to learn how to make it. I barely function as an adult, let me assure you), so I think soon the student shall become the master.
But I'm not ready to be stripped of my title of domestic diva just yet. People who work with me have a lot of hardships, the main one being that I'm a cranky bastard 98% of the time, so I try to make it up to them on any holiday occassion. This year for Valentine's Day I made little gift tins - red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and candied flowers, chocolate-dipped pink ribbon shortcake cookies, and of course the traditional gift of seasonal Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Nothing says "I love you" like peanut butter and chocolate wrapped in pink foil.
Don't they look cheerful and fun?
They were delicious, too, if I must say. Man, I wish I worked with me.
The rest of February sped right on by, filled with a lot of overtime work and too much shopping at Target. And then, last week, tons of great things happened! I got a raise! I bought a car! I went to Warrens!
That last bit, at least, has photographic evidence as well. See?
Sarah came to town! There she is with Mere, probably showing her a photo of Ray. Because as I once pointed out, and Sarah confirmed, the ratio of photos in which Ray appears to the ones in which he is absent is about 15 to 1. Sometimes he isn't even in the vicinity of the camera - perhaps he is several hundred miles away - but he still manages to sneak into frame. See?
It's just weird.
Matt learned a little something from Ray, because he managed to slide into this blurry shot without even noticing.
Jesus. What's so funny, me?
Sarah took over my camera at one point and Annie Liebowitzed Mere and I into being awesome photog subjects.
I mean, you can just SEE the emotion pouring off of us. We're so EDITORIAL. Sarah is like Mr Jay, only less orange, and she totally gets us to be the fiercest we can be. Tyra will love us!
The only thing to put a slight damper on the evening was that some dude in cargo shorts totally tried to hit on my by way of lecturing me about politics. A tip for all you fellas out there: I know women are hard to talk to, or whatever, especially if they're in a group of friends, but the way NOT to make them all fluttery and weak-in-the-knees is to tell them they don't understand the welfare system because they're too young. I'm just sayin'.
And although, technically, it happened in the month of March, I must give special shout-outs to last night, when I randomly caught Emma on tv. Gah, Jeremy Northam, why are you so hot? PLEASE SCOLD ME, MR KNIGHTLEY. (In case you don't know, 90% of all heterosexual females lust after either Mr Darcy as played by Colin Firth or Mr Knightley as played by Jeremy Northam, or both. In my case, it's both. In an attempt to woo literary-minded females, many men will try to adopt either a Darcy or Knightley demeanor. This is a mistake, and will cause romantic failure nearly every time, because the simple truth of the matter is that we won't stand for anyone snubbing us at a dance, trying to ruin our sister's happiness or being kind of creepily older than us and scolding us all the time unless they look like, and have the charm of, Firth or Northam. Unfair, perhaps, but this is just the way of life, men. Don't go around telling us "badly done" unless you're prepared to back that up with aristocratic good looks, a charming accent and the tendency to fiddle a bit with your waistcoat while you struggle in vain to hide your undying love and affection for us.)
March brings us ever closer to my encroaching old age, but before that happy time, we'll be bringing this blog coverage of Austin's annual South by Southwest Music Festival. Courtney and I will be posting lots of music-related entries over the next few weeks, so if that isn't your cup of tea, try to hang in there. But we are going to do our level best to find a member of Hanson and ask what the deal is with hanson secrets, so watch out for that.
xx erin
I started off the month participating in Meredith and Matt's TV Marathon Extravaganza. Along with Mandy and Bill, we each picked three hours of one tv show to watch, and came up with food and drink which tied into what we were watching. It was a lazy, drunken, gluttonous good time! Matt and I hosted our shows on Friday night. Matt decided to show Smallville (which basically everyone I know watches, but I don't, because the only character I like is Lex, and he's not naked enough) and made awesome Red Kryptonite drinks (raspberry lemonade with a healthy splash of vodka) and the best chicken and dumplings I've ever tasted. Those chicken and dumplings were such tasty business, I swear. After watching four episodes and following the rules of the drinking game (I won't go into them in detail, but suffice it to say that one rule is drink anytime someone says "Clark." Have you ever watched Smallville? Watch one ep and get back to me on the relative state of your liver.), we were pretty trashed, but we still had enough in us for more.
I showed The X-Files, obviously, because I will take any opportunity to push that show on an unwilling public. In this case, though, everyone was perfectly willing because Matt, Mere and Mandy are all watching the show from the beginning. It's so cute! They still think everything's going to make sense! Anyway, for my part, I served individual sweet potato pies (because we watched "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space'") and make-your-own dessert monsters, in honor of "Post-Modern Prometheus." I had marshmallows and chocolate chips and coconut and all sorts of black-and-white edible fun. All our monsters were totally cute, too. And very tasty.
And in honor of The X-Files, Rupert, Mandy's dog, wore his bumblebee outfit. Thing I like? Dressing up dogs.
Isn't he totally cute?
On Saturday it was Mere and Mandy's turn. Meredith decided to show the first four hours of Twin Peaks, which was an excellent idea not only because we all love Twin Peaks, but because she had the most amazing food to go with it. She ordered strawberry rhubarb pie from House of Pies (probably the best place to eat in Houston. Its name says it all. IT IS A HOUSE OF PIES.) and make little sugar cookies in the shape of Douglas firs. There was a cheese log in honor of the Log Lady (someday my Log is going to have something to say about this cheese log!), and swedish fish (not in the percolator.) But best of all was Jerry's Perfect Sandwich. Remember when he first makes his entrance and he's going on and on about this perfect sandwich made with brie and butter on a baguette? Well, Mere decided to try it out, and let me tell you, Jerry may be sort of a crazy playboy who makes tragic sartorial choices, but the man knows his sandwiches. That was the best sandwich I've ever had, and I'm a girl who's eaten a lot of sandwiches.
Mandy wrapped things up with a marathon of Arrested Development, which included my favorite ep of the series, "Pier Pressure." And that's why you don't teach your kids lessons! She made Carl Weathers' Stew (I love stew) and we had Unlimited Juice and Mandy made little chocolate conversation hearts that spelled out "MAYBE TONIGHT." All in all, it was the best way to spend a weekend - vegging out, eating great food, getting drunk and watching some of my favorite television shows. And Smallville.
Then that next day, we all met for brunch at Hobbit Cafe. I love Hobbit Cafe - it's quaint and charming, and they give you enough food to feed an orc. We all looked super swank and uptown, see?
There's Matt, doing his best suave hipster impression. He's really good at it!
There's Mere, looking dreamy and hip.
And of course Mandy and m'elle got on like hotcakes, being as they both posess approximately the same level of maturity.
Speaking of the offspring, she's started showing an interest in cooking. So I tricked her out with an apron and hat. Doesn't she look professional?
So far she can cook grilled cheese and green beans with shallots and mushrooms. And she can make coffee, which I actually can't (I don't drink it so I never bothered to learn how to make it. I barely function as an adult, let me assure you), so I think soon the student shall become the master.
But I'm not ready to be stripped of my title of domestic diva just yet. People who work with me have a lot of hardships, the main one being that I'm a cranky bastard 98% of the time, so I try to make it up to them on any holiday occassion. This year for Valentine's Day I made little gift tins - red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and candied flowers, chocolate-dipped pink ribbon shortcake cookies, and of course the traditional gift of seasonal Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Nothing says "I love you" like peanut butter and chocolate wrapped in pink foil.
Don't they look cheerful and fun?
They were delicious, too, if I must say. Man, I wish I worked with me.
The rest of February sped right on by, filled with a lot of overtime work and too much shopping at Target. And then, last week, tons of great things happened! I got a raise! I bought a car! I went to Warrens!
That last bit, at least, has photographic evidence as well. See?
Sarah came to town! There she is with Mere, probably showing her a photo of Ray. Because as I once pointed out, and Sarah confirmed, the ratio of photos in which Ray appears to the ones in which he is absent is about 15 to 1. Sometimes he isn't even in the vicinity of the camera - perhaps he is several hundred miles away - but he still manages to sneak into frame. See?
It's just weird.
Matt learned a little something from Ray, because he managed to slide into this blurry shot without even noticing.
Jesus. What's so funny, me?
Sarah took over my camera at one point and Annie Liebowitzed Mere and I into being awesome photog subjects.
I mean, you can just SEE the emotion pouring off of us. We're so EDITORIAL. Sarah is like Mr Jay, only less orange, and she totally gets us to be the fiercest we can be. Tyra will love us!
The only thing to put a slight damper on the evening was that some dude in cargo shorts totally tried to hit on my by way of lecturing me about politics. A tip for all you fellas out there: I know women are hard to talk to, or whatever, especially if they're in a group of friends, but the way NOT to make them all fluttery and weak-in-the-knees is to tell them they don't understand the welfare system because they're too young. I'm just sayin'.
And although, technically, it happened in the month of March, I must give special shout-outs to last night, when I randomly caught Emma on tv. Gah, Jeremy Northam, why are you so hot? PLEASE SCOLD ME, MR KNIGHTLEY. (In case you don't know, 90% of all heterosexual females lust after either Mr Darcy as played by Colin Firth or Mr Knightley as played by Jeremy Northam, or both. In my case, it's both. In an attempt to woo literary-minded females, many men will try to adopt either a Darcy or Knightley demeanor. This is a mistake, and will cause romantic failure nearly every time, because the simple truth of the matter is that we won't stand for anyone snubbing us at a dance, trying to ruin our sister's happiness or being kind of creepily older than us and scolding us all the time unless they look like, and have the charm of, Firth or Northam. Unfair, perhaps, but this is just the way of life, men. Don't go around telling us "badly done" unless you're prepared to back that up with aristocratic good looks, a charming accent and the tendency to fiddle a bit with your waistcoat while you struggle in vain to hide your undying love and affection for us.)
March brings us ever closer to my encroaching old age, but before that happy time, we'll be bringing this blog coverage of Austin's annual South by Southwest Music Festival. Courtney and I will be posting lots of music-related entries over the next few weeks, so if that isn't your cup of tea, try to hang in there. But we are going to do our level best to find a member of Hanson and ask what the deal is with hanson secrets, so watch out for that.
xx erin
27 November 2007
"She'll snap you like a Twiglet."
"Or kill me and make it look like suicide."
On the list of Things I Love, indie/pop music, television, comedy, gay men and Jews rank really high. So it's no wonder that I would adore BBC2's Nevermind the Buzzcocks, a pop quiz panel show about music. It's recently returned for its 21st season, and I couldn't be more glad.
The recipe for NMtB is this: take one snarky, perturbed host (former host Mark Lamarr or current host Simon Amstell), two panel captains (in the forms of Phill Jupitus and Bill Bailey - although currently The Mighty Boosh's Noel Fielding is filling in for Bailey) and four guests who are usually comedians, musicians or celebrities of some kind. Occasionally, they are lemonade well drillers. Mix with that a healthy dose of irreverance, trivia about pop acts both current and former, really pathetic music interpretations and musicians who don't know the lyrics to their own songs and, et voila! You have one of my favorite television shows.
This season got off to a slightly rocky start because one of the panel guests was Kimberley Stewart (see: Rod Stewart; child of, and Paris Hilton; friend of) and whilst several jokes were made at her expense, they did not cancel out the fact that I had to look at her for a half-hour. But last week's episode was much better - the always delightful Ryan Jarman (of The Cribs) discussed his grammar prowess, David Cross (Arrested Development, Mr. Show with Bob and David) displayed an almost-freaky level of knowledge about fellow guest Jermaine Jackson's religious affiliations, and lots of jokes were made at both Michael Jackson and Courtney Love's expense (see above quote).
On the list of Things I Love, indie/pop music, television, comedy, gay men and Jews rank really high. So it's no wonder that I would adore BBC2's Nevermind the Buzzcocks, a pop quiz panel show about music. It's recently returned for its 21st season, and I couldn't be more glad.
The recipe for NMtB is this: take one snarky, perturbed host (former host Mark Lamarr or current host Simon Amstell), two panel captains (in the forms of Phill Jupitus and Bill Bailey - although currently The Mighty Boosh's Noel Fielding is filling in for Bailey) and four guests who are usually comedians, musicians or celebrities of some kind. Occasionally, they are lemonade well drillers. Mix with that a healthy dose of irreverance, trivia about pop acts both current and former, really pathetic music interpretations and musicians who don't know the lyrics to their own songs and, et voila! You have one of my favorite television shows.
This season got off to a slightly rocky start because one of the panel guests was Kimberley Stewart (see: Rod Stewart; child of, and Paris Hilton; friend of) and whilst several jokes were made at her expense, they did not cancel out the fact that I had to look at her for a half-hour. But last week's episode was much better - the always delightful Ryan Jarman (of The Cribs) discussed his grammar prowess, David Cross (Arrested Development, Mr. Show with Bob and David) displayed an almost-freaky level of knowledge about fellow guest Jermaine Jackson's religious affiliations, and lots of jokes were made at both Michael Jackson and Courtney Love's expense (see above quote).
NMtB airs on BBC2 on Thursday nights. Watch and laugh.
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