Hoot. February 10, 2008
Posted by merujo in celebrity, general weirdness, graphic design, movies, music, weather, weekend, when animals attack.2 comments
We have high winds buffeting the area around This Nation’s Capital tonight. The temperature has taken a fairly dramatic nosedive (I heard we should expect it to sink to 15F later today) and it’s a fine day to stay indoors. Unless you are draped to the gills in warm layers and just love getting swept off your feet in a cloud of broken tree branches, that is.
After running a couple of quick errands this afternoon, I stopped to drink a cup of coffee and read the newspaper in my car outside a strip mall. In the middle of one mighty blast of arctic air, I felt this incredible impact with my bumper. Oh crap, I thought, someone hit me again?!? I turned to see a wide-eyed kid more or less spreadeagled across the trunk of my car. Two of his friends stood a few feet away, marveling at the situation. More than a little freaked out, I jumped out and asked the kid, who had to be around 12 or 13, if he was okay. He pulled his skinny self up off my car and patted down his body. “Yeah, I think so! Man, that was wild!” His friends were in appropriate awe of the power of Mutha Nature. “Duuuude, you were flying!” Laughing, they headed off down the Pike. I pretty much decided that was a sign from the heavens that I should just head home.
I intended to spend the afternoon down shooting photographs of the Chinese New Year celebrations in the District, but having just recovered from a lingering lung ailment, I figured I’d rather not roll the respiratory health dice again quite so soon. So, instead, here I am, in the failing light, watching “Helvetica”, the documentary tribute to that most ubiquitous of fonts.
And I am not alone.
The wind has thrown someone else temporarily into my household. Well, if you count the balcony.
There is a large, unhappy owl tucked into the far corner of my balcony, hooting like crazy, raging away at the sky. He’s taken refuge under a small table I use when I’m potting my portulacas in the springtime. If I could get a good angle before the sun vanishes, I would snap a photo of him, but I really can’t get the angle unless I open the balcony door, and, oh brother, that would be a mistake. I know my luck and tendency to be drawn into bizarre mishaps. Imagine me chasing an angry owl through my apartment! Thank ya very much – I’ll pass.
Sure, I could go outside and snap a photo, but that would require the rebundling of the currently warm and unshod body. I’m in for the night. And my feathery alarm system will surely keep me updated on the wind situation. He’s better than that National Weather Service.
If I still have power in a couple of hours, maybe I’ll watch the Grammy Awards. Curious to see if Amy Winehouse will be sober on her satellite feed from London. And, if Kanye doesn’t sweep every category, will he have one of his now-traditional award show tantrums?
Eh, who gives a hoot?
A handful of observations and a change is coming January 25, 2008
Posted by merujo in Hell, celebrity, evil, religion, sadness, stupidity.3 comments
Yes, new entries have been few and far between lately. The wounded lungs (and accompanying insomnia) have leeched a lot of my oomph in recent weeks, and, honestly, I’ve thought a lot about Heath Ledger’s untimely death. I understand the pneumonia/insomnia/general misery situation. If he died as a result of trying to get some measure of sleep in the middle of that garbage, what a miserably accidental tragedy.
And, not to make light of his passing, but, dear friends, family, future pool boy Raul: if you find me face down and unresponsive, PLEASE make your first call to 911. Please. Don’t call Mary-Kate (or the other terrifying Olson Twin, or Britney, or OJ, or even Brad Pitt) before calling the paramedics. In fact, please don’t call Mary-Kate THREE TIMES before calling 911. Jeez.
My future self thanks you.
It’s likely, from descriptions, that Ledger was probably well dead before the masseuse started making (surely, in her mind, helpful) celebrity calls before dialing people with medical training, but still…
Staying on the Ledger situation for a moment — I was disgusted, saddened, but not surprised to hear that sick, twisted, theoretically Christian uber-freak Fred Phelps and his pathetic troop of followers plan to picket Ledger’s funeral because he played a homosexual in “Brokeback Mountain.” WTF, folks? I personally don’t have the strongest or most defined belief system, but I have a funny feeling that, if there is a god, I have a funny feeling he’s got a helluva surprise waiting for Fred in the afterlife. But, then again, I can’t say for sure. Unlike Fred, I don’t have the hubris to think I know the mind of God.
Frankly, people like Phelps make me wish I really believed in the full-on Catholic version of Hell. He’d have his own level – one that sinks lower into sewage and broken glass each time his sad band protests the funeral of a dead soldier. Not a very Christian thought on my part, I admit. I guess that’s my cross to bear. I think I’m okay with it.
I tell you this, if I was told, upon pain of death, I had to sit through a day of proselytizing and had to choose between the wackadoodle Phelps camp and the Scientologists, I’d take the Scientologists in a heartbeat. I see nothing but darkness eminating from the doors of Phelps’ church, celebrating needless death and embracing hatred. Jesus wept, certainly. I imagine he still weeps at the very thought of Fred Phelps.
The Scientologists, on the other hand? While they creep me out, at least these guys come with their own punchline this past week with the leaking of the divinely bizarre Tom Cruise indoctrination video (if you haven’t seen it, watch it on Defamer.com before some injunction pops up and sweeps it away.) Look, if Scientologists want to spend all their money on getting “clean” and free of all that space alien spirit juju that apparently causes all the ills of this world, who gives a shit? But the sheer hubris that Cruise radiates in this film clip slays me. Apparently, if a Scientologist drives past a car accident, he/she is compelled to stop because he/she is – if Cruise is to be believed – the “only one who can really help!”
A-MAY-ZIN’!
Stand back, everyone! I’m a Scientologist! No, I don’t have any medical training. No, I don’t know how to save these guys. I cannot reattach limbs. But I’m a Scientologist!
What a load of crap.
Seriously.
Big, heaping pile of steaming dung.
If Scientology is a way for people to feel better about themselves, well, that’s fan-freaking-tastic. But if it gives you the delusion that you’re better than everyone else – that being part of your money-sucking religion is “a privilege”, and you’re somehow mankind’s savior??? Well, that’s messed up. Want to help people, Tom? Donate money to charities that do tremendous good. Don’t advise people on post-partum depression. Don’t think you’re capable of cleaning the toxic air around the World Trade Center. Get a grip. Self-confidence is a great thing. Hubris gets you a karmic black eye, a reputation as a joke, and people find you a bore at cocktail parties.
Note to my friends: definitely call 911 for me before you call Tom Cruise. He won’t be able to help me. I’m pretty confident on that point.
And, for those who haven’t seen it, please enjoy Jerry O’Connell’s uncanny mockery of the Cruise video. Jerry, babes, you got it spot on:
Jerry, I guess this nixes your chances to be in Mission Impossible 12. I salute you!
Note to everyone: there will be a little blog change today. Nothing major, but you’ll see it when you see it.
Farewell, Lancelot October 30, 2007
Posted by merujo in celebrity, class, icons, music, obituary.1 comment so far
Robert Goulet died today. He was 73 years old and waiting for a lung transplant when he died at the place where stars go for their final curtain, Cedars-Sinai. He had a rare condition and his death came only a month after his diagnosis. What a shame.
I’m not sure if the first time I heard Goulet’s voice was on our LP of the Broadway soundtrack to “Camelot” or on one of our myriad holiday records, like those Firestone Christmas LPs we collected each year. What a velvety voice! And Goulet seemed to have a really good sense of humor, judging by some of the roles he took on.
If you check his IMDB page, it’s quite amazing what a career he had. And even if you’re too young to really remember the finest of his Broadway singing days or his zillions of TV appearances, you’ll remember him from the fabulous possessed dinner party in “Beetlejuice” and his very silly participation in the Emerald Nuts Super Bowl ad:
I wonder if Goulet really thought he might really die. This diagnosis was sudden, and I think it says so much that he told the docs “just watch my vocal cords” as they put in a breathing tube. The man was planning to sing again. I don’t think he’d expected to leave for points unknown. Not just yet.
It makes me sad to see the icons I grew up with pass away. They were, frankly, a much classier lot than the majority of what we have now. (Or, at the very least, their personal foibles and flaws weren’t paraded across my living room on a glowing screen every night.) Amy Winehouse has a set of pipes on her, for sure, but I wouldn’t want to even shake hands with her without a bucket of Purell (or a hazmat suit). Goulet, though? I’d have made him dinner and listened to his stories for hours on end. I bet he had some great ones. I would take a hundred Goulets over just about anyone we see splashed on TMZ.com. Any day of the week, kids. Any day of the week.
Goodnight, Lancelot. Avalon awaits.
Sometimes… June 4, 2007
Posted by merujo in America, celebrity, death, general weirdness, tabloids.add a comment
America just is one giant tabloid freakshow.
RIP, Bic Banana May 30, 2007
Posted by merujo in celebrity, childhood, obituary, television.3 comments
Charles Nelson Reilly died this week. And I will miss him.
For those of us who are children of the 70s – the Electric Company and Zoom generation – Reilly was a fixture on the boob tubes in our homes. He was a smart, talented, and witty actor who wasn’t above being an utter goofball for the entertainment of children. (Dear lord, do any of the rest of you guys have nightmares about Lidsville?) He was a regular on MatchGame, of course, and popped up on shows all over the dial. The X-Files episode where he played writer Jose Chung has to be one of the best they ever did. (He played Chung again on the only funny episode ever of the dark drama “Millennium” – it was pretty damn good.)
When I worked for another MatchGame alum, Reilly came by to visit the office on a stop in the DC area. I was floored. I called a friend and said, “Holy shit – the Bic Banana was at work today!”
You *do* remember the Bic Banana, right?
Ah, the jingles of youth.
His one-man stage show, “The Life of Reilly,” took the audience through his amazing and off-kilter life, from a kid raised by – for real – an institutionalized father, a racist mother, and a voluntarily lobotomized aunt to a Tony-winning actor and TV icon. The last two performances of “The Life of Reilly” were filmed, and a movie version was released last year. It’s out on DVD, and I want to rent it. I could use one last big laugh with the Bic Banana.
Rest well, Charles. Thanks for all the giggles. May you *blank* in peace.
The Mile High Flub February 18, 2007
Posted by merujo in airplanes, bathrooms, celebrity, sex, stupidity.7 comments
“Would you sleep with Ralph Fiennes?”
“Dunno… ‘English Patient’ Ralph Fiennes or ‘fat Nazi’ Ralph Fiennes?”
(when Ellen’s character was still straight, back in the dark ages)
Sure, I can understand that moment when the heat of passion overtakes you. You lose control. You do things you might not normally do.
Heck, you might do something that causes you to get fired.
A few jobs back, one of my colleagues was found bent over her desk, getting a “special delivery” from the young dude freshly hired for the mail room. At 10 in the morning. She was late for a meeting, the boss stopped by to see if she could join the group in the conference room, and… BAM. She did not get fired, but the new dude from the mail room did. I know that the boss, a very conservative guy, really wanted to can her, but she was disabled, a minority, and a legacy for the organization. Firing her would have been even messier than that mid-morning screw over a paper-littered desk.
But after the episode, she was shunned by management – and most of the staff. Eventually she quit. The office had become a hostile work environment, but, admittedly, that was mostly of her own doing.
According to a 2006 Harris Interactive survey, 16% of U.S. men and 7% of U.S. women reported having sex in the office. Of course, this statistic doesn’t say if they were having that sex alone or with a partner. I don’t think I want to speculate. I would hope that most of those folks had at least a private office or a conference room to get down and get funky. “Hey, Bob, heh heh… uh… sometimes it’s tough to share a cubicle wall, huh? Heh heh… uh… could you turn down your radio? I’m not really into WASH FM… and, uh, while you’re at it, heh heh, maybe you could thrust a little less aggressively? You guys keep knocking over my coffee… Maybe stifle Mary’s screams, too???”
So, that begs the question: what if you’re horny and don’t have much private space at work? Say, if you’re a flight attendant?
Yeah, yeah, we all know about the mile high club. But, c’mon – how many people actually indulge in the fantasy of sex in mid-air on a commercial jet? A few years back, there was a “mile high” airline called Fly Key West. Their slogan was “We fly at 5,280 feet, give or take six inches.” Crass, but funny. For a fee, they would take an amorous couple up in a Piper Cub decked out with a bed in the back, so they could go at it in the very friendly skies. Patrons had the option of having their session filmed, and, if they chose, the video would be made available on the airline’s website for paying members to view. They had quite the array of screenshots on their website, trust me. But, just a month before 9/11, Fly Key West had a bizarre tragedy on board one of their planes. A 60-something Cuban couple booked a flight, ostensibly to make whoopie over the lovely waters of the Florida Keys. In fact, they were would-be hijackers, and they wanted that plane to fly to Cuba. In the end, the plane crashed and the couple died, but miraculously, the pilot survived.
But there are other airlines dotting the (artificial) horizon that still serve up hot sex in mid-air, like Mile High Atlanta, where $299 gets you a bottle of champagne, an hour in a Piper Cub, and your souvenir sheets to take home after you’ve pumped some airborne rump. (Probably because the pilot doesn’t want to have to handle your dirty linens after you’re done.)
Aero-Tech, Inc. in Lexington, Kentucky offers the same type of service. You’ll see the link to the $250 mile high offering on this “scenic flights” page – it’s under the Kid’s Flight and the Father’s Day Flight (both of which may occur after the Mile High Flight.)
I’m sure there’s a whole lotta lovin’ goin’ down on board private jets, too. Lord only knows what happens on John Travolta’s Boeing 707. Sorry, that should be “Xenu only knows.” My bad.
But what about commercial jets? How many people really go off to an airline lavatory and have sex? First, the couple would have to be small enough to get both parties inside one of those freakishly claustrophobic toilets. Second… well, dear god… most people would have be utterly drunk to do it there. I mean, have you really looked around an airplane toilet after you’ve been in flight for a short time? YUCK! I bring throw-away toothbrushes when I fly long-haul trips, just so I don’t have to re-use one that’s been in an airplane lavatory.
Sure, I can think of worse toilets in which to have sex: a row of porta-potties at the Renaissance Faire (or a NASCAR event)… a Central Asian open hole (holy crap, you’d have to have outstanding balance – and no sense of smell)… and, of course, the loo on a Russian train comes to mind. True story: on a business trip to rural Russian back in 1995, I went into a Russian overnight train bathroom and accidentally brushed up against the pee-covered edge of the toilet. The fluid touched my leg and – as god is my witness – it BURNED THROUGH MY TROUSERS. I can only image what kind of terrifying, homemade jet fuel hooch my fellow travelers were drinking through the night to create that level of toxicity.
But still, I cannot imagine what level of passion – or stupidity – would drive anyone to attempt sex in an airplane toilet. The yuckiness. The claustrophobia. The bruising.
Unless, I guess, it’s Ralph Fiennes who wants to bang you.
I’m sure you’ve all heard by now of the former Qantas flight attendant that fell prey to Mr. Fiennes’ charm while on board a flight to India recently. At first, the woman, Lisa Robertson, denied the episode despite, apparently, half the plane knowing something was going down inside that ocupado cubicle. Then, suddenly, she sang a different tune (probably when approached by tabloids bearing cash.) Yes, they had sex – unprotected – on board the plane, and then had a day of crazy lovemaking in a Mumbai hotel. Ralph, a UNICEF UK ambassador, was on his way to India on an HIV/AIDS awareness trip. (Nice going with the unprotected sex there, Mr. Ambassador!) Fiennes’ publicist now says that Ralphie boy was the victim here, seduced by the feminine wiles of Ms. Robertson. Yeaaaah. Whatever.
Eh, who knows what really goes on behind closed doors when the bolt is pulled tight and the folding door is locked in place? Watch out for that smoke detector, baby, cuz this lavatory is smokin’!
Sure, if you can handle the “yuck factor”, the potential injuries, the post-coital walk of shame back to your seat, the disgust and/or envious resentment of your fellow passengers, and the possibility of arrest (or diversion of the plane, if folks get a little overzealous), and you are a “nobody” on the flight, well, hell, I guess you should go for it. Just, when you’re done, pleeeeeease wipe everything down for the next customer, okay?
But if you’re WORKING the flight, why do it? And if you are a UNICEF ambassador, traveling on an HIV/AIDS project, why engage in unprotected sex with a stranger – one who might make this all public? Is a few minutes of uncomfortable intimacy worth your job and your reputation? I think that’s pretty damn stupid.
In truth, Ralph Fiennes will come out of this relatively unscathed. After all, he’s doing a film with Colin Farrell right now, so he’s probably still looking good in comparison to his coworker! But Lisa Robertson – a former cop, suffering from depression, and struggling financially? She’s been fired by Qantas, and any tabloid money she got will quickly run out. Robertson will be left a sad, broke joke, a punchline for a Hollywood actor’s next Tonight Show appearance, a la Hugh Grant.
“Jeez, Ralph – what were you thinking?” Har har har har har!
I think it would be classy for Fiennes to announce that he’s stepping down from his ambassadorial position. Or, at the very least, for him to say that he clearly has much yet to learn about the spread of HIV/AIDS himself. Then, he could actively participate in some of the seminars that are being offered to folks in rural India who haven’t had the advantages and access to sex education that he has.
Not trying to sound high and mighty here. Just thinking that, rather than proclaiming himself to be a victim in this silly sex romp, Fiennes could do something positive and humble.
But I have a strong hunch I’ll win Powerball before that happens. Hell, I’ll be having sex in an airplane lavatory myself before that happens! (And yes, for the record, that will be never, thank you very much.)
