Sunday, May 29, 2005

C'est tres cool

Kicking off this morning's housecleaning soundtrack is ... Regina Spektor.

Ah, errands: the second oldest soul crushing activity next to co-habitation.


I feel a lightening round of rants coming like another histrionic Britney Spears missive (a ninth-grade education evidently not only gets you millions of adoring fans, but voodoo powers capable of lowering all literacy expectations for a 22-year-old -- albeit, a pregnant one).

1. *SPOILER ALERT* Forcing myself to sit through Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reasoning was a dehumanizing experience. None of the characters in the movie were fleshed out. Renee Zellweger did her usual sour lemon face in every possible scene and Colin Firth was set aside to make room for Hugh Grant's Daniel Cleaver (who brieftly shows up maybe twice in the book: the beginning and the end). The film was a dirty excuse for a chick flick; it wasn't even mildly entertaining. Nor was it quirky enough (at all?) to merit qualification for its own genre. I was embarrassed -- I actually tipped over and hoped for a brain aneurysm -- for Mark Darcy. Why would anyone like him be so foolish as to stick around with an emotionally deranged, impulsively eratic, game-playing bimbo? It wasn't that cinematic Bridget was depicted as a twit and an airhead, it was her utter insecurity about absolutely everything! Where was the sharp wit that typified Helen Fielding's protagonist? It was like the producers threatened to dip the screenwriter in acid had he written something even vaguely inspired by the source. Rebecca wasn't this gorgeous, cutesy lesbian lawyer; she was a professional man-stealer in Gucci perfume! That's how Bridget's insecurity was initially fostered. How neurotic can one be if some chickenshit bitch tells you she saw your boyfriend enter his townhouse with a woman and you rush over there to straighten him out? It's unbelievable: My lovely Bridget was turned into some sort of squinty-eyed, possessive stalker! Was I really supposed to believe I, as a Singleton, was just like Bridget? An ungainly hag with a penchant for Ben & Jerry's (okay, I do like Ben & Jerry's, but I eat it with exuberance, not dread)? What's more, she doesn't even write in her fucking diary! Goddamnit, I know for a fact that number II was based on Jane Austen's follow-up classic Persuasion. That's why it was so romantic: it was about two, thinking people; not crass caricatures. Being patient is a virtue; suffering is not.

2. I used to be addicted to Las Vegas-style productions of beauty pageants. "Look at those costumes!" I'd drool. "Is that ... No, it couldn't be ... Are those Tahitian pearls set in chiffon roses?" Now, I plain can't stand them. The glossy veneers. The cemented smiles. The '80s dance moves (who's their choreographer? Paula Abdul?) It's all a show of excess vanity. I know I'm not bringing up anything new. It's just that, from the look of things, Donald Trump still thinks we're living in the Me Decade. The Miss Universe pageant needs a facelift (and I don't mean Miss Colombia) because it's living a perpetual time warp. The only person who'd still find boatneck collars sexy is Tammy Faye and she's too busy being a gay icon. And one-shouldered, Copacabana cocktail dresses? Did someone resurrect Sammy Davis Jr.? For shame, for shame, the show puts the "art" in "retarded." Now, I'm not suggesting these girls with degrees in managerial studies should start shuffling across the stage like an aging alcoholic. But give me something that'll jolt some shit from my sphincter! Give me someone to root for other than my home country for once. I want to know who the controversial puta was backstage. Screw "Most Photogenic". How about "Most Politically Active"? Or "Most Racist"? Or "Most Unlikely to Graduate from School Due to Huge Financial Burden Placed Upon Family by that Unsightly National Costume Made from the Skinned Remains of the Labour Camp Next Door"? Talk about ironic parallels: World peace is apparently achievable by competitive prancing on an international platform and judged by an elite few who select the candidate most willing to give up the reins when asked to do so (sure miscalculated that one, eh Chamberlain?). That would almost convince me to watch television again.

3. Don't you hate underwear? I do. That's why I don't wear them unnecessarily anymore (except on special occasions when public indecency laws are taken seriously).

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