Monday, October 30, 2006

My Cousin Looks Like Marcia Gay Harden.

My cousin:

Marcia Gay Harden:

Now, all I need is for the Marcia Gay Harden dog to, like, live next door.

If Someone Is Lying on Your Floor Drunk Wearing Broken Wings, You've Got One Hell of a Winona Party.

This is the face of Winona 2K6. Man. What carnage. What absolute carnage.

In terms of legitimate Winona exposure, this was not the party for it. After Drunk Erin and Ingrid guzzled most of their vodka supply before the actual Winona shindig even got going, they spent the first two hours fast-forwarding The Age of Innocence when I went into the kitchen so that we would be half an hour ahead of schedule and they could watch part of the Kathy Griffin DVD. Which they have each seen about 24 times.
To compound the situation, each movie was blatantly ignored and I suspect the only Winona aspect people will remember are the amazing decorations, courtesy of Ingrid:

We had a difficult time deciding if the overall theme of the party was going to be anti-Gwyneth Paltrow or pro-Winona.

Winona won.

Kidding. What actually happened is that in the midst of the decorating process, Drunk Erin and Ingrid got giddy from looking at US Weekly and starting putting random celebrity posters up.

There is an illiteracy/black person/American Idol hell specially reserved for the inhabitants of Weenie Enema Headquarters.

In another stab at Winona, the costumes, which were supposed to pertain to either characters or symbols from a Winona movie...turned out to be pretty much the exact opposite.

Mary Kate Olsen was never in a Winona movie, although Ashley Olsen VERY narrowly beat out Winona for one of the leading roles in The Adventures of Mary-Kate & Ashley: The Case of the U.S. Space Camp Mission. True story.

Mariah Carey was never in a Winona movie. I don't want to hear any "Winona was in Glitter" jokes. They are not funny.

G.G. Allin was never in a Winona movie. But I'm pretty sure unwashed prepubescent white boys with Asian man facial hair and untamed armpit hair were in Boys, so Weenie Brian gets half the points for this astounding get-up.

Ernest Rolfson came as himself. He has never been in a Winona movie, though I wouldn't be surprised if he's diddled a few female crew members from Mr. Deeds or something. E.E. Grimshaw WAS Brittany Murphy's character from Girl, Interrupted, but promptly got bored with it and went as an Emma.

Cousin Michael hasn't been in a Winona movie either, but we give him mad props for at least pretending to read a slanderous book of vile hatred by about Ann Coulter. We also heart the fact that he stayed still for 30 minutes while I cut his hair. I did an amazing job and everyone in the world should get their hair cut by me. I accept Diet Pepsi as legal tender.

The most amazing moment of the night went to one of the more unobtrustive guests. We love. Endlessly.

This literally made me melt. It is very difficult to type when you're a PUDDLE.

We heartily thank everyone who showed up, especially Cousin Michael, who came in from Westchesta (the Bestchesta) for a 24-hour family reunion, despite a checkered history with me that includes me making him cry 454 times, french kissing him when we were about six, pretending there was a gang war in my hometown and scaring the living shit out of him, making him marry my cat 34 times, and going sledding with him and pushing him into a briar patch. Good times.


Friday, October 27, 2006

Why Judy Bloom Can Never Run for A Senate Seat.

Last night, after having way too much fun submitting questions to the Ask Ro section of Rosie O'Donnell's blog (i.e., from Olivia in New York: I'm a pussy. Will you pet me?), I ended up on the Drudge Report staring at a screen capture of a fairly explicit literary sex scene. The kicker? It was from a book written by Virginia Senatorial Candidate Jim Webb. Apparently George Allen's campaign decided to release snippets of some of the more racy material in Jim Webb's books a few weeks before Election Day, along with a scathing press release that I have linked to in full.

Here's the thing. There's nothing illegal about detailing underage sex encounters in a fictional book, although I can certainly understand why the Webb campaign NEVER mentioned that their poster child was a published author. Hell, he's not even a very good writer. I'm sure Jim Webb and James Patterson are duking it out somewhere in a literary Fight Club-esque basement over who's the more mediocre writer. Also, I'm not entirely sure it's a reason not to vote for someone. I don't know that you can legitimately make an argument that someone is unfit for office because they wrote:
He saw the invitation with every bouncing breast and curved hip. . . . He was thirteen. . . . She was fifteen . . . . In a few moments she drew him to her and he murmured in his quiet voice, 'I am still small.' 'You are large enough,' she answered. And he found he was.

However, it's really, really creepy. I'm not someone who goes out of their way to avoid a book that's going to have sexual content in it, but if I went to some sort of political event for Jim Webb and had to shake his hand, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking, "Crikey. This hand wrote the words, 'She stood back up, her face smiling proudly and her round breasts glistening from a spotlight in the dim bar, and left the banana on the bar, cut in four equal sections by the muscles of her vagina.'" It's unfortunate that that's probably the best sentence he has ever written, because when George Allen kicks his pervert ass to the curb next month, writing is probably going to become his full-time job.

George Allen apparently does not have the same qualms as I. Kidding. He's forced to shake his hand before debate shizzle. I'm sure the banana quote was racing through his head at that very moment.

There are two things that legit confuse me about this. Number one, why does the George Allen press release only focus on the idea that Jim Webb writes anti-female literature? Wouldn't the more effective tactic be, "Vote for George Allen because he's not a pervert who writes books involving a vaginal muscle-molested banana." Misogynistic lit is much easier to explain away than, "if she’d been born with anything between her legs except an asshole, I’d be happy to bring some class to your low-rent name by knocking the bitch up." Heh. That's kind of funny. But I think he stole it from a song on "...And Then There Was X."

DMX, and I be the best.

Number two, why on earth would Jim Webb run for public office KNOWING that these books were not only out there, but were written under his actual name? How easy must it have been to find these books and locate explicit material in them?

With that in mind - and we're only doing this as a favor to Jim Webb because Weenie Enema thinks the banana sentence is funny - here is a montage of people who have no business running for any sort of political office, because there's evidence on paper that makes them look creepy.

Judy Blume.

What a sick pup. She lures you in with Superfudge and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, makes you feel a little uncomfortable with period sagas in Deenie, and then goes right for the jugular with Summer Sisters, where two teenage girls frolic around in bed and, I kid you not, "rub their Powers together." Judy is not getting the endorsement of the AFL any time soon.

R.L. Stine.

If the Fear Street books don't do him in, the Goosebumps certainly would.

Fantasia Barrino

"Crap...can't read the prompter."
There hasn't been an illiterate in the White House since the 1800s. I suspect the same can be said for most public offices north of the Mason Dixon Line. We should not elect people to a position of authority simply because they were named after a shitty Disney movie - if you can't read your name on a ballot, you don't get to be ON the ballot.

Three cheers for Jacksonian illiteracy!

Thursday, October 26, 2006

I Am Zee Best Zinger In Zee World and Other Abuses of the English Language.

Not to hate on Celine Dion or anything, but it's time to make another pointless list about a cinematic aspect that doesn't get the attention it should - accents. There have been some absolutely mesmerizing accents and some putrid verbal molestations, but we're going to cover as many candidates representing both sides as we can think of before I need to get back on Brando and pedal home in polar cap-esque weather.
Accents of Amazingness.
1. Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice and A Cry in the Dark.

Riddle: What has worse eyebrows than Peter Gallagher, worse bangs than Traci Lords in Crybaby, and says "dingo" better than an actual Aussie?

Meryl should win...for everything. I've never heard a real Polish accent, so me saying hers is amazing doesn't count for that much. It's like me pointing to a random guy on the street and saying, "What a hot Lithuanian." But no one does better accents than Meryl. Except for Arnold Schwarzenegger, and that probably doesn't count. For obvious reasons.


2. Marlon Brando in The Young Lions.

If there is anything hotter than a bottle blond Brando dressed in Gestapo gear... Devra and I saw this needlessly long, star-studded debacle a year and a half ago, and the only amazing aspect of it - besides Maximilian Schell and Monty Clift - was the dulcet Germanic tones coming out of Brando's mouth. It's almost enough to make you utter a pro-Hitler statement. Almost. Insert picture of Big Bear doing his Heil Hitler gesture because his right arm/paw has 10 times more stuffing in it than the left arm/paw, which just hangs limply to his side. So it's more like Big Bear doing a post-stroke impression of Woodrow Wilson.

3. Kate Winslet in any movie that requires an American accent.

If a transvestite grabbed me from behind, I would also pretend I was a bird.

We should all bow our heads and commiserate over the fact that this cold, cold world does not acknowledge Kate Winslet's thespian abilities with an Oscar. Not only that, but they have toyed with her, not once, not twice, but FOUR times, choosing instead to give little gold statue things to Mira Sorvino (people related to opera singers who can't stay on Law and Order for more than a year do NOT deserve awards), Kim Basinger (people who sleep with bears and then make babies and name them after countries do NOT deserve awards), Jennifer Connolly (people who only agree to make movies that require them to stand on a pier and stare pensively out over the water do NOT deserve awards) and Hilary Swank (we like, but strongly believe that Kate should have been in Best Supporting for Finding Neverland. but that was Natalie's category anyway).
We can all take solace in the fact that Kate is getting her fifth nomination this year for Little Children. Called it.

Is it just me, or is that kid dismembering a rabbit? What a beast.

4. Christian Bale in Newsies and American Psycho.

I am willing to bet that a VERY small contingent of the population is aware that Christian Bale is Welsh. Part of that is because Christian Bale keeps using different accents in every single movie, but it's mostly because he's a linguistic chameleon. And really, really hot. I'm not sure how it's connected, but if given 25 posters of a naked Christian Bale and a lot of time, I could give you an explanation. To be fair, a Newsie accent is probably one of the easiest to do, right up there with whatever Ross Perot has, but we give Mr. Bale some leniency, especially since he lost 70 or 80 pounds for The Machinist. I do not recall what sort of accent he had in that. I was too busy counting the little things on the back of his spine.

Would not have wanted to be married to Christian Bale during the filming of that movie.

Language Butchers.
1. Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins

So many people were embarrassed by this. Emma was embarrassed to be from the same country as Dick Van Dyke. The British were embarrassed that someone honestly thought that they sounded like that. Chimney sweepers everywhere bowed their heads in shame. Soot couldn't hide that assault on mankind's eardrums.

2. Leonardo DiCaprio in Blood Diamond.

Wow. This movie doesn't come out for a few more weeks, but the ads with Leo screaming to Djimon Hounsou in that Uma Thurman Oceania accent leave me legitimately wondering why they didn't just hire Charlize Theron and put a fake mustache on her. No one would know the difference, and you'd get a legit South African accent. It's not like she hasn't played a guy before.

"I got raped, give me an Oscar."

3. Harrison Ford in K-19: The Widowmaker.

"Menya zavut Harrison Ford. O menya y'ast bad Russian accent."
What was Harrison thinking? "I need money for food Calista won't eat."

"All of the food I have eaten since 1998 is to my right."

One day, a mob of anorexics, Jennifer Connolly fans and Leonardo DiCaprio fans are going to force me into a deserted parking lot and eat me. Except for the anorexics.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006


Before I completely run out of acronyms slash ditzy aphorisms, it's time to remind our loyal reader population that this Saturday is the 5th Annual We Still Believe You, Winona Movie Marathon. In accordance with the coming holiday, we have belatedly introduced a Halloween quality to this shindig. It is strongly recommended that participants dress, or at least embody the soul, of a character or symbol from a Winona movie. I will be going as Brittany Murphy's character in Girl, Interrupted. Which will consist of me wearing a noose around my neck with slit wrists and gnawing on chicken. And hopefully getting the opportunity to scream, "Get that out of my face, ASShole!" at least 10 times throughout the course of the evening.

I'm pretty sure I bought that headband at Duane Reade last year. And that my dad has that sweater.

In one of the more predictable decisions, Olivia has decided to go as Brittany Murphy's cat that Winona ends up bringing back to the psych ward after Britt decides to hang herself in the bathroom to the tune of "The End of the World" by Skeeter Davis. Ah, memories. If this was not a Winona-related event, Olivia would obviously be getting her fur dyed black so she could go as Boo Boo Brewer from The Babysitters Club Little Sister series.

The only time I've ever heard of someone jumping over LITERALLY two cans and breaking their wrist. That's Karen Brewer for you. Christ.

And because I know you care SO much, I have provided a snippet from Babysitters Club Little Sister #30 - Karen's Kittens:
I hurried into the kitchen. I filled a bowl with water and a plate with some of Boo-Boo's cat food. I did not bother asking Boo-Boo first. Since he was such a mean old cat, he probably would not want to share.

I raced back to the toolshed. On the way, I tripped over a rock and spilled everything. Boo. I had to pick up all the food, then go back and fill the bowl with water again.

I hoped the cat would not have her kittens before I got back to the shed.

She didn't. I was starting to feel really lucky. It had started out a boring Saturday. But it was not boring anymore. And I had wanted a cat or a kitten. Now I was going to have some!

I'm pretty sure Rosie O'Donnell was the ghost writer for that series.

For those of you who have already forgotten, this is the line-up for Winona 2006:

In which it appears Daniel Day-Lewis molests Michelle Pfeiffer's neck while Winona inhales a flower. Good times.

7:30 PM

In which Christian Slater murders douches with liquid drano.

9:30 PM

In which Winona participates in incest goodness with Dennis Quaid.

11:30ish PM

In which Winona makes hats and dies whilst falling in love with a prematurely gray Tibetan wunderkind.

As a total afterthought, i.e., I am horrible at updating regarding movie reviews for the Oscar season, I would just humbly submit that Little Children is incredible and is my personal favorite movie so far. However, I will be the first to admit that it's very early still and we haven't seen Cate Blanchett's 5 million attempts to steal another Oscar from Natalie Portman reclaim Oscar gold. And I didn't like The Departed, though it's the first movie Leo has legit been hot in, and I thought Flags of our Fathers was a sold 3.5-star movie, but not as good as Million Dollar Baby, which I still contend was the last great movie to be released in the modern era.

In honor of costumes/Halloween goodness, here is a montage of pugs wearing clothes. <3.

If ever there was a pug that looked like Whoopi Goldberg in The Color Purple...Heh. And the pug doesn't have eyebrows either.

If I saw that on the street...I wouldn't eat it, because I don't believe in condiments, Swoon.

For anyone who doubts my ability to take care of Olivia - I would NEVER put a Puff the Magic Dragon costume on her. Unless she looked REALLY cute.


Friday, October 20, 2006

A Completely Unnecessary But Vivid Account of the Inning During Which the Mets Broke My Heart Into Infinitesimal Pieces.

Disclaimer: the word "crack" is used about 50 million times in this post, and can either signify the sound that is made when a bat and ball come into contact with one another, or the sound my heart makes when it endures one too many Yadier Molina hits and/or Carlos Beltran strikeouts.

I really should have been prepared for this. I've spent the last several days saying how proud I was that the Mets had even gotten to the second round of the playoffs with Tom Glavine and a bunch of random people picked off the street. And yet.

When I took a look at the probable pitching matchup for Game 7, I od'd on underenthusiasm. If such a word exists. Oliver Perez versus Jeff Suppan. My prediction was that the game would be all but over by the end of the third inning. In terms of ERA and win-loss record, Oliver Perez is the worst starter EVER to take the mound in a Game 7 game. Ever. Jeff Suppan is really underrated and has actually been pitching extremely well for most of the summer/fall. This should have been a cakewalk for the Cardinals.

Realizing the chances of the game being close, much less in favor of the Mets, was minute at best, I promised Inna that I would go see a free sneak preview of Marie Antoinette, a movie I would never pay to see in a million years. Apparently, a lot of people voluntarily WANTED to see a Kirsten Dunst movie, because by the time we got there - 45 minutes before the show, I might add - the line stretched all the way from 2nd and 12th to 3rd and 12th. While we waited, Weenie Brian showed up with a ridiculous facial hair Halloween experiment on his face, and now looks EXACTLY like Adam Morrison from the Gonzaga Bulldogs/Charlotte Bobcats.

Adam Morrison.

They're white-people-with-Asian-facial-hair twins. <3.

Marie Antoinette was a no-go (shocked face.), so after poking a strange pinkish concoction at a tea establishment down the street, I managed to return home in time for the top of the 5th inning - and what I saw defied...everything.
The Mets were not losing.
Oliver Perez was pitching well.
The game was tied 1-1.
After dousing my head in cold water/rubbing my eyes/slapping myself silly and still seeing a low scoring, brilliantly pitched game, I settled in to watch the most intense/dramatic game of the postseason by any team in either league.

In the top of the 6th inning, with Jim Edmonds on first courtesy of a one-out walk and Scott Rolen facing a tiring Oliver Perez, the most amazing catch in the history of Met playoffdom occurred. CRACK. Rolen hit a fastball that was clearing the left field fence by a good foot or so. And then Endy Chavez, with his tiny little body and absolutely perfect timing - IN THE RAIN - snagged it back and then had the foresight to throw it back to the infield to double up Edmonds at first. Absolute brilliance. And thanks to the wonder of YouTube, you can watch it over and over:

Sigh of happiness.

Now that I know how to post YouTube shizzle, expect ridiculous posts containing Dominque Moceanu's Olympic floor routine and Meryl Streep accepting an Oscar for Sophie's Choice.

Once Endy Chavez catapaulted over the wall and brought back a Rolen game-winner, I knew we were dealing with mad quality Mets shizzle. The next three innings crept by, some runners getting on base, none of them scoring.
Then it was the 9th inning.
In a move that even in hindsight I agree with, Willie Randolph left Aaron Heilman in for a second inning to face Edmonds, Rolen, and Molina. Surely it was a better option than Billy "I Don't Close Games, I Open Them!" Wagner. We will never know.
Inna called for moral support and whatnot as Edmonds came up to the plate. Heilman struck him out. I hooted and hollered. Then something happened that made me question whether Inna is a divine entity. As Rolen came up to bat, I whistled the first line of "The First Noel," which is the only way we can get Olivia to jump up on our laps. Inna made a wretching sound and said, "Stop! Whistling is a bad omen!" Crack. Rolen singled. Crack. Molina hit a two-run homer to left that even Endy Chavez couldn't catch. 3-1, Cardinals.

Crack. No, not the bat.

As devastating as that was, it didn't compare to the seemingly intentional manipulation of my heart strings in the bottom half of the ninth. Drunk Erin pretty much packed it in, getting up and wandering over to the bathroom for teeth brushing and activities traditionally allotted to that moment when the recently ended day's obligations are done and the only thing left to do is prepare for a pleasant snooze. Ingrid had also relegated the Mets game to a position of relative unimportance, drifting off to sleep on the futon. Olivia and I sat perched on the edge of our seats. You know. Because of a Tug McGraw 1973 oft-repeated phrase regarding a belief system.

First up - Jose Valentin. Crack. Valentin is on first. Ingrid wakes up. Endy Chavez, defensive wizard of amazigness comes up. Crack. Another single. Runners on first and second with nobody out and the winning run at the plate. Drunk Erin comes back. Then Willie Randolph does something that made absolutely no sense at the time, and makes even less sense now. The pitcher's spot comes up, and rather than going with a dependable bench player to either a) bunt the runners over for Jose Reyes and the top of the lineup or b) hit the ball, Randolph pegs Cliff Floyd to pinch hit. What? But...Cliff Floyd can't run. And Cliff Floyd hasn't been in a game for a week and is clearly going to be rusty. So that means that he's either going to strikeout or hit into a double play, because fo rizzle - he has one good leg. He is as good to the Mets as Kerri Strug would have been as a pinch runner after her second vault in '96.
What happens? Cliff strikes out. Crack. One out.

Hey Willy, remember the players on your bench who have seen live pitching in the last week AND have two working legs? Christ.

Next up? Jose Reyes. The leadoff hitter. The spark at the top of the lineup. He hasn't had a hit all night. He's due. Crack. He sends a screeching liner into center field. Right into Jim Edmonds' glove. Crack. Two outs.

Paul Lo Duca comes up to bat. The Cardinals look despicably excited. Ball four. Lo Duca walks to load the bases. The crowd gets back into it.

The Mets' best hitter strolls up with the winning run at first and the tying run in scoring position. Carlos Beltran sees strike one. Carlos remembers that Adam Wainwright has a curve ball that he would love to use in an 0-1 count. He swings and fouls off the curve on the inside half of the plate. 0-2. Maybe Carlos didn't think Wainwright would throw another curve. Maybe he was looking for a fastball - he obviously wasn't looking for the 0-2 curve ball that made his legs and the Mets' World Series dreams buckle. Crack.

R.I.P. 2006 Mets.