Post-State of the Union Musings

If my beloved House M.D. is going to be pre-empted by anything, I'm less enraged about it being the State of the Union than American Idol auditions. This is not a political blog, so I won't snark too much about the predictable butchering of the English language or the totally weak attempt at humor. ("This year, the first of about 78 million baby boomers turn 60, including two of my dad's favorite people - me and President Bill Clinton." Wah-waaah.) And there's plenty of other people to discuss which of the President's many proposed initiatives might turn into tangible progress supported by an obviously partisan Congress - or, as I'll be calling it from now on, the Sharks and the Jets.

So then what do I have to say about the State of the Union? I was delighted with each of the two Senator Barack Obama sightings during the speech and thoroughly outraged when NBC incorrectly identified some other dude who was slapping President Bush on the back after he left the rostrum as Senator Obama. Barack doesn't back-slap! He DOES give a post-speech commentary with some logical things to say about health care reform. Also, while Virginia governor Tim Kaine performed the Democratic response admirably, I was more captivated by his dynamic and moving left eyebrow. It leapt, it danced, it all but sang "there's a better way." That's an eyebrow that shows leadership.

I then turned to Comedy Central in hopes that the Daily Show would provide live comical coverage of the SotU aftermath. Instead I got Charles Barkley promoting a book, breaking down the sexual hierarchy of Gilligan's Island, and telling Jon Stewart that Brokeback Mountain had him viewing Jon in a whole new way. It was like turning to a hose to put out a fire and finding it filled with licorice. Or something.

From Bad to Worse

I'm fairly ashamed that I live in a world where Big Momma's House 2 is the #1 movie in all the land. Remember that time Martin Lawrence had a breakdown in the street, waving a gun and generally making a spectacle, and it proved to be just one piece in a puzzle of bizarre criminal behavior? I guess the movie-going public can forgive anyone for their past mistakes if they're willing to cross-dress as a large and shameless matronly figure. That would explain why Mrs. Doubtfire 2 is being made: someone's got some post-Patch Adams redemption coming his way.

Since it's such a shameful day for cinema's history, it seems fitting that the nominations for this year's Razzies came out today. (It's also because the Oscars noms are out tomorrow. Not the point.) You are obligated to hang your head in shame if you paid cold, hard cash to see any of the following worst picture nominees: Son of the Mask, Dirty Love, House of Wax, Dukes of Hazzard and Deuce Bigalow, European Gigolo. That last one has been my default punchline for lousy movie comparisons for the past six months or so. I'm proud of my ability to predict which movies will reach the absolute nadir of quality. Were there worse movies than these five in 2005? I shudder to think, but let me know...

Near-Death of a Customer

What a dreary weekend. The Chicago weather has had more mood swings than me this winter (that's quite the feat), and today it's feeling cranky. Alan and I finally finished Season 4 of 24 last night - we wanted to get it done before this new season started, but it proved to be impossible with our schedules. So we'll be spending part of the last Sunday in January starting Season 5. I'm not sure what 11 hours of Jack Bauer in one weekend might do to me (I definitely had some weird dreams last night, with shootings and Tasers and falling from great heights), but we'll find out.

And what of the world outside my living room, you ask? Let me tell you about a Missouri woman who had to be hospitalized after she had a tattoo done by a door-to-door salesman with a homemade gun wrapped in black tape and made of fishing wire. What a dummy, right? Now wrap your mind around this: she was one of three women in her apartment complex who consented to the Willy Loman of body art. This obviously can't be an ordinary apartment complex. Perhaps it is the Home for People Who Are Incapable of Making Rational Decisions About Their Personal Well-Being. Imagine what other products these women might buy from strangers!

"So this rusty barbed wire bracelet will help with my arthritis? I've seen something like this on the QVC! Theirs looked a lot shinier and smoother, though. ... Well, yes, I guess the hooks would help stimulate the muscles more quickly. Oh - and if you buy the wrist AND ankle set, it's on sale? I do love me a sale!"

"Actually, we are in the market for a new pet, ever since our dog Tiger passed... Well, just look at this cute little fella! What beautiful glassy eyes he has! And those fangs would certainly scare off intruders, just like Tiger used to. Oh what the heck, I'll take him. Kyle! Jamie! Come over here and meet our new pet cobra!"

"You say you're selling all-natural vitamins? Let me take a closer look... What can you tell me about these 'Cee-yah-nih-dee Capsules?' ...well, if they'll help me sleep, then that sounds great to me!"

Really, the possibilities are endless.

(Remember) Two Things

1) I was very disappointed in last night's Lost, but I gained some respect for Ana-Lucia's character when she became the first person on the show to ever ask a direct question. "You hittin' that?" I laughed for hours. And by hours I mean seconds.

2) An extremely smart and talented friend of mine - we'll call him Chief Seattle - has finally entered the blogging world. If you're at all interested in someone with an articulate and intelligent opinion about current events, you should check him out here.

That's all I got. I'm off to H&R Block - not to do my taxes, though. It's an appearance for the station. I only wish I was that on top of things.

Earth Part II: The Legend of Curly's Gold

Today astronomers announced the discovery of the non-solar-system-universe's most Earth-like planet yet. Before you conjure up images of lush grass, swirling sea, and an alien ballyard that looks oddly Wrigley-like, you should know that "Earth-like" is relative. OGLE-2005-BLG-390Lb (I'll be calling it Oggie) is about 5 times the size of Earth, has a balmy surface temp of -370 degrees Fahrenheit, and resides 234 million miles from its dim reddish sun. By contrast, it's 32 degrees Fahrenheit in Chicago, and our bright yellow sun is 93 million miles away. What makes Oggie special is its makeup of rock and ice. Most other discovered planets have been gaseous. (Stop snickering. They're composed of gas. I SAID STOP SNICKERING.) A rocky planet was discovered last year, but it was way too close to its sun to promote life. This is a pretty damn cool astronomical find.

Oggie's discovery won't lead to much concrete evidence of alien life just yet, but that won't stop news outlets from writing outlandishly exaggerated headlines or some hack TV scriptwriter from coming up with a terrible pilot. It will lead giddy scientists to beam with pride over models of planet formation that have been proven correct. I think giddy scientists are adorable in their own geeky way. My mom once bought a much, MUCH younger Electra a book about stars and planets with gorgeously painted pictures of bright celestial objects. Maybe it was the colors and textures, but I've had my face turned skyward ever since. Sometimes I set my alarm at 4am for meteor showers. I guess I'm a bit of a giddy geek today too. And now... I'm a giddy geek who's going to watch Lost.

Near-Fisticuffs at the Jukebox

This past Saturday night, Alan and I went to the Bar Louie down the street to enjoy some beer, buffalo wings and music. There was a table of 20-somethings behind us (we think they mentioned being from Joliet) doing the same thing. This particular Bar Louie has a very alternative-music-friendly jukebox - it's one of the reasons we go there. And apparently, the people behind us felt the same way. There was almost a scuffle. Here's how it went down.

The crew behind us had their handful of songs picked before Alan and I got our beers. After hearing "Mr. Brightside," "Boulevard of Broken Dreams," and "Somebody Told Me," I got up and walked right over to the machine. They're all fine songs, just... tired, you know? Or maybe that's just me, since I've heard them all approximately 3000 times. So I picked some NIN and Social D, something from the Strokes' debut album, and deep tracks from the White Stripes and Depeche Mode.

"Hard to Explain" came on first, and I knew we might have problems. One of the guys said "I didn't pick this. I definitely did not pick this. Maybe I punched the wrong buttons." When NIN came on, the same guy complained about the choice of song ("Into the Void"). Each new song that came on prompted a comment. I heard him give a dissertation on the Pixies that consisted of "they were big in 1991." Granted, I am a bit of a music snob, but it was really starting to bug me.

The final straw came when the jukebox songs ran out, switching the music in the bar over to their satellite. Alan got up to make a few picks, and while he was choosing, "Float On" by Modest Mouse came on. Our new friend went nuts. "Oh yeah. This is my jam. Music doesn't get much better than this." And so on. It's a great song, to be sure, but another one I've heard a zillion times. About 30 seconds before the song ended, it got cut off by "Helter Skelter."

Well, this did not sit well. "Who did that? Who cut off my jam? Jackie, (waitress) did you play this song?"

Jackie said, "no, that guy did," and pointed to Alan's empty seat.

At this point, I turned and said, "Yeah. That guy. My boyfriend picked it."

"Well, I'm going to kick his ass," the Mouse lover replied.

His friends got quiet. It's only Modest Mouse, after all. I turned back around and continued sipping my beer until Alan returned to the table, at which point I loudly (and just a wee bit sarcastically) said "hey, honey! See that guy behind us? He says he's going to kick your ass!"

There was some laughter from the table until Alan said "excuse me? For what?" He looked fairly menacing, something I rarely see him do.

"You cut off Modest Mouse."

Alan looked perplexed, and then shrugged, saying "sorry, man. Buy the CD." And then he sat down.

I think the guy was confused by that. He might have said "I have the CD," but I had stopped paying attention. We left shortly thereafter, having had our fill of food and drink and drunks. So here's my question - what the f--k? This episode could be a great argument for the extinction of the jukebox in the iPod age. Perhaps we have become so used to personalizing our music selections that being subjected to someone else's choices in a public setting becomes painful. After all, the songs you pick on a jukebox become a reflection of your character, something to be mocked or applauded or loudly criticized. Or maybe this guy just really loves Modest Mouse, and I am jaded and overreacting. It's happened before. :)

Flavors Are the New Carbs

This morning I read about an absurd new "diet" where you limit yourself to one flavor-theme per day in an attempt to lose weight. The idea, says obesity researcher Dr. David Katz, is to calm down the "mad cacophony of flavors" that permeate American diets and over-stimulate our taste buds. Before I shred him to bits with my razor sharp wit, let me offer kudos to Dr. Katz for his delightfully descriptive language with regards to food. Or do Kudos provide too much flavor chaos? Probably.

The obvious joke (and one I heard today, though I won't point fingers) is "man, I can't wait for the all-chocolate day! Heh heh! Heh! HEH!" But if you break down Dr. Katz's meal plans, you find lots of fruits and vegetables, whole grains and lean protein surrounding whatever the day's flavor theme happens to be. You're not eating turnips or liver all day long. That's already been done, after all, in the form of the infamous grapefruit diet. So really, the guy is advocating balanced, home-cooked, healthy meals - which we struggle to make time for as a nation - wrapped in the swaddling clothes of gimmickry. (See, I can use fancy words and metaphors too.) Also, it warrants mentioning that Dr. Katz is not merely presenting the results of a study, soon to be published in a respectable medical journal for the benefit of millions. He's got a brand-new book all about the diet! Sex sells, and by "sex" I mean the razzle-dazzle promise of a quick weight-loss fix. There is no magic road to being healthy. It takes work, planning, and commitment, not a fad diet dressed in fancy language.

(Man, do I want some Kudos.)

Suffering: It's Not Just a Coheed Song

Today I got a terrible migraine during my show. I saw colored spots and blurry, smudged lines for about 45 minutes. It's what some doctors call an ocular migraine: there was no pain, just panic. This is only the second one I've ever had, but it's two too many. When I couldn't see, all I could think about was: what if it doesn't come back? What if something permanently damaged my vision? I'll cop to being a bit of a hypochondriac, but I bet it would cross your mind too. Right now I'm exhausted from the tension, but still mentally wired. Thanks to my brother, I played several hours of Dragon Quest VIII to keep my mind off the migraine. But now that it's bedtime, I'm scouring WebMD and making sure I'm not going to have a stroke in my sleep. Good times.

At least there was good news today... congratulations, Hugh Laurie!!! I've been hooked on House since the very first episode, and I'm so glad his curmudgeonly yet lovable doctor is getting some accolades. Last year one of the season's best eps ("Three Stories") grabbed a Golden Globe for writing, and it's true - the dialogue is awesome. Crisp and quick. I've been glad for the invention of the DVR when I'm trying to catch a fast one-liner. But Hugh is the life of the show. His wit is razor sharp, his smugness is sexy, and his eyes make me melt. Now if he would just stay the hell away from Stacy... I'd be a much happier girl. It's not a soap opera, for crying out loud. If I wanted medical melodrama mixed with doctor-on-doctor action, I'd still be watching ER.

The End of Hope

35,000 feet in the air, I heard five words spoken by a pilot: "The Bears lost by eight." The hope hissed out of my fellow flyers like air from an orange balloon. We'd left Philadelphia (and wonderful friends and family) behind when the score was 23-21. My fellow passengers had gathered underneath a television while we waited to board. We cheered together in our uncomfortable seats with crackling flight announcements (thankfully) drowning out the drone of Joe Buck. Two tiny points didn't seem so insurmountable as we boarded, not with an angry Bears team clawing their way back in front of so many frenzied fans. Why did the pilot have to spoil the promise of a comeback? Why did he have to let those words slip without warning? Why couldn't he have let the hope last a little longer?

But after we landed, we had to pass hordes of teal and black clad Carolinians traipsing through Midway, smug in their victory. Then I knew it was best that the pilot had let us down succinctly and without emotion. There was no consideration in the hoots and hollers of the enemy as they marched through our airport. I tried to call out a crack about "that time the Panthers lost to the Patriots in the Super Bowl," but it didn't faze them. Those fans are safe in the knowledge that their football heroes have one more game to play. They get at least one more week of hope.

Bastards.

Sailing to the Moon

Friday the 13th, a full moon, and some angry asses... It sounds like a great combination to me. Monday I broke the news on the air (thanks to the heads-up from that morning's Sun-Times column from Jim DeRogatis) that Radiohead would not be allowed to play in Millenium Park in June because of a scheduling conflict with a Grant Park Symphony Orchestra rehearsal. It's not the orchestra's fault in any way, but it was frustrating to hear as a huge Radiohead fan. They're a band who appreciates art and aesthetics, and the beautiful Pritzker Pavilion would have been an ideal place to see them. Besides that, Radiohead would have paid $100,000 to a city whose officials said a few months ago that they'd love to have more concerts held in Chicago's park system. Fook heard me ranting and took it one step further: he organized tonight's "Flash Moon at the Bean," to be held at 6:30 at... the Bean. It should be a peaceful protest with some great exposure for Q101. Get it? Exposure? 'Cuz of the mooning??? ...yeah. Man, am I glad it's the weekend. GO BEARS!!!

A Library's Secret

A rollercoaster of a day. Terrible, tragic news. Later, good news, and great music. A good talk with a new friend. Chats with old friends. Dinner with my best friend. An hour spent with a recent obsession. Somewhere in there I learned that I've studied in a library that houses three books bound with human skin. A rollercoaster of a day.

The Rock was my library of choice at Brown University (yes, we had a library called the Rock - it does not house any works on the People's Eyebrow), but I ventured into the historic John Hay Library twice. One visit was for a poetry seminar. I vaguely remember a sunny room with a long table around which we passed old poems that used accompanying artwork intertwined with the text. The other visit was for a creative non-fiction class, during a segment on historical narratives. We were looking at old journals to research our own pieces on aspects of Rhode Island's history. I wrote about a rare breed of hardy New England rose that became extinct when the Hurricane of '38 bore down on the unprepared coastline and demolished the greenhouses where it grew. I chose the topic because I'd always wondered why there were shards of greenish glass buried just below the surface of my Cranston backyard.

I wonder why I never heard about these books bound with human skin. My memories of the Hay are bright and warm, full of inspiration and the wisdom of writers whose best works were written long before my birth. It doesn't change my memories to think about such gruesome artifacts lurking in the stacks. I have no desire to visit and use my alumna's privilege to try and find the books. After all, they're not at the Hay to make a spectacle. They're legitimate texts, not voodoo manuals. But they are also reminders of moments in human history that become shameful with the passing of time and advances in science, medicine and technology. When physical books are extinct, will our internet-dependent descendents shake their heads because we selfishly squandered precious paper? The world keeps turning. We can only mark the days in the ways we best see fit.

Colin Farrell, Finally Exposed

Today the long-rumored Colin Farrell sex tape poked its dirty head out of the murky waters of the internet. DirtyColin.com revealed the footage around noon today, featuring fifteen full minutes of Kama Sutra positions and nasty Colin action. At the moment, the site appears to have gone down, so to speak. I don't know if it's a permanent crash... not that I've been trying. That hard. For the last hour.

There's an entertainment and gossip blog where you can see a few stills from Colin's porn debut - while there are artfully placed white boxes over the offending body parts, they're definitely NSFW. This is the link: consider yourself warned. I realized when I stumbled upon these shots that I've become numb to illicit footage of celebrities. A 1950's housewife would likely faint dead away if she saw a candid picture of James Dean locked in a naked embrace. I'm not shocked by this tape; I just feel embarrassed for Colin Farrell. He's just the latest addition to the list of celebrities whose private lives have become public consumption. And that doesn't say anything good about the voyeuristic state of today's pop culture.

The Brief Tale of the 'Bucks Bomber

A crisis was averted earlier today at a San Francisco Starbucks when police defused a bomb left by as-yet unknown suspects. Since the Bay area was spared the tragic loss of countless gallons of ink-thick brown liquid, trays of stale pastries and mix CDs produced with yupsters in mind, let's engage in some mockery, shall we? I wonder who the 'Bucks bomber could be...


(Insert "entering a dream sequence" harp music here)

[A sloppy room. Two figures lie in seperate beds set up against opposite walls. The California sun peeks through pale blinds. It is morning.]

Shady Fellow [in a low, sinister voice]: Finally, the date of destiny has arrived.... One-nine-oh-six. When you add those digits together, you get a sum of sixteen, and when you then add one and six together, you get seven: a lucky day for the pauper who sets about to dethrone the king. What happens today... shall never be forgotten.

Roommate of Shady Fellow [yawns, then sleepily]: Jay, dude, you okay, bro? You want a smoothie or something before class? I can try to make you a wheatgrass shot again, if the blender isn't still all jammed. [Chuckles] The blade kinda looks like a lawnmower, you'd think it could cut grass no problemo, but nooooo.

Shady Jay [angrily]: Fool! You would pick today of all days to mock me with your weak imitations of gourmet beverages? Too long have I suffered the slings and arrows of outrageously priced drinks. TOO LONG have I thirsted and been unable to be quenched thanks to empty pockets and a wallet too flimsy to hold coinage. If my tongue must be without the sweet taste of a nonfat caramel macchiato grande with the lightest dusting of cocoa powder gracing its white crests of whipped cream - then NO ONE SHALL HAVE THEIR THIRST QUENCHED! I will show them... I will show them all!

Roommate of Shady Jay [blinks a few times, then cheerily]: Alright then... guess it's just one strawberry-banana smoothie, coming riiiiiight up! [Bounds out of bed and out of the room.]

Shady Jay [bitterly]: Genius... it is never understood until too late.

[End Scene.]


:)

Work It, Girl... But Slowly

A weekend full of food and football (the Bears get Carolina next weekend, which means more chances to sack Jake Delhomme) left me feeling sluggish, so I headed downstairs to the gym for a rare workout tonight. As a former swim team captain and ballerina/jazz and tap dancer, I'm not a stranger to fitness. It's just that as the years go by, I become less inclined to spend my down time doing barre work or the butterfly. There don't seem to be enough hours in the day anymore - especially since the invention of the TiVo.

I read a week ago about research claiming that while many people make resolutions in January to be fitter, it's not until March that they actually follow through with diet and fitness changes. The reason: "January doesn't require you to take clothes off. In March, it's imminent," according to a VP of the research company. I mocked this point on the air - "well, I took off my clothes this morning to get in the shower, and I'll probably take my clothes off to put on pajamas tonight" - but I know it's true. It's mostly a potential warm-weather vacation in March that made me jump on the elliptical. And it was mostly Alan who made me do three sets of crunches on an exercise ball. New Year's is an arbitrary time to adopt new routines and goals. A person has to be ready to change. Since I just finished my third piece of pizza while watching two episodes of 24 (Season 4 - one week until Season 5!), change is a process I'll be taking one baby step at a time.

Bird Flu Hullabaloo

News about the dreaded bird flu (H5N1 to its friends and family) took a bit of a vacation over the holidays, which sure was nice. I appreciated eating Christmas dinner without staring warily at my food. But now it's back with a vengeance, as two children are dead in Turkey, marking the first deaths outside of China and southeast Asia. Frankly, I don't know why Turkey wasn't the most prepared of all countries for warding off bird flu. I mean, it's TURKEY, for crying out loud! Hello? Is this thing on?

But seriously, folks. Just how scared am I supposed to be? Just like Michael Moore taught us in Bowling for Columbine, the American media tends to use fear as a tool. I'll never forget the day I clicked a CNN.com headline about tongues of flame reaching towards Earth that led me to an article about solar flares. I first read about the possible pandemic during Thanksgiving weekend, 2004. It's over a year later, and the pandemic isn't here yet. (You can't see me, but I just knocked on wood.) It seems to me if we all just take our vitamins, wash our hands, and avoid intimate contact with rotting chicken carcasses, everything will be fine. When there's a pandemic, I'd like to hear about it. But these constant reminders that there COULD be a pandemic, any day now, no seriously, it could be tomorrow, are just stirring up unnecessary panic. Isn't there a nice teen celebrity scandal involving bulimia and coke I could read about instead? Thanks.

Strokin' It

Last night (she said) I saw the Strokes for the first time. It was a pretty cool small show at the Park West. And only one person gave me the finger while I was doing the intro! I'm told this is a major improvement from past appearances from Q101 at the hep shows in town. The Strokes' first American show of 2006 - and in months - certainly qualifies as hep.

The gang of five seemed a little bit rusty as they started off the set, but that's to be expected. Julian, dressed in an army-esque coat and fingerless gloves, said something early on about still being hung over from New Year's - at least that's what I think he said. The man's a mumbler when he's not crooning. He did thank the crowd about a zillion times for coming out, and even dubbed us "cool" at one point. However, the coolest cat in the room award must go to Fab "boyfriend of Drew Barrymore" Moretti, who slammed the drums while nonchalantly smoking a cigarette... with no hands.

The songs from their freshly released new album came off great live. I'd heard it a few weeks ago and was unimpressed, but I felt excited to give First Impressions of Earth a second chance. The crowd was enthusiastic but mostly motionless, except for a couple in front of our booth who shimmied and shook like it was American Bandstand circa 1961. I'll admit to doing a little dancing in my seat once "Reptilia" came on. That's a personal fave. The Strokes said they'll be back in March, so if you didn't catch them at the hep show... you'll have a chance to be Stroked in a few months.