Being Charlie Kaufman.

You know, just three minutes after I resigned myself to living hopelessly in this pre-apocalyptic planet of the apes-any-day-now, this happens. Charlie Kaufman wins the most well-deserved statuette in the history of award shows... or, for that matter, in the history of single-cell organisms. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is, hands-down, the best story of love ever. Ever. You have a love story to tell? Don't.

This camera is on.

The price of fame revisited

Interesting -and sad- article... and note: I'm not such a nice guy that I'm removing the earlier link to his video. I'm also not so nice that I'm not posting a link to this. But I stopped making fun of people who spell "humor" with an extra "u." That's something, right?.

You're no Jaime Sommers!

Aye! Robot!

Leslie Griffith is a robot.

Nancy doesn't believe me. She's always too busy laughing at me -because I can't honestly be expected to not scream "SHE'S A ROBOT!" at the TV after Leslie smiles and croaks "I'm Leslie Griffith"- at 10:01 to see the look on Dennis' face as he spits out "I'm Dennis Richmond." I mean, I've known Denny for years, and I'm here to tell you: he looks PISSED each and every night when he says that. Activate your TV's SAP... go on, do it. You'll hear what Dennis is really saying when he says "I'm Dennis Richmond." What he's really saying is "I did NOT spend three winters in Blue Canyon and two summers in Nam to spend the autumn of my career seated next to a fucking Orek vacuum with a bad wig and a lazy, synthetic eye."
Yeah, well... looks like you did just that Denny.

But come on. Is this so far-fetched? The question isn't really "Is Leslie Griffith a robot?" (and not just because she is, and asking stupid questions is, well, stupid. Stupid.), but rather "How many Fox "news" anchors aren't robots?"
No one's laughing now, I betcha'....

Sweet dreams of electric sheep, y'all!

Lessly HUMAN!

Good luck Mr. Gorsky!

I KNEW IT!

I'm right about Alex Trebek too you know.

Heavy Handed.

I don't know why I can't stop watching this video. It may be because it's a HAND, and it's DJing. Okay, sure, I've seen hands DJ before, but always as part of larger organisms... not by themselves... with teenytiny eyeballs perched on their knuckles. Certainly not wearing teeniertinier headphones! It makes you think a hand could be capable of anything! Imagine what two could accomplish!

Oh. Have I got your attention now?

Will you go to lunch?

Two great things that go great together.
There's all the time in the world for Star Wars and Glengarry GlenRoss blog entries... but for now... steak sabers. Heh. Heh, heh.

Girl you know it's true

Numanana

Not so long ago, this kid would have been me.
When this video first appeared on Al's whacky web, the kid was believed to be a child of Eastern Europe... and that was kinda' comforting, you know? To think that no matter the vast distances that may separate us; no matter the cultural barriers we might face, we all share a common bond: the primal need to synch our lips to the raucous ravings of Romanian rockers. But then... we learned the kid is from New Jersey, and somehow the romance of lip synching, alone, in our spartan bedroom... alone some more... died.... Just a little.

Aid, Rite*

I've always felt for celebrities, I really have. The only thing the masses love more than a winner? A winner who loses it all. It's got to be tough to be beloved. Really. No one can live up to everyone's expectations... no one can survive forever under the scrutiny of their fans. So, yeah... it's gotta' be tough, living in the spotlight.

But then, there's Paris. WHY is that girl a celebrity? Or -thanks to the wags at VH1- a "celebutante?" What has she ever done to further art, or discourse? Why do I have to be even remotely aware of her existence?

Right now, someone is working in a lab. She's hypthesizing; she's testing and testing again. She's buried in reams of notes and surrounded by centrifuges and electron microscopes. She's closer than ever to finding a cure for psoriasis or acid reflux. Her work could lead to a vaccine for Ebola... I will never, ever know her name.

This is why I don't feel bad about perusing the contents of Paris' sidekick. I know no one ever bothered to veil her profound lack of... well, talent... and gravitas... and, you know, humanity, but maybe -just maybe- when Ron Perlman gets his baJILLIONTH call from some yahoo in Utah who got his number from the internet, maybe he'll distance himself from the no-talent skank. And maybe the rest of the "A List" will do the same, and when the heartland learns that even Lindsay Lohan has stopped taking Paris' IM's... maybe then we can all move past this era of celebutantes... and the healing can finally begin.

Warren Ellis, meanwhile, has a more practical view of Paris' pillaging:

So by Monday morning, everyone will have seen the photos, phone numbers and notes from Paris Hilton’s hacked T-Mobile Sidekick II hiptop.

Now, supposedly, the rumour doing the rounds today is that her password was conned out of her by someone. And bearing in mind how crap the girl is at, say, keeping her home-made fuck tapes in the drawer, it’s entirely possible.

However, I would point out that any hiptop owner who uses T-Mobile and does not immediately change all their passwords tomorrow is a bloody idiot. The Sidekick II stores all its data on T-Mobile’s servers. If Ms Hilton wasn’t scammed out of her password, then there’s a hole in T-Mobile you could run a truck through.

I think I have Xtina Aguilera’s phone number now, by the way.

*Sadly, the link to Paris' privates is dead. It died, miraculously, in less time than it took savvy web entrepreneurs to manufacture and market t-shirts reading "Paris Hilton made me change my number." But here's J Lo's vagina.

What's missing.

I've been known to ponder.

I've pondered quite a bit. When you get right down to it, I'm ponderiffic! Can't be helped. So sure, I've pondered... pondered what's missing from my life. Pondered the chain of events leading to the unveiling of Keyser Soze's identity (are we SURE he wasn't that Baldwin guy? Really?). Pondered paprikash.

Well my friends, I'm here to tell you: that first ponder? It's OVAH! I'm one click away from having everything anyone could ever need. The circle is now complete... I am the master now....

Cool.

Larger than life

As long as I'm feeling my insignificance... behold! The simple grandeur of oversized, every day items!

Grups.

Lately... lately I've been thinking about getting old. Not "older." Not "more mature." I am seriously pondering the very real chance that I am, in fact, getting OLD. I understand it happens. I read somewhere ("Prognosis Monthly?") that it happens fairly often. I've seen "Same Time Next Year" and "Cocoon." I get it: people age.

But when did I get OLD?

Testify, Chuck:

“I’ve been having this weird dream lately. Even before I went out to tape the show. I’m in the hospital. I’m lying there, wondering if I’ve died… and no one’s told me…. It’s so vivid, this dream… I wake up in a cold sweat every time….”
“I see. And how often do you have these dreams?”
“Something like twice a week now.”
“That’s very odd, Charles… and you don’t equate it with the show at all?"
“I don’t see how… there’s no connection that I can see. I don’t know what’s better, though. Having these dreams or having insomnia…. I’ve had both….”
The doctor leaned forward in her chair, and toyed idly with the pencil cup that rested on the table that separated them. “Are you even going to tell me how the show went?”
“Why? It’s pretty predictable. I lost. The pattern continues.”
“We’re not kids anymore. You had what it takes to get on the show. That’s something, I think.”
“Well, I wrote them a letter. I took the test. I went in for the interview. They didn’t know to come looking for me. You know how these things work… you’re never invited.”
He stopped… looked sadly out the window. The sun was setting; the glass walls of the building across the river were glowing a dull, pulsating red; the river itself was ablaze. He didn’t notice, but he did manage to smooth his hair over his bald spot in the reflection that faced him.
“Y’know,” he said, turning back, “I have to admit I still feel funny about coming in here and talking like this… to you, I mean. After all, we’re related--“
“Only by marriage,” she interrupted hotly. “And our time is up.”
He shrugged, and rose creakily. “By the way, we’re going out to Daisy Hill tomorrow. Wanna come? Say hello?”
She didn’t look up from her planner. “Well… I don’t think I can, Charles. I’ve got a few… things I need to take care of. But say hello to Sara for me….”
“Right,” he replied, pulling the door open.
“But hey, I’ll see you at the party next week, right? He’s only in town for the night….”
“Sure,” he sighed. “Whatever.”