When people ask me what's the most important thing when learning a new language, the response I give over and over is this: don't be afraid to get things wrong.
If only that sentiment applied to everything. Like, oh, say, driving in Boston.
I've been in Boston now for less than twenty-four hours, and I've already managed to get lost about fifteen separate times. "How is this possible?" you might ask. "Didn't you live in Boston for, like, five years?"
It's possible because a map of Boston looks something like this:
That's right. The streets of Boston might very well have been made with house paint and cigarette butts. It's a wonder Clement Greenberg managed to resist its allure.
And if the lack of city grid weren't already enough of a challenge, then there are Boston drivers to take into consideration. Now, I have to admit that I have nothing but respect for Boston drivers. They are downright malicious, yes, but they're also skilled, which is a refreshing change from the drivers of my childhood, who tend to be downright dumb. (My favorite stretch of Highway 40 in St. Louis is a curve near Clayton Road where everybody inevitably slows down in evening rush-hour traffic because the road suddenly points due west. As if it's a huge surprise every single day that the sun is actually setting in that direction.)
That being said, I've been coddled by three years of New York City driving, having gotten used to things like buses that actually signal before cutting you off, and I nearly died at least three times today.
Which is probably why I keep getting lost, because I'm too busy focusing on NOT DYING to look at my map.
In language, if you get something wrong, you risk nothing more than public embarrassment. When driving in Boston, though, you risk your very life and limb.
Which is to say: God help me because I have three more days left in this city.
boston ruins
to my reader from camarillo, california
I am so sorry to have disappointed you in your search on the Internet. I realize that you came to my site looking for something - something different, something exciting, something a little bit risque. And then Google sent you to this post, where you found only wrestling.
How you must have despaired to have been let down by our fine friends in Mountain View! Let me tell you this - you are not the first to be foiled by Google. My friend Annie - you probably stumbled across her name in that wrestling post, if your dismay allowed you that much - moved to Mountain View expecting city-wide WiFi. How very wrong she was. Almost as wrong as you were when you clicked on that link to unhappymedium.com.
I, too, am to blame for this regrettable state of affairs. I cannot possibly satisfy everyone in the wild swarm of cyberspace. And, like Katie Holmes faced with an objective analysis of her career options in the absence of an A-list husband, I've made my peace with it. But it hurts me to think that someone sought me out, taking care to type three carefully chosen words into a search engine, only to find something so unexpected - and so very, very yellow.
So my apologies to you, dear reader, for being reckless with my words, for not realizing that a few sentences dashed off in the heat-of-the-WWE-moment could have misled not only the Google webcrawlers, but also you. And I so dearly hope, the next time you wade into these Internetted waters, that you are not discouraged - and that you indeed find what you are looking for.
Even if that thing is "pre ejaculation diaper."
All my blogging best,
Elizabeth
pop candy
Many thanks to Whitney Matheson, who had some very nice things to say about Biting the Wax Tadpole over at her USA Today blog, Pop Candy:
"This is a fun book for grammar and pop-culture lovers alike (and yes, it's possible to love both!). Little provides grammar basics and little-known facts by incorporating stories of her travels, Star Wars, Dr. Seuss and other familiar icons. It's both a breezy read and a useful resource that informed me a lot about languages around the world."
See the full post here!
(Note also that Whitney's outfit in her photo is exactly what I am wearing right now. Except one of my black socks is longer than the other. Because that's how I roll. By which I mean today is laundry day.)
on the road
So I was driving out to Long Island the other day (don't ask), and all of a sudden I saw this: 
If you're wondering if the combination of cameraphone and moving vehicle has created an illusion, it hasn't: there is indeed a company whose phone number is 888-DRAPE-ME.
baby's first review
The first review for Biting the Wax Tadpole is out!
From Publishers Weekly:
Biting the Wax Tadpole: Confessions of a Language Fanatic
Elizabeth Little. Melville (Consortium, dist.), $21.95 (180p) ISBN
978-1-933633-33-6
In her debut book, writer and editor Little searches in "linguistic nooks and crannies" for the "quirks, innovations and implausibilities of the world's languages," threading witty pop culture references through tapestries of language trivia written with the not-so-linguistic reader in mind. (The title refers to the mistranslation in Chinese of "Coca-Cola.") Little strips linguistics of its academic drudgery, showing how the Tangut language uses verbs by translating phrases like Johnny Cash's lyric "I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die"; referring to pop-culture icons like Al Gore, Jabba the Hutt and the Smurfs to get the point across; and covering every language from Yoruba, a West African language, to the verbless Kelen, invented as an experiment by a Berkeley undergraduate. The book contains charming anecdotes, witty sidebars, attractive illustrations (by Ayumi Piland) and comprehensive linguistics lessons on topics ranging from the well-known ("Verbs conjugate, nouns decline") to the obscure (the disjunctive adjective: "The most infamous English example is 'hopefully,' that famed bête noir of addled prescriptionist fussbudgets"). Little's strong sense of humor never overwhelms her love of languages in this fascinating yet educational introduction to linguistics for a wide, pop-savvy audience. (Dec.)
pressing matters
Last Thursday evening in my mother's hotel room, as she contemplated the outrageous expense of the items atop the mini-bar:
Mom: Would you look at this? You can buy a mini-bottle of spray starch. How odd.
Me: Odd?
Mom: Don’t most businessmen have their shirts starched and boxed before business trips?
Me, cheerfully: I have no idea - I don’t know any businessmen.
Mom, ignoring me: I guess it’s not so strange. I know at least one woman at work who always packs a bottle of starch when she travels.
Me: Well, you can’t walk into a meeting all wrinkled.
Mom: Yes, but that’s why we invented wrinkle-free fabric. Who wants to waste time ironing?
I stare at her for a long, shocked moment.
Me: I distinctly remember being scolded in high school for not knowing my way around an ironing board. And didn’t you send me off to college with a hand-held steamer?
Mom: Oh, sweetie, you never could take a joke.
rise of the machines
I realize, given the spectacularly brief half-life of web-related goings-on, that this is, like, way old news. But I finally watched the clip of Gawker editor Emily Gould’s dust-up with Jimmy Kimmel on last Friday’s installment of Larry King Live. And, um, dude.
I’m not going to get into the he-said-she-said specifics of this particular incident, because any discussion of the actual performance of Gould or Kimmel seems to veer off pretty quickly into name-calling, which I’m not much good at. Unless that name is “dickhead,” which … actually might be pretty appropriate in this case, but I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which participant I feel deserves such special mention.
The most interesting thing to me about the encounter was not that it happened at all, but rather that it happened again. More and more, it seems, celebrities are getting all in a tizzy about the way in which the press invades or misconstrues their private lives. Some of this discontent is manifest as action: celebrities are calling for media blackouts and boycotts; they’re attacking photographers with fists, umbrellas, and occasionally cars. But for the most part, celebrities are just indulging in a good, old-fashioned bitch-and-moan. They wonder, out loud and in anger, why they can’t keep their private lives private. Why they can’t make out sloppily in a club without it showing up on Page Six. Why they can’t go a day without foundation without it showing up in Star. Why they can’t go to Whole Foods without it showing up on Gawker Stalker. Isn’t it our right as Americans, they argue, to buy our overpriced cheese in peace?
And we, the unfamous and unpublicized, think, “Good point.” Because that much attention can’t be fun. I know that I wouldn’t like it - I don’t photograph well on a good day, much less in my natural unwashed and unkempt state. And it’s not easy to hear criticism of any kind - anyone with a mother knows that.
Now, I’m a pretty easy mark when it comes to eliciting sympathy. I can feel bad for pretty much everyone - rich, poor, old, young. I can’t watch The Office sometimes because I feel so bad for Michael. Who is, mind you, a fictional character played by an actor. I don’t know why it is - I suspect it’s the result of some combination of Catholic heritage, Midwestern childhood, and Canadian citizenship - but it is, and so I accept it. And fast-forward through a lot of TV.
But apparently even I have limits. And that limit is Jimmy Kimmel. Because when I watched the clip above, I was absolutely dumbstruck by the insinuation that I should in some way feel bad for a funny guy with funnier friends and a fucking shit-ton of money and fame.
So here’s the thing: you MADE this happen, celebrities. You needed publicity for your movies and coverage of your television shows. You needed public adulation. You needed popularity. And the media needed your popularity, too, for sales, for ratings, for readers. And it would’ve been a great little circle-jerk of an arrangement. Except for one thing: you underestimated the public. Don’t get me wrong, as a group we’re pretty fucking stupid - but we’re not nearly so stupid as you want us to be.
You thought that once you’d created the hunger for celebrity news that we’d be content to eat only 100% certified flack-fed pabulum. And now you’re pissed off that we want something different, that people are clever enough to realize that there’s more to celebrity life - the very thing that you’ve encouraged us to obsess about - than carefully worded press releases. You’re pissed that people want news from tmz.com instead of the Tonight Show. You’re pissed that nobody reads Cindy Adams, and that everyone reads unsourced Internet gossip. You’re pissed that Gawker Stalker prints items sent in by nameless people instead of the items sent in by your own fucking publicists. You’re pissed that what was once a carefully flattering one-way conversation has become a riot of public opinion and response.
You built the robots, and now they’re up in arms against you.
Well, tough shit. You chose this. No one held a gun to your head and said “You have two options. Win Ben Stein’s Money … or, you know, die.” There are plenty of pleasantly anonymous jobs out there. When you choose to put yourself out there, you choose to accept the consequences. Can’t handle parody? Don’t write a book. Can’t get over a flame war? Don’t blog. Can’t face the passing insinuation that you were drunk that one time? Don’t make your public persona about boozing it up.
If you can’t take the heat, get out of the goddamned fire. Work at a bank, work in a factory, work at a school. Get up, keep to yourself, go home. Then I can guarantee that no one will give a shit what you do in your spare time. But you want to be a public figure? Accept the fundamental nature of the public. The public isn't some sweet-natured, empty-headed golden retriever that exists solely to love you. It's a teeming mass of personality that runs the gamut from disinterested to curious to fucking bat-shit crazy. And because of that, you’re never going to be able to control public opinion or public behavior unless you, like, start killing people. I understand that it's frustrating - after all, it's been frustrating world leaders for centuries - but somehow I doubt that a bunch of actors and entertainers are going to figure out a way around it.
So, you know, really: stop with the whining. Because, first of all, it makes you sound like an asshole - would that we all had such problems. And being an asshole is the quickest way to get more of that mean-spirited press that hurts your feelings so much. Public accountability kind of sucks that way.
But all of this boo-hoo celebrity Sturm und Drang is also deeply disingenuous—and as I said before, we’re dumb, but we’re not that dumb. You can’t claim that you don’t love the public eye when the public eye is what made you famous, when the public eye is what keeps you famous.
You can’t play John Connor in public when behind the scenes you’re actually the Terminator.
So until you don’t want to be famous anymore, don't come crying to us. Dickhead.
sing with us ye seraphim
So you know those commercials that show groups of well-heeled women, usually at some sleek bar, sipping cocktails while their most glossy-haired companion regales the assembled crowd with the fascinating tale of her brand-new super-exciting birth control?
(Yeah, yeah, I know: this isn't exactly breaking new ground. Best Week Ever covered this, like, eight years ago or something. But bear with me for a moment.)
(Not that any of you should have any content-related expectations at this point.)
Moving along: I'm not claiming that advertising is a particularly accurate reflection of reality, but these ads always seemed especially absurd to me, as if someone had done a find/replace on a Sex and the City script and then tacked on a bunch of medical disclaimers at the end.
Here's a sample of dialogue:
Knowledgeable-looking (i.e., hot but not too hot) brunette: "DRSP is a different type of hormone that may increase potassium. So you shouldn't take Yaz if you have kidney, liver, or adrenal disease."
Exactly.
This isn't to say that the ad campaigns are all bad. They do a really nice job of shaming my reproductive organs, which is great because the feminine hygiene industry has gone all sporty and shame-free these days. And, yes, okay, they make me laugh. Every time. And not just because I have the comedic sophistication of an eleven-year-old. I mean, they're also kind of crazy, right? Because nobody would seriously infomercial their contraception over lunch, at least not in my experience. (Which is that girl-to-girl product pitches are usually limited to face creams and anti-depressants.) Sure, you might have a quick chat about the pros and cons of certain kinds of birth control, but it would be with your best friend and on the phone, not in public and out loud.
Or so I thought.
The other night I went to see Sarah Silverman perform. I'm not usually the type to go see stand-up - I like my comedy like I like humanity: at a safe, televised distance - but I hadn't been out of the house in days, so I braved the crowds and made my way to Caroline's. I have a mostly but not entirely groundless fear of public humiliation, so as soon as the show started I slunk down in my seat, trying my best to look as inconspicuous as possible, just in case one of the comedians decided to start taking shots at the crowd.
It turns out that my anxiety was wholly misplaced.
This is a near-verbatim exchange that I swear-to-god actually happened, near the beginning of Sarah Silverman's set.
Sarah Silverman: So I've been talking to some of my girlfriends about switching birth control --
Woman in Audience, loudly: Seraphim!
Sarah Silverman: I'm sorry?
Woman: You should try Seraphim!
Sarah Silverman: Is that not a pill?
Woman: Yes.
Sarah Silverman: Yes it isn't a pill?
Woman: No.
Sarah Silverman: Yes it is a pill or yes it isn't a pill?
Woman: It is a pill.
Sarah Silverman: So it is a pill?
Woman: Yes, it is a pill.
Sarah Silverman, after a moment: Do you think that we're, like, alone in a room right now?
Sadly, the woman never got the opportunity to inform us of any possible side effects or drug interactions. Which actually really sucks, because then at least I would have been justified in throwing my beer at her head.
Oddly, when I got home, I ran a search for "seraphim birth control" and found nothing. Was the entire thing some sort of brilliant Kaufman-esque subversion? Or am I just kind of deaf? If you're the woman who has no ability to distinguish between advertising and reality, and yet somehow has managed to hold down a job that allows you to buy a 30-dollar ticket to Caroline's, let me know! As I'm sure you already know: I'd just love to hear what you have to say.
a picture worth a thousand words
Until today, the only things that came to mind when I thought of the Sony BRAVIA were paint and superballs. And, possibly, the niggling fear that I pay entirely too much attention to commercials.
I am happy to say, however, that I can now round out that list with one final item: total fucking fuckwittage.
Behold, from the official site:
I, for one, wasn't aware that there had not yet been, in the whole history of television, a model of TV that men and women could agree upon. But apparently Sony did, and they decided that the only way to successfully market a television to men and women was to write two sets of separate, gender-appropriate copy - copy that displays much of the keen sociological insight that makes, say, today's situation comedy so darned provocative. (Men never put down the toilet seat! Women never stop nagging about men never putting down the toilet seat! Hilarious!)
Here are my favorite examples, so as to spare you the pain of sitting through the introductory video or navigating through the not-at-all user-friendly site. I dare you to figure out which quote refers to which gender.
On Broader Color Spectrum:
"BRAVIA uses Sony Wide Color Gamut Cold Compact Florescent [sic] Light (WCG-CCF) to display a color spectrum larger than conventional CCFL displays."
"Deeper reds. Distinctly more vivid greens. Clearer blues. That awy [sic], the next time you escape into your favorite prime-time soap, even if what you're watching doesn't reflect real life, your television's color will."
On Slim Design:
"Translation: This is one killer-looking television. Enough said."
"With its slim design and stylish look, it only steals your eye when it's on. If only the same could be said for his football lamp."
On Amazing Picture:
"Men want a picture that never lags. And the lightning-fast refresh rates of BRAVIA deliver just that, putting men right in the middle of the action."
"Whether it's a romantic comedy or an 18th century period piece, BRAVIA LCD TV will deliver detail so amazing, you'll be able to make out every rose petal."
I AM NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP.
I'm not sure what upsets me more - that somebody thinks that this might work, or the possibility that it will.
why I prefer cats
I was forwarded a link the other day with the subject heading "maybe the funniest thing ever."
This is not entirely inaccurate ... but nonetheless slightly misleading.
It has lodged itself in my brain, and I suspect that - in the way of all disturbing Internet media - the only way to exorcise it from my mind is to share it with you, my dear unsuspecting reader.
Because before you die, you do not see the ring: you see this.
This may not be safe for work; it is definitely not safe for lunch.
Enjoy!
goodbye reason, hello rhyme
iTunes, what the fuck is this:
Now, don't get me wrong: I applaud the decision to provide a resource for those of us who are generally in the dark regarding the provenance of commercial music clips. I admit, I am one of those people. Slightly less so now, in this post-O.C. world of rampant indie-rock licensing, but back in the day, if an ad wasn't scored by Moby, it would often feature some slightly obscure rock classic. In which case, fuck if I knew what it was. Until Volkswagen came along, I'd never even heard "Happy Jack".
I just don't have the time to be as dedicated to music as I am to television. So I need TV to tell me what to listen to. I figure it's only a matter of time until TiVo gives me the chance to download songs directly, but until then, this iTunes clearinghouse idea isn't a terrible substitute.
I mean, except for the part where they decided to add egregiously half-assed ad commentary to the track listings.
Like this:
"Rock You Like a Hurricane" (Track 15): Burgers, chicken wings, quesadillas ... T.G.I. Friday's rocks empty stomachs much like this Scorpions' classic has been satisfying metal heads for decades.
That's funny, I didn't realize that Scorpions caused gastroenteritis and bloat. Mild distaste, sure, but even Virgin Killer doesn't turn the stomach like Friday's Three-for-All. But after reading this, I realize that I was wrong: they're both equally offensive. Thanks for clearing that up, iTunes!
Equally insipid advertorial sputa include:
"Ooh La La" (Track 9): This track from Goldfrapp takes a sample from the classic early '70s tune "Spirit in the Sky" and turns it into a frosty tune worthy of Diet Coke.
"Supergirl" (Track 13): It's fun to be young. It's fun to rock out. It's fun to wear cute shoes. This track on the new Candies ad is just a confirmation of all of these facts.
"Life is Wonderful" (Track 20): Jason Mraz's uplifting, life-affirming song reinforces the joys of living in a Hilton ad.
When I first read these, I really, really wanted them to be parody. They come close (the joys of living in a Hilton ad??!?), but I don't think they mean to. After careful consideration, I'm fairly certain that they're quite genuine. Which leads me to my point:
WHO THE FUCK THOUGHT THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA?
No, really, I'd like to know, because I'd like to find the person responsible and take a tire iron to their brain. I realize that the iTunes music store is a business and that Apple could probably use a little extra ad revenue to troubleshoot its latest iProduct, but can't we at least agree to limit advertising to actual effective forms? Like ... well, pretty much everything but Internet pop-up ads and this. The playlist doesn't make me any more likely to use the products in question. In fact, these track listings don't even make me any more likely to download the songs in question - and they kind of make me want to purge any of the songs I already happen to have on my hard drive. And, also, maybe switch to a PC.
And yet, like Tom Cruise at a Scientology convention, one listing manages to stand out in the crowd of retardation:
"Use Me" (Track 17): Soul singer Bill Withers proves to be as hardy as a GMC truck on "Use Me."
Because, see, when you think about it, Bill Withers is exactly like a GMC Sierra.
1. The GMC Sierra and Bill Withers both win awards:
- In 2005, the GMC Sierra was the J.D. Power and Associates Highest Ranked Heavy-Duty Full-Size Pickup in Initial Quality in the U.S.
- In 1971, Bill Withers won the Grammy for R&B Song of the Year for Ain't No Sunshine. He also won the award in 1981 for Just the Two of Us. And in 1987 for Lean on Me.
3. The GMC Sierra and Bill Withers can both operate in adverse conditions:
- The GMC Sierra has an automatic locking rear differential that evenly distributes power to both rear wheels, providing traction on slippery roads.
- Bill Withers grew up in rural West Virginia.
- Properly equipped, the GMC Sierra can tow up to 12,000 lb. and has a 4,000 lb. payload capacity.
- If there is a load you have to bear / that you can't carry / I'm right up the road / I'll share your load / if you just call me.
- The GMC Sierra features dual-zone climate controls.
- Bill Withers is cool and hot.
- The GMC Sierra 4.8L standard V8 engine encourages environmental responsibility, with the best fuel economy of any full-sized pickup.
- Without Grandma's Hands, we would never have had No Diggity.
I know, I know: I shouldn't be surprised. After all, it's not clear that Bill Withers has ever met a licensing agreement he didn't like. And, you know what? That's cool. I'm happy to see Bill Withers pocket a little extra cash here and there, even if it does mean that Ain't No Sunshine pops up in one of the more hateful movies ever made. Hell, I'd probably give him money too, if I had any.
And anyway, I like to think that Bill's just trying to be generous with his music, sharing it with the world in order to make it a better place.
However, all of this means, of course, that if Bill Withers were a car, he sure as hell wouldn't be made by General Motors.
So have a little respect, Apple. And for the love of God, find a better copywriter.
reduce, reuse, recycle
In a time when our country is beset by war, political scandal, and popular unrest, it's good to know that Hollywood is still able to focus on the issues that really matter: namely, its so-called box office slump. A slump in which the film industry makes a slightly less obscene amount of money than usual. Countless articles and exposes have been devoted to analyses and investigations of the slump: why is it happening and who is to blame? Do Americans not want to deal in frivolity in this time of terror and turmoil? What about the effects of piracy? Or, worse, television?
The most common explanation, however, seems pretty plausible: movies have fucking sucked lately. Studios have abandoned original material and are instead churning out remake after remake - pissing off the public in the process.
But, you know, maybe this is a little unfair. Maybe we should cut Hollywood a little slack - after all, it's possible that there is a noble, underlying reason for all this. I mean, Hollywood types are totally progressive and political, right? So maybe we should just consider the possibility that the current repurposing trend is just part of a larger Green initiative, a form of creative environmentalism. Their philosophy is probably something like why waste our precious, diminishing creative resources on new ideas when there are so many old ideas just sitting there, waiting to be reused? It is our job - nay, it is our patriotic duty to protect our strategic idea reserve.
It's possible. And it's actually sort of comforting.
At least until you realize that it would logically follow that it is also our patriotic duty as moviegoers to support something like, oh, I don't know: The Pink Panther.
The sad reality is that the nitwits in charge of coming up with new ideas in Hollywood are lazy-ass, risk-averse motherfuckers. And, so, for the past few years, the moviegoing public has been subjected to crappy remake after crappy remake. The Stepford Wives, for instance, was a totally humorless remake of a cultural touchstone. The Truth About Charlie was about as worthy as successor to Charade as, well, Mark Wahlberg is to Cary Grant. And as for Yours, Mine, and Ours? Consider this: it's not just that one person green-lit that project that's horrifying. Actual dozens of people thought that movie was a good idea.
Television, too, has provided ample fodder for Cro-Magnon cinematic upchuck: Bewitched, The Dukes of Hazzard, Scooby-Doo. Not to mention the big-screen adaptation of Dallas, the latest atrocity-to-be. At this point, I have to believe that it's only a matter of time before some genius studio exec decides to stick Jessica Alba and Vince Vaughn in a feature-length adaptation of Roseanne. With Jamie-Lynn Spears as Darlene, natch.
(If that ever happens, I will give up. Just, you know, on the world at large.)
As underwhelmed as I am, however, on a basic, economic sort of level, I get it. Remakes have an existing audience and an established formula. You may not make as much money with a mediocre remake as with an exciting new original, but, on the other hand, you can only fuck up so bad. Even if it sucks (which it probably will), I imagine that it's unlikely you're going to lose much money. Unless you remake, like, Heaven's Gate. And adjust for inflation.
So, fine. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know that capitalism isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Go, remake the fuck out of whatever you can get your hands on, Hollywood. But I do have one tiny request: I'd like to see what would happen if, instead of remaking something awesome into something godawful, you might instead focus on reworking movies that, in their original form, left a little something to be desired.
A little something I like to call nitroglycerin.
Hear me out. First of all, nitroglycerin is awesome. Why? Because it explodes. But nitroglycerin is also the cinematic equivalent of an ellipsis: a cheap-ass and slightly contrived way to add suspense. With nitroglycerin, you wouldn't even have to reshoot movies - all you'd have to do is digitally insert a few scary-looking bomb-type things and voila: instant thriller. I mean, the Wages of Fear was a two-and-a-half-hour movie about, pretty much, driving over crappy roads. In any other situation, that would just me another morning commute on the BQE. But they had the good sense to add nitroglycerin, and as a result it is one of the great suspense films of all time.
Here are a few other movies that could benefit from such treatment.
Sleepless in Seattle
Why is Tom Hanks so sleepless? Because he's strapped to a large metal canister, that's why. A large metal canister ... of nitroglycerin. The only thing that can save him now is the love of a good woman. Unfortunately for Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan will have to do. Regardless: can she get to Seattle in time to save the man of her dreams?
Spanglish
A comedy about the ultimate culture clash ... of nitroglycerin. When the Klusky family hired Flor Moreno, they knew they would have to welcome Flor into their home, but they never expected to welcome Flor into their hearts. The only problem is, Flor is pretty much constantly loaded down with nitroglycerin. Because, you know: foreigner. 
Too bad Téa Leoni doesn't speak Spanish - will the family make it through their summer vacation alive? Or will they die one by one until only Cloris Leachman remains, left alone with the flaming wreckage of her self-respect?
2001: A Space Odyssey
Film schools and geek-driven video stores across the country would erupt into volcanic fanboy wrath were anyone to suggest tampering with a Kubrick film. That doesn't mean, however, that 2001 can't be rereleased with a few modifications for the audience's viewing pleasure. My suggestion: hook up the moviegoers to a series of movement-monitoring electrodes and, above them, suspend a bucket ... of nitroglycerin. If the audience nods off or looks away, the nitroglycerin falls. No one will ever call the last twenty minutes "gratuitously boring and indulgent" again. (A slightly safer alternative, of course, is just to hotbox the theater.)
Meet Joe Black
Death makes a deal with Anthony Hopkins: no one can die as long as he shows Death the world ... of nitroglycerin.
Or, okay, so, Death falls in love with Anthony Hopkins's robot-daughter, who is really surprisingly realistic given that she's made entirely ... of nitroglycerin.
Oh, fuck it: nitroglycerin can't help this movie. Samuel L. Jackson couldn't help this movie. (Which is, by the way, a remake itself.) This is a movie where the actors will deliver a line and then just, like, hang out for a few minutes before moving on to the next one. I dare you to find a film that will more effectively suck away your will to live. It's like the State of the Union, except you don't have to pause for sycophantic applause, you have to pause for the quiet desecration of your soul.
My Dinner With Andre
Two men sit at a dinner table rigged to an audio trigger, which is in turn rigged to a vat ... of nitroglycerin. If the conversation lags, the entire place is going to blow. Will they be able to continue to dramatize the fragility and preciousness of life - when that very life is in question?
(Due to the suspicion that intellectuals and theater professionals might possibly be somewhat lacking in broad sympathetic appeal, the restaurant will also be filled with toddlers and American flags.)
capsule reviews from the new york times television supplement that could easily be adapted to describe men I have dated
Billy Bathgate (1991). Dustin Hoffman, Nicole Kidman. Bronx youth and legendary gangster. Well played but unsurprising. (R) (A, L, V) (CC) (110m) ENC, 1:15 a.m.
Jersey Girl (2004). Ben Affleck, Liv Tyler, George Carlin. New York music publicist gains daughter, loses job. Blatantly icky. (PG-13) (A, L) (CC) (105m) ENC, 6:15 p.m.
King Arthur (2004). Clive Owen, Keira Knightley, Ioan Gruffudd. The true Arthur and his knights, mere shadows of their legendary selves. Pompous and glowering, but with an element of brawny camp. (PG-13) (A, L, V) (CC) (130m) WAM, 6 p.m.
The Butterfly Effect (2004). Ashton Kutcher, Amy Smart. College student time-travels to revisit childhood traumas. Staggeringly bad, with a genuine spirit of cruelty. (R) (A, L, N, V) (CC) (115m) STARZ, 11:05 p.m.
Knock Off (1998). Jean-Claude Van Damme. Hong Kong business partners tangle with villains. More action than sense. (R) (A, L, V) (CC) (105m) TMC, 8 p.m.
Johnson Family Vacation (2004). Cedric the Entertainer, Vanessa Williams. L.A. couple and three unruly children on road trip to Missouri. Cramped and bumpy. (PG-13) (A) (CC) (105m) HBO, 12:15 p.m.
Tombstone (1993). Kurt Russell, Val Kilmer. Earp and Holliday, yet again. Overloaded with psychological baggage. (R) (A, V) (CC) (135m) ENC, 8 p.m.
Godzilla (1998). Matthew Broderick, Jean Reno. Giant mutant lizard wreaks havoc on New York. Big beast, little movie. (PG-13) (V) (CC) (140m) SHO2, 9:10 a.m.
famous last words
To a trusted confidante, when contemplating a long-simmering relationship: "How bad could we be? Just because we're assholes to everyone else, that doesn't mean we'd be assholes to each other."
To my mother, before moving to New York: "I know that the job doesn't seem that impressive now, but they told me that if I worked hard, I'd advance quickly. And I can totally live on twenty-six thousand a year."
To a knowledgeable friend, while filling out my NCAA bracket: "Yeah, I know that it's not, like, a bold choice to go with Duke for the championship, but as long as Redick doesn't crap out, I think they have a good shot."
One of these days I'm going to learn to shut the fuck up.
in which I provide links to things that are actually funny
A quick drive-by to pass along three things that have delighted me this weekend.
(Apart from, of course, Wichita State beating Tennessee. I fucking hate the Vols and don't care who knows it. The only team I hate more? The Lady Vols.)
First of all, I'd like to share this brilliant frat-boy remix of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I've always said I don't have the soul or the literary acumen to appreciate poetry, but I sure as hell have the soul for parody, and this is pretty fucking excellent.
To wit: "At the rager the chicks come and go / Talking about art or something, I don't know."
After I read this I thought about doing my own series of poetry parody, but then I realized that I'd have to reread the source poems, like, a lot, and even I am not willing to suffer such torture for a cheap laugh. If anyone else wants to write something terribly mean in place of "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening", though, I would love to see it.
Second, here's a Charlie Kaufman spec pilot. It's called "Depressed Roommates" and it is exactly as off-the-wall hilarious as you'd expect. No way it was ever going to get made, but I thank the lord that it made its way onto this here Internet. If you're looking for elaborate comedy about wooden legs, Cornish Hens, wall-to-wall carpet, and Sinbad ... well, then you're probably Charlie Kaufman. But, anyway: funny!
(I discovered this, by the way, over at Jane Espenson's blog. Those of you who actually had lives between 1997 and 2003 may not recognize the name - she was a writer and executive producer on Buffy and was responsible for some of the show's greatest episodes. As such, I love her beyond all reason. But if you've ever wanted to know more about how television gets all shiny and well-written, I'd highly recommend a visit to her site.)
And, finally, I have a new favorite website: Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. They've been linked like crazy this week - and for good reason. Their takedown of South Dakota State Senator Bill Napoli is priceless.
But wait: there's more! Like, everything else on their site. Their reviews of crappy romance novels have a higher laugh-to-joke ratio of anything I've read in ages. It's even funny if you have no acquaintance whatsoever with the world of trash romance.
(Just so we're clear, though, I am not unacquainted with this world. Yes, that's right: I like astrology, college basketball, and trashy girly fiction. High-brow, I am not. Anyway, when I was a sophomore in college I somehow found myself in possession of a large box of used romance novels, and before I knew it I had worked my way through each and every one. And as a result, I know a hell of a lot more about Regency England than I ever really wanted to and could probably rattle off at least two dozen synonyms for "hard". But I won't pretend I wasn't entertained, because then I wouldn't just be a snob, I'd also be a liar.)
All of these things are funnier and smarter than I am, so stop wasting your time here and click on through already.
Unless, of course, it's Sunday afternoon, in which case you should be rooting for Bradley. Because they've already fucked my bracket to high heaven, and, well, if you can't beat 'em, at least you can hope they beat Pitt.
basketball diaries
An admission: I don't normally go in on March Madness pools.
Please don't get the wrong impression, here. It's not that I don't care - it's more that I kind of care too much. If I were the sort of person to rank my priorities, college basketball would fall somewhere between paying the rent and Diet Coke. I know that I'm, like, a total girl or whatever, but the tournament is, all the same, kind of a big fucking deal to me.
But, even so, I usually don't enter tournament pools. Because when you get right down to it, I'm just too fucking competitive. If I'm publicly accountable for the predictions I make, I transform from your everyday obsessive fan to an actual, honest-to-God, foam-at-the-mouth crackpot, tearing at my hair when things go wrong and desperately indulging superstition when things go right. At some point, I usually end up on the floor in front of the television, knees pulled protectively to my chest while I balance a pillow on my head. Because you never know: the pillow may be lucky.
And remember, the tournament is two weeks long. Other events I typically bet on - the Oscars, for instance - are over in, like, 4 hours. I can get in, get out, and get second place with hardly any trouble at all. An NCAA tournament pool, on the other hand, will actively ruin my life.
Which is why I'm in some trouble this year. Because last night, while discussing the bracket with my dad, he basically taunted me until I agreed to go in on his pool (which is, officially, "for recreational purposes only") at work.
If anyone out there still believes that sports appreciation and cognitive ability are somehow mutually exclusive, they need only skim the rules of this pool to have their worldview severely undermined:
It's been nice knowing you, sanity. I'll see you again sometime around April 4th.
for the love of benji
In Indianapolis, the parents of a young high-school student have stirred up quite the little controversy over their objection to the use of The Kite Runner in the freshman English curriculum. The Indianapolis Star reports:
"The Kite Runner" does not make the cut for Tom and Julie Shake, who want to protect their Lawrence North High School freshman from what Julie Shake calls "edgier" literature. The parents have thrown their school district into a tizzy over the novel's use in freshman English classes.
The book, published in 2003, about two boys in different ethnic groups in Afghanistan, focuses on betrayal of friendship and redemption.
Julie Shake has no problem with those themes. But the accountant and mother of three does not approve of the "very violent" scenes, including the rape of a boy, and occasional "vulgar" language.
"The point is timing," she said. "Is this age-appropriate? Is this the best youth literature available? We believe for 14- and 15-year-olds, there are better choices."
It seems to me that the Shakes are limiting themselves with this crusade of theirs. Sure, we've all known for years that controversial novels could stir up all sorts of trouble-making youth-type behavior. But I think we're missing the real Big Bad here. Age-appropriate fiction is all well and good, but what about age-appropriate non-fiction? Are we really going to spend all this time kicking The Kite Runner off our shelves only to subject our children to the very violent and vulgar facts of non-book-based reality?
Friendship, independence, patriotism, faith - these are the things that history should pass on to the next generation. But, as it turns out, history is actually full of war, rape, and pillage. And current events are, too - who knew! We need to protect our children from history just as much as we need to protect them from best-selling, award-winning "debut novels" like The Kite Runner.
Just like Tom and Julie Shake, I believe that there are better choices.
Unfortunately, most colleges still have vague sorts of history requirements, so we can't just up and stop teaching history. And it would probably be pretty expensive to make new textbooks, and who has time to research that sort of thing anyway. So okay, we might not be able to change history, per se. Unless, of course, we work for the government. Censorship is just so hard these days.
But even so, I do think we can make it a hell of a lot more kid (and parent!) friendly.
Here's what I propose: puppies.
That's right, puppies. Who doesn't love a cute little puppy? I know I do. But history is surprisingly lacking in puppies, which is one of the reasons it's so damn scary for children these days. So all we have to do is add more puppies, and we'll be set.
Just look at how harmless history can be:
So adorable. Especially that last one.
With each passing day, it's getting harder and harder to protect our children. Where once we had stakes and pyres, now we have school boards and civil liberties. We have to adapt. We have to change.
We have to add puppies.
little, yellow, different
Apparently, Yahoo! would like you to be more effusive in your online interaction:
These emoticons are actually super-secret bonus emoticons - just in case you weren't able to express a suitably wide range of emotions with the fifty-odd emoticons that are already available to the Yahoo! chat community. You know, for all of those times when nothing really says "I'm sorry" like an animated chicken.
Now, I realize that it is VERY EXCITING to be able to insert moving pictures into our chat windows, but please: don't. It's bad enough that we have, like, as a culture decided that we can justify any asshole comment we want by following it up with a semi-colon and a parenthesis, but if I start seeing yin yangs in work emails, I'm going to have to pull a Dark Phoenix and just, really, obliterate the planet.
Here's an idea: use WORDS. After all, we've spent enough time coming up with them. And, hey, who knows, you might even like them.
However, on the plus side, this does mean that I'll finally be able to finish my chat-based adaptations of great literary and cinematic moments.
Like Hamlet's soliloquy.
Hamlet: 
Or Marlon Brando's speech in On the Waterfront.
Charlie: 
Terry: 
Charlie: 
Terry: 
Or the final, explosive confrontation in Brokeback Mountain.
Ennis: 
Jack: 
Ennis: 
Jack: 
Ennis: 
Jack: 
Ennis: 
Jack: 
Ennis: 
Jack: 
Ennis: 
crash course
The Academy Awards are drawing ever near, and as Hollywood prepares for its big night of self-congratulatory excess, award speculation is reaching its usual brain-fevered pitch. Every year, it seems, one dark-horse nominee comes out of nowhere to challenge the odds-on favorite. This year is no different. Despite the near-universal critical acclaim lavished on Brokeback Mountain, for the past few weeks the buzz has been building steadily behind another Best Picture contender: Crash.
As legend has it, Paul Haggis outlined the entire script for Crash in a single late-night pan-flash of inspiration. Now, is he just a mad genius? It's possible. Canadians often are.
However, I have to wonder: could it be that as Paul Haggis toiled away on such televisual touchstones as thirtysomething, L.A. Law, and Due South, he was able to develop a sort of writerly technique - a formula, if you will - that allowed him to finesse an award-winning screenplay in a mere matter of hours?
I decided to find out.
I spent an evening in quiet contemplation of the complex, challenging, and - above all - artistically credible cinematic two-step that is Crash. I considered the characters, the pacing, and the plot and I tried to reconstruct the process that would allow a person to script the better part of a potential Best Picture in a single night.
Of course, I had to do this all in my head. The DVD is, like, 12 bucks or something.
Then, while taking the subway to work this morning, I decided to plot my own provocative ensemble drama. And you know what? I discovered that Paul Haggis might just be on to something. There is a process.
This is what I learned.
Okay, so, the first thing you need to do in any complex, challenging, and credible artistic process is select your issue. Be sure to pick an issue that is provocative. This means that you will be able to include graphic depictions of sex or violence without sacrificing your aforementioned artistic credibility. Sure, it's not the good kind of sex or violence, but people will pay attention all the same.
Try not to choose anything that's been too recently media-frenzied - you don't want to write a screenplay on a subject only to find out that Law & Order beat you to it.
Here are some suggestions:
Suburban Ennui
Campaign Finance Reform
SARS
Genocide
For the purpose of this exercise, my issue of choice - for obvious reasons - is "meth mouth".
Moving along: we also need to choose our character names. This might seem daunting at first, but you can actually find these names almost anywhere. You could use family names or names of friends or names from a favorite book. You could even go on the Internet, where I'm sure you can find all sorts of helpful information. Paul Haggis probably came up with his names all on his own, but remember: he's a trained professional.
I got my names from this week's issue of The Economist.
Now, we're going to be making an ensemble drama. This means that we will be able to explore the complexities of human interaction and will be eligible for the maximum number of SAG awards. Lucky for us, the more characters you have, the less character they need. So character development's going to be a piece of cake. All we have to do is take our chosen names and assign each one an occupation and an emotional state.
Let's also include the roughly opposite emotional state, as this will come in handy later on.
Jacques: Firefighter, Scared/Fearless
Vladimir: Astronaut, Immature/Mature
Hugo: Dentist, Angry/Not Angry
Kim: Pastry Chef, Malnourished/Corpulent
Blair: Nun, Conflicted/Ecstatic
Mikulas: Writer, Self-absorbed/Selfless
(Important! You should always write yourself into the story. If you don't understand why this is necessary, then you have no business being a writer. In this exercise, Mikulas is going to act as my simulacrum. I realize that this might seem unnecessarily complicated - because, well, I'm a girl and he's a boy - but it's subtlety like this that really appeals to the Academy electorate.)
Next, we have to figure out how these characters relate to one another. The key to a successful ensemble drama, I have discovered, is convoluted interrelationality. Remember that complicated and implausible are often excellent proxies for complex and challenging, so we need to be sure that all of our characters know each other, even if they run in very different circles in a very big city. Don't forget that even if you create a scenario that would never, ever happen in real life, you can always film it in ambient light or on digital video.
This is called "realism."
In order to weave an effectively complex and challenging web of interrelationality, I recommend the use of a visual aid:
I'm fairly certain that they used something quite similar for Love, Actually.
Okay, so the trick here is to give adjacent characters a pre-existing relationship and diametrically opposed characters an onscreen confrontation. The pre-existing relationships give the story depth; the onscreen conflict gives the story momentum. Both of these are essential to Academy Award-winning storytelling.
Observe:
In this example, Kim and Hugo are married. (Since their emotional states are malnourished and angry, respectively, we know that this marriage is not a happy one.) Let's say that Jacques and Hugo are friends from high school. And that Jacques knew Vladimir from his days in the space program. (Recall that Jacques is scared. This must be why he had to drop out of NASA.) And Vladimir is the younger brother of Blair who once taught elementary Latin to Mikulas who is Kim's gay best friend.
See how well this is all coming together? Already we have what the critics like to call "layers".
Now, Blair and Hugo meet when Blair goes to him with a toothache. Turns out a toothache is the least of her problems. Meanwhile, across town, Mikulas has built himself a meth lab to support his writing habit. He knew that synthesizing phenylacetone and methylamine was a recipe for a really killer high, but he never thought it might also be a formula for despair. (Or, as Jacques is about to discover, that it might also be incredibly explosive.) And as for Vladimir, he just wanted a cupcake from Kim's pastry shop. Little did he know how his life was about to change.
And there you go. All that remains now is a little third-act resolution. We don't have to worry about resolving the actual conflict, as resolution is neither complex nor challenging nor artistically credible. This is why French film is so often well-received. We do, however, need to worry about satisfying the audience, so we'll trick them into a sense of resolution by relying on our old storytelling friend, the character arc.
What is a character arc, you ask? Simple: a character arc is the path any given character takes along the way from their initial emotional state to that state's rough opposite. (See, I told you our earlier antonymical work would come in handy.) However, in the strict Euclidean world of ensemble drama, character growth is not so much an arc as it is a line: that is, the shortest distance between two emotional points. We have limited screen time here, remember, so efficiency is key.
I'm thinking that Mikulas (selflessly) pulls Jacques from a burning building after Jacques (fearlessly) breaks a leg in a daring meth-lab rescue attempt. Vlad (seriously) breaks down without his buttercream frosting while (corpulent) Kim struggles with rehab. And Blair dies in Hugo's (not-angry) arms - but not before she (ecstatically) sees the face of God.
Of course, in order to achieve maximal dramatic effect, we will want to cross-cut from scene to scene to scene, all in a seamless way that further proves the point that there is a common thread in all of us regardless of our preconceived editorial notions.
But we can take care of that in post.
And there we have it: complex, challenging, credible. It's a snappy logline away from a handshake deal with Fox Searchlight. I don't even have a particularly long commute. With a little more time, I bet I could make this story even more powerful. Particularly if I introduced a sweet-faced child - and then put that child in mortal peril.
In light of this exercise, I have to admit: I am totally rethinking my stance on this movie. A few days ago, I was infuriated at the possibility that Crash would manage to beat out both the critical favorite and my own personal favorite for Best Picture. I told myself that I should know that the Academy is no better at making an informed decision than the rest of the American public, that it should come as no surprise.
For the first time, though, I am heartened by and perhaps even in accord with the Academy's reckless bad taste. Because even though Crash doesn't really manage to say anything new or particularly interesting about racism, it does manage to give hope to the most hopeless among us:
Struggling screenwriters.
And for that alone, the man deserves a Thalberg.