A good piece on the Casey-Santorum head-to-head on Meet The Press, from our friends at
Carpetbagger
How Santorum is still taken seriously is beyond me...
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Don't Be Blue, Pussycat.
This is for all the girls who are bummed to be back at work after a too-short long weekend. You're Welcome.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Geezers R Us
In further signs that I am now a genuine geezer, I watched the MTV Video Music Awards the other night and found myself perplexed by the whole thing. I NEVER thought I'd look at any kind of current music production and think, "I just don't get it. What are they saying? I can't understand a word of it! And why do they have to look so trashy?!"
But sadly, yeah. I actually thought that, verbatim. All the rappers who came onstage, all thanking God for giving them the talent and ability to rap about their bling and their ho's. All the "celebrities" whose sole contribution to the culture is appearing in a reality show featuring their at-times breathtaking mediocrity as humans beings. All the songs, most of which made no sense to me, sung by people who looked high, insane, or both. It was all I could do to not finish my rant with something like, "And I'll clean your clock, Sonny Jim!"
Send me my AARP card ASAP.
I tried to think back to when I was in high school, when MTV was all about big hair, all about Bon Jovi and Ratt and Def Leppard and a little bit of "Yo! MTV Raps" with generous helpings of LL Cool J and Run DMC. At the time I took evil delight in knowing that my dad took a dim view of "those poofs," not in the gay sense but in the sense of grown men sporting long hair and spandex trousers. I think he felt alternately embarrassed for, and angrily annoyed at them for being so ridiculous, and perhaps that is what I was feeling the other night. Bewilderment that young people could look up to acts like Chamillionaire or The Pussycat Dolls and not see them for the egregiously untalented parodies-of-themselves that they are; annoyed that this is how "far" our popular culture has come; despairing that this is the best we have to show for having the largest and most thriving entertainment industry in the world (excepting Bollywood).
In the end, I realized that the MTV VMAs simply represent the inexorable march of time and culture, from one generation to the next, each seemingly more shocking and antisocial than the last. Which means that I ought to revel in today's glorious, mediocre and annoying inanity because it will all be much worse in 10 years. So with that in mind, I did what any self-respecting geezer must do in order to regain sanity and achieve {serenity now!}. I switched over to Matlock then went to bed. ;)
But sadly, yeah. I actually thought that, verbatim. All the rappers who came onstage, all thanking God for giving them the talent and ability to rap about their bling and their ho's. All the "celebrities" whose sole contribution to the culture is appearing in a reality show featuring their at-times breathtaking mediocrity as humans beings. All the songs, most of which made no sense to me, sung by people who looked high, insane, or both. It was all I could do to not finish my rant with something like, "And I'll clean your clock, Sonny Jim!"
Send me my AARP card ASAP.
I tried to think back to when I was in high school, when MTV was all about big hair, all about Bon Jovi and Ratt and Def Leppard and a little bit of "Yo! MTV Raps" with generous helpings of LL Cool J and Run DMC. At the time I took evil delight in knowing that my dad took a dim view of "those poofs," not in the gay sense but in the sense of grown men sporting long hair and spandex trousers. I think he felt alternately embarrassed for, and angrily annoyed at them for being so ridiculous, and perhaps that is what I was feeling the other night. Bewilderment that young people could look up to acts like Chamillionaire or The Pussycat Dolls and not see them for the egregiously untalented parodies-of-themselves that they are; annoyed that this is how "far" our popular culture has come; despairing that this is the best we have to show for having the largest and most thriving entertainment industry in the world (excepting Bollywood).
In the end, I realized that the MTV VMAs simply represent the inexorable march of time and culture, from one generation to the next, each seemingly more shocking and antisocial than the last. Which means that I ought to revel in today's glorious, mediocre and annoying inanity because it will all be much worse in 10 years. So with that in mind, I did what any self-respecting geezer must do in order to regain sanity and achieve {serenity now!}. I switched over to Matlock then went to bed. ;)
Poor Michael Barrett!
Baseball Crank, perhaps the only guy who can make you laugh out loud about a very personal type of injury:
BaseballCrank
BaseballCrank
Strike Team Hits a Home Run
I've been spending my evenings with a new man. His name is Vic Mackey. He's a cop in LA. I can't stop watching him, even when I have work to do. His coworkers are incredible too. As much as I hate to share this crazy bunch of law enforcement officers with others, it's only right that I let you know how well your time will be spent watching them too. One of the top ten best shows on TV, hands down:
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Win One for the Hipper {Broken, that is}
The Baby Daddy and I watched the Agassi-Baghdatis US Open tennis match the other night, wherein I could not hide my fervent hope that Andre would represent for us geezers by winning the match and moving on to compete with a 20-something player in the next round. I felt like I was back in high school, back when I loooooved Andre Agassi for far different reasons. I loved his ratty hair, his flourescent outfits, his partiality for small "Rebel" cameras, and his general young and brash style, backed up by fantastic talent. I spent no small amount of time on the court as captain of my high school tennis team trying in vain to replicate his awesome backhand, never realizing that I lacked his a)talent, b)talent, and c)talent.
Never mind. He was, as a preceding generation might say, a tall glass of water in what was the arid desert land of men's tennis at the time, as far as my generation was concerned. I remember laughing at the racket (racquet?) my mom had from her childhood, specifically insulting it by calling it some kind of "Bjorn Borg/Ken Rosewall wooden relic." Nothing so "dated" as that for this girl. No no. It was all graphite with fluorescent handle tape for me, as I quested to become the female Agassi of my small town.
Obviously, that didn't happen. But what did happen was that Andre grew up, got a life, got married, had kids, went bald, got a bad back, and still competes with the youngsters. This US Open will be his final tournament, and much like people cheered on Jimmy Connors and Martina Navratilova as their retirements approached, I want Andre to go out on a high note. A high note that recognizes all the young people he brought to the game, all the inspiration he gave to many of us as high schoolers that we could be good tennis players as well as (albeit, cocky and annoying) individuals, and the fact that he has created a full life for himself outside the game that focuses on philanthropy and giving back.
Mostly, though, I hope he wins because we geezers need something to feel happy about, now that high schoolers are laughing at my non-titanium Donnay circa 1989 excuse-for-a-racket and seeming incredulous that the one thing Andre Agassi was ever known for was his hair.
In the end, Agassi did win the match, during which John McEnroe delivered the absolute best summation of life (and perhaps this post), when Baghdatis unbelievably ran down and successfully returned a ball in a way that Agassi would have done 15 years ago: "And that, folks, is why it's great to be 21."
Never mind. He was, as a preceding generation might say, a tall glass of water in what was the arid desert land of men's tennis at the time, as far as my generation was concerned. I remember laughing at the racket (racquet?) my mom had from her childhood, specifically insulting it by calling it some kind of "Bjorn Borg/Ken Rosewall wooden relic." Nothing so "dated" as that for this girl. No no. It was all graphite with fluorescent handle tape for me, as I quested to become the female Agassi of my small town.
Obviously, that didn't happen. But what did happen was that Andre grew up, got a life, got married, had kids, went bald, got a bad back, and still competes with the youngsters. This US Open will be his final tournament, and much like people cheered on Jimmy Connors and Martina Navratilova as their retirements approached, I want Andre to go out on a high note. A high note that recognizes all the young people he brought to the game, all the inspiration he gave to many of us as high schoolers that we could be good tennis players as well as (albeit, cocky and annoying) individuals, and the fact that he has created a full life for himself outside the game that focuses on philanthropy and giving back.
Mostly, though, I hope he wins because we geezers need something to feel happy about, now that high schoolers are laughing at my non-titanium Donnay circa 1989 excuse-for-a-racket and seeming incredulous that the one thing Andre Agassi was ever known for was his hair.
In the end, Agassi did win the match, during which John McEnroe delivered the absolute best summation of life (and perhaps this post), when Baghdatis unbelievably ran down and successfully returned a ball in a way that Agassi would have done 15 years ago: "And that, folks, is why it's great to be 21."
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