Happy New Year, World Wide Interwebs. Can you believe it’s 2008? I really can’t. So if the Mayans were right, this means we’ve only got four years left in which to finally organize our closets and run that half-marathon we’ve been talking about since 1997. Better get cracking.
Oh, how did we celebrate our New Year’s Eve? Well, I still have a headache, if that’s any indication. From three small gin and tonics consumed over a five-hour period. When did my internal organs become 82 year-old men in compression socks? I’m amused because I actually thought I was pacing myself quite well, because I wanted to be RESPONSIBLE and NOT HUNGOVER because I still have 140 pages of manuscript to proof one last time. By tomorrow.
I like to live on the edge.
Before going out last night, I discovered only the best new show on TV. It’s called The Whitest Kids U’ Know. Uncensored sketch comedy on IFC. I laughed so hard watching this clip that I injured one of the 82 year-old men near my ribcage.
This only partially makes up for my Saturday viewing of one of the worst movies I’ve seen in a very long time. P.S. I Love You? No, Hollywood: P.S., Please stop making movies that insult the intelligence of the average movie-goer. During one gag-inducing early scene featuring an ‘oh-so-realistic’ private little bedroom striptease performed by the lead character’s devoted, hunky, quirky husband of nine years, I couldn’t help but lean in and whisper to my friend, “Well, the good news is I think he’s going to die soon.”
And he did, but it didn’t really help the movie much.
Also, anyone at all responsible for the trend of female protagonists working through their grief/indecision/guilt by opening: a) an artsy shoe boutique; b) an artsy lamp boutique; c) a cutesy bakery/chocolate shop; d) a dog-walking business; or, e) a whimsical floral studio…the ultra-easy establishment of which leads to the neat and tidy “Happily Ever After,” please stop. I realize that these are dreams shared by many of us with more estrogen than testosterone pumping through our bodies, but you’re making it that much more difficult for us to return to our cubicles on Monday mornings.
I’d much prefer watching a female lead open a series of brutal underground fight clubs than a cozy little bistro any day. But that’s probably just me.