I’ve been home sick these last two days. Like, sick-sick. I don’t get sick a lot, and when I’m not sick I almost envy the sick, because they don’t have to go to work and they get to drink juice and watch tv all day. What I forget to keep in mind is that being sick, after the initially kind of enjoyably self-pitying, ‘Oh, I am so sick, woe is me,’ moment of being sick, pretty much sucks.
Brian had whatever this is before I did (thanks, Brian!) but he managed to overcome it without a visit to the doctor. When I asked him how he did it, he said, “Lots of liquids, and lots of rest…and no candy.” He knows me too well.
Speaking of candy, we just missed the Raleigh Donut Run! Where you eat a dozen krispy kreme donuts and then run 6k! Damn it! Why do all the fun, donut-related activities seem to pass me by? I did enjoy that Raleigh’s newspaper, The News & Observer, filed their story about the donut run under “Food & Fitness” when really, it belonged under neither category.
Below is a sneak peek at this week’s Perpetual Post, which goes live tonight. I am debating Ted Berg on the relative hotness of actor Christian Bale. You can find his side of the argument here.
Christian Bale: May be Batman, but he lacks Bat-Game:
It’s all too easy for me to picture a scenario in which I am forced to fend off Christian Bale’s amorous advances. The effortlessness with which I can imagine such an encounter leads me to feel strongly that it is not only a plausible chain of events, but a likely one. Any day now, our paths will cross and I will be forced to make the difficult but unavoidable decision to tell Christian Bale, “Thanks, but no thanks to sex with you.”
I don’t relish rejecting Christian Bale’s hypothetical advances, but reject them I theoretically will. Certainly I would be excited to meet him in person, and flattered by his speculative interest, but it takes more than scruffy facial hair and washboard abs that go on for days to turn my head. It’s nothing personal, of course. I would hate for the popular actor, with his boyish good looks and brooding gaze, to feel insulted by my predetermined refusal to consider a sexual encounter with him if or when the opportunity presented itself. Hopefully I can help Christian Bale to see things my way in order to mitigate any hurt feelings or ego bruising. After all, I hear he has a bit of a temper, and I’d prefer to be on his good side, even as I remain outside his pants.
I’m sure it’s not hard for Christian Bale to understand that I’m merely looking out for my best interests in preemptively refusing to consider engaging in potentially demanded future sexual activities with him. If it helps any, I’ll try to take some of the sting out of my anticipatory rejection by advising him that he’s in good company. There’s a pantheon of other actors I’d probably prefer not to sleep with if given the chance, whose hallowed ranks include Zac Efron, Gary Sinise, that guy from Wings, and Vince Vaughn. I’m still on the fence about David Caruso. That one might actually make a good enough story.
That’s part of the problem with Christian Bale-despite several enjoyable films in which he’s played violent, aggressive characters, I’m just not convinced that that’s him, which I find disappointing. I enjoyed his turn as a sociopathic serial murderer in American Psycho, and he made a decently angsty Batman, but in all honesty he looked a little more at home playing Laurie in Little Women. And if I wanted to have a one-night-stand with Laurie from Little Women, I’d be…twelve years old. Also, nobody wants to have a one-night-stand with Laurie from Little Women. He’s clearly relationship material.
Now, on the other hand, take someone like Gary Busey. While not as physically attractive as Christian Bale, the man still has a certain terrifying madcap charisma that is impossible to deny. You just know that an evening spent alone with Gary Busey will result in the kinds of stories your grandchildren will tell their grandchildren, once they’re over 18, if you survive long enough to have them. The same goes for Mickey Rourke. Crusty and frightening as they may be on the outside, on the inside those men are stark, raving lunatics who will probably request that you do it on a pile of live lobsters ordered from room service. Then they’ll pack your ears with grits and ride you like a kangaroo through Times Square. These men are the stuff celebrity encounter dreams are made of. Christian Bale, on the other hand, would probably roll over, stroke your bicep, and ask if you thought he was a better Batman than George Clooney. Feh. I wouldn’t even tell my dentist about that kind of encounter. Not even if he asked.
I guess what I’m saying is, you’re just not edgy enough for me, Christian Bale, not to sound dismissive. Even when you were recently caught on tape spewing a curse-laden diatribe at your director, you sounded more like a fuming private school father chewing out his son’s lacrosse coach. As I listened to that rant, I still saw you in my head as loveable scamp Jack “Cowboy” Kelly from Newsies, wearing a jaunty red neckerchief and kicking your heels in the air. I half expected you to finish your tirade with a forceful, “Headlines don’t sell papes. Newsies sell papes!” Not only that, but immediately after that rant was released you issued a public apology! That wilting sound you hear is my libido, Christian Bale. The iron doors have closed for you. You can take me off your list of normal people you would sleep with if given the chance. But if you happen to run into Pete Doherty, you tell that screwball where he can find me.
Hilary Duff, you are so right to put Faye Dunaway in her place. How dare she question your acting talents? Lizzie McGuire was a tour de force!
Especially since the original Bonnie and Clyde movie was only a re-telling of the story– while the remake of the ’67 classic you’re starring in, in your own words, “is kind of like the true events of how everything went down.”
I’m sure it’s not your fault Ms. Dunaway allegedly lashed out at you. After all, she’s old! As you pointed out, “I might be mad if I looked like that now, too.” Well said, Hilary. Maybe you’ll get hit by a train and then you’ll always be young and beautiful forever!
I hope this feud does not go on for much longer. Maybe the two of you can put things right by starring in a modern, scene-for-scene remake of Mommie Dearest. Nothing would make me happier.
I think I might be slowly coming around to MacGyver. Don’t tell Brian I said this, but I may have misjudged the man. Last night we watched several episodes back-to-back, and by the end of the third one, when MacGyver and his lady friend of the hour parachuted out of a plane inside a sports car with a trunk full of stolen diamonds, I must admit, I was grudgingly impressed. I am also impressed that Microsoft Word’s dictionary corrected my spelling of the word ‘MacGyver’. Not just anyone gets into the Microsoft Word dictionary, my friends.
Don’t get me wrong here– the road to my heart is all not that easy; it takes more than a roll of duct tape and a bag of kettle corn to win me over (although it didn’t in college). I was extremely skeptical during the first episode or so. The synthesized music, the high-waisted jeans and off-the-shoulder shirts of the ’80s, MacGyver’s suspiciously mullet-like hair-all of these things added to my discomfort and my certainty that I was not going to watch more than an episode or two. Brian would be just fine watching the remaining 39 episodes of season one by himself, I thought. But gradually, I began to relax. I stopped snickering every time a female character fawningly repeated MacGyver’s name to him over and over again. “Oh, MacGyver! You’re so reckless. That’s just like you, isn’t it MacGyver? What am I going to MacGyver with you, MacGyver?”
After a few of snide remarks about the unlikelihood of MacGyver’s jury-rigged contraptions actually working, I decided to shut up and enjoy myself. After all, no one likes the killjoy who says things like, ‘He better hope there’s no wind, or that candle is going to blow out before it burns through her purse-strap and sets off those fireworks as a diversion.’ Likewise the wet blanket who sneers, ‘Can you really deflect a laser beam with plastic tubing?’ or ‘Those guys are two dunes away with automatic weapons, they can’t hit a frickin’ air balloon?’ That person is no fun. No one wants to watch MacGyver with them.
Of particular enjoyment to me was the refreshing lack of violence. I am what my mother would call ‘a delicate flower’– too faint-hearted for the gruesome scenes in most modern movies and television shows. Is it just me, or did there used to be less grisly stuff on basic cable? Now there is a CSI for every major city, and it is safe to assume that one of the actors in the first five minutes of any crime show is about to be shot, strangled or thrown off a roof. In contrast, during episode two, MacGyver and a plucky female journalist were discovered taking undercover pictures of a secret Central American terrorist organization. I figured they were about to be beaten to a pulp, or at the very least threatened with electrocution; instead they got yelled at. And the journalist’s camera film got exposed. But that was it! And then MacGyver and plucky journalist foiled their captors and disappeared into the jungle to spend the night together in a tent he rigged out of underbrush, but you know they only went to second base, because he is a gentleman.
Speaking of which, MacGyver also managed to earn high marks with me for his undisguised surprise each time the female lead in the episode threw herself at him. It happens in nearly every episode– and yet, each time, he appears unabashedly delighted that he’s actually going to get some. I like that in a man! Maybe I’m just weird.
I think my favorite part about the experience, though, was watching this show with Brian and realizing that this MacGyver was a big part of what made him want to study engineering. I imagine this was the case for a lot of children of the 1980s. It was exciting, feeling as though I were watching history in the making; that every jury-rigged explosion or home-made periscope was at one time encouraging young viewers to love science. Probably also mullets, but fortunately the science part had the most staying-power.
The Newest Issue of the Perpetual Post is out today. Below is my argument in favor of more selective text messaging. Read the Pro-Texting argument Here.
Also, check out the Joe/Jill Biden Sexy-off here: It’s worth it, believe me.
All right, I’m not going to lie. I send and receive text messages all the time. I text with friends I see every day, I text with people I haven’t seen in years. I text about the weather, I text about food, I text about love.
Glad texts! Mad Texts! Drunk texts! Sad texts!
‘Most fun night I’ve ever had!’ texts.
‘Can you believe what he said?!’ texts.
‘I can’t! I can’t! I’ll stomp his head!’ texts.
Texting was initially developed as a great way of relaying brief messages to people without being forced to interact with them directly, because really, who wants that? It’s also a good way to communicate with someone who might be in a noisy area and unable to hear you on the phone, or who has somehow discovered a public place left on earth where it is universally unacceptable to talk loudly on your cell-phone. I have to believe a place like that exists. That dream keeps me going.
Texting is also an entertaining way to keep in casual, sporadic contact with friends. It’s fun to get a random message from someone you don’t get to talk to or see often; it means that they are thinking of you and had some free time while waiting in line at the bank. Still, it should be noted that even constant texting is not a substitute for actually keeping in touch in a meaningful way. Those who think otherwise likely have the emotional capacity of a Speak-N-Spell.
Unfortunately, since the popularity of text messaging has grown in the last few years, I have noticed an increasing trend toward the misuse and abuse of this extremely impersonal method of communication. I am of course referring to the frowned-upon act of texting someone in a situation that would be more respectfully handled either with a phone call, or in person.
As someone who has been mistakenly referred to as ‘homeless’ more times than I am willing to admit (I was once even complimented for having ‘nice teeth, for a homeless girl’), I do not claim to be a master of etiquette—or, clearly, fashion (until fingerless gloves and punched-out top hats come back in style, which in this economy, should happen soon). But when it comes to the judicious use of text messaging in obviously unsuitable situations, I am beginning to believe that certain standards must be agreed upon and put into regular use by the texting community at large. Here are a few examples of types of text messages that should nevermore be sent:
The Break-Up Text: Since the dawn of time, people have been trying to weasel out of having to deliver uncomfortable or upsetting news in person. I read somewhere that stone tablets from ancient Egyptian times were recently found inscribed with hieroglyphs that were roughly translated to read, ‘It’s not you. It’s me. You’re great– I’m just going through some stuff right now. I need to focus on me.’ Both historically and in modern times, there is no excuse for this kind of cowardly behavior. Break-up texters, take heed. Your devastating electronic messages are wreaking havoc on your karma. No matter how casual, secretive or illegal the relationship in question is, if it is to the point where it needs to be definitively ended, then such an ending should be done at the very least over the phone, or maybe with a thoughtful card. A text message is not the way to handle this, no matter how gently you express your feelings through the tender use of emoticons.
Textin’ 2 Apologize: An apology text, no matter how heartfelt it is, and how many little ‘frowny-face’ or ‘crying-a-tear’ characters you use, is akin to a slap in the face followed by a half-hearted, smirking shrug. It says, ‘I am aware that I’ve wronged you, but I’m not willing to take more than 10 seconds out of my day to address that fact. Instead I’m going to assuage my guilt by apologizing with a two-sentence text message. L8R’. Text an apology if you must, but follow it with an apology to the person for your existence.
The Big News Message: Throughout our lives, if we are fortunate, we will hit many milestones. Some will be large, and others small. It is exciting and important for us to share these milestones with our loved ones. However, no one wants to learn that you are engaged, pregnant or have come out of a ten-year coma from a text-message. (I have a similar beef with holiday greeting text messages. Maybe I’m just a Grinch, but when I get the ‘Merry Christmas!’ text message from nine different friends on Christmas day, deep down I know that each friend has just scrolled through their phone’s list of contacts and checked off a bunch of people to send that one message to. My heart now shrinks three sizes too small when this happens.) In any event, if I’m important enough to you that you want to share your big news with me, share it with me personally. Otherwise, I’ll just figure it out myself by stalking you on MySpace.
Brian spent the better part of Sunday evening watching Season 1 of MacGyver on Netflix.
Richard Dean Anderson, how many young boys did you define manhood for in the 80s?
How exciting was it to wake up this morning and read this article in the NY Times: “Obama Reverses Rules on U.S. Abortion Aid”?
It has been eight long years since I felt as though my President recognized the importance of supporting and promoting womens’ reproductive rights. I’m so happy.
(In case you missed it, here’s my defense of the life-saving GPS system, as originally published in the Perpetual Post. Read Ted’s rebuttal here.)
It’s easy to mock the tiny GPS unit. There it sits, mounted on your dashboard, waiting patiently to tell you to turn left in one-tenth of a mile. Oblivious to your snappy retorts and obscene innuendoes; like a humorless Dudley-Do Right, it is the ultimate straight man in your traveling comedy team.
Despite their usefulness, it has been argued that GPS units represent a scary step in the direction of computers becoming increasingly bossy and commanding. I can understand this concern, although I fail to see the downside of any technology that brings our society closer to the utopian vision shown in the world of Knight Rider. Perhaps if GPS units were a little hipper, a little sassier—a little more like sidekicks and less like schoolmarms, they would find greater acceptance in mainstream commuting society.
I will grant that the voice technology for these devices might benefit from some streamlining. While fancier models give you several options, even those merely allow you to choose whether you prefer a dry, mechanical male or a prissy, annoyed female voice to tell you that you’ve missed your exit. (Sometimes, for kicks, when I am only a block or so away from my house and don’t really need directions, I will switch GPS to the Spanish Language version and listen to it tell me sharply to “hacer un U-Turn”.) As it is, what these gadgets lack in personality, they make up for in Global Positioning.
I would also like to point out that if you decide not to listen to your GPS unit, it isn’t as though it forces you into an electronic game grid where you must play gladiator-style Jai-Alai to the death with Jeff Bridges. (That model isn’t set to enter stores until spring of 2009.) In fact, its inexhaustible, judgment-free robot patience is a big part of what makes my GPS so helpful to me. I appreciate its tireless efforts to recalculate my route when I am driving erratically in circles because I can’t figure out what it’s telling me to do. A human companion would have thrown his hands up long ago and stuffed me in the trunk, but GPS will never do that. Its only concern is getting me where I want to go, and it also doesn’t have hands. I am additionally grateful that my many driving mistakes and misadventures remain our little secret. It is one thing to get hopelessly lost with an out-of-town guest; you can’t turn those off and leave them in the car at the end of the trip. I highly doubt that my GPS complains about me to anyone else who drives my car. I would feel betrayed to learn that it was telling others, “Prepare to turn left in two miles. Molly ALWAYS manages to miss this one. Honestly, can she even dress herself?”
My dear GPS, I will follow you to the ends of the earth, as long as you can estimate how many minutes it will take me to get there. Your knowledge of local roads and awareness of where I am at all times thrills me to my befuddled core. You are the sunshine of my commute, the apple of my dashboard.
Perhaps I should provide a little more background to explain why I am singing the praises of this device. I am not technically disabled…except perhaps in the literal sense of the word. I have the navigational ability (and self-preservation instincts) of a drunk wind-up toy. You know those people who have a lousy sense of direction and get lost all the time? If you took all of those people, and combined them into one completely incompetent, perpetually lost person, and then put a bag over that person’s head, spun them around three times, screamed in their ear with a megaphone and then dropped them off in the middle of the desert—that would approximate my condition every time I open my front door. My sense of direction often seems more like a badly disguised death wish.
Upon learning that I was moving to a new state where driving was the only way to really get anywhere in less than two days, my friends and family were concerned. My lifespan in North Carolina, if left to my own devices to find my way around, was estimated at two weeks. Fortunately, my parents’ parting gift to me was a small, unassuming GPS unit. It was a wonderful gift. Thanks to GPS, I am drunk with navigational power, and high on estimated arrival times. It is the only reason I am here today, writing this piece. (That, and because it threatened to run over my dog in three-tenths of a mile if I didn’t; but I digress). I only wish the good people at GPS could make a model that told you which way was front. I would buy two.
I Heard Tell 