On Golden Globes

Yeah...I'm talkin' about you, Rita

It's January which means only one thing...tis the awards season. It starts with the People's Choice and motors on until the Mother of all awards shows... the Oscars (which seems to be scheduled earlier and earlier every year). And although all the glitz and glamour surrounding the Oscars is a great treat for me personally...I have to admit the Golden Globes is my favorite.

Seriously. If I was ever able to be a seat filler, the double Gs would be my choice, hands down. I love, love, love how they're so loosey-goosey. I mean, come on...they have a bar. Not just a bar--an OPEN bar, which is tapped quite often by the attending honorees. As the amount of alcohol consumption increases, so does the entertainment factor. By the time the last of the statuettes is dolled out, the accepting tongues are quite free-wheeling.

I love how the redneck cousin Television contingent gets to mix it up with the Hollywood elite. It's such a great party atmosphere. They all sit at round tables stocked with a generous bucket of champagne and are free to roam about chatting up their peers and idols. Plus there is no straight line to the stage. Each winner is forced to weave around table after table where they are met with high-fives, broad smiles--even some celebratory whoops. The decibel level is so loud and chatty returning from the breaks, they practically needed a bullhorn to settle the troops down for the presenters to be heard. Who wouldn't want to attend? Everyone has such a great time. It's a Hep-Cat Hootenanny awash in tuxes and ta-tas!

Speaking of "ta-tas", this year the path to the stage wound past the cheering section of Tom and Rita Hanks. I don't know if that was indeed the quickest way to retrieve their candy-coated prize or the dudes just wanted to get a closer look at Rita's spectacularly displayed globes.

Yowza! Seriously. The girls were promenading proudly. I mean, she walked into the room, and then... she walked into the room. If you know what I mean. Not bad for an old broad. Mrs. Hanks wasn't the only one either. Salma took her Hayeks out for a lovely spin as well.

As my hubby would say, "I'm sorry. Were you speaking?"

Other highlights (yes, there were other, non-physical highlights)...

Tracey Jordan delivering the acceptance speech for 30 Rock.

You know, he sounds drunk to me even when he's sober, but tipsy he's extra slurry. He delivered this non sequitur "Welcome to postracial America--I am the face of postracial America. Deal with it, Cate Blanchett!" (wha???) Then he proceeded to thank random posse members, DJ Dave, Crotch Rot Carl, Pencil Dick Pete...who the hell knows. Honestly I couldn't understand him, but his ramble was funnier than anything else I'd heard him do before. Finally, Alec Baldwin (being all Alec Baldwinie in his cool, Alec Balwin whisper) leaned in to remind him to at least thank the producer.

Tina Fey was her usual brilliant wit, claiming to own all of the Foreign Press action figures and calling out all the bloggers who slammed her during the year by telling them all (in particular "Dianefan") to "suck it".

But by far the biggest surprise was Mickey Rourke's fairly amusing acceptance speech which was sprinkled with more than one reference to someone's balls, and ending with his producer jokingly flipping him the bird. I guess it's safe to say NBC wasn't broadcasting in delay. Naughty Naughty, NBC. 

Plus, the top movie honors went to Woody Allen's Vicki Cristina Barcelona and an relatively unknown Indian entry Slumdog Millionnaire. You never see that at the Oscars.

All that and they finished on time. Yep. The double Gs are definitely worth the price of admission.

The Curious Case of The Crowded Cinema  

or baby blogger's first movie review... 

When Geo was a freelancer in the 90s we went to a lot of movies. A LOT of movies. At least one or two a week. It was great. We'd go in the afternoon, armed with the requisite ten gallon vat of popcorn and 55 gallon drum of liquid, and settle in for an afternoon of darkened theater escapism. Most of the time we'd end up being two of maybe 10-12 people in the theater. We saw everything...independent movies, foreign films, mainstream. Whatever. 

Nowadays we're lucky to see a handful per year. You see Geo has a lot of rules for movie going now. He hates, hates, HATES when people talk during the movie and he's not too fond of crowds these days. Ergo, we don't go in the evenings, weekends or holidays. Being that he works until 6pm, that leaves zero situations for us to visit ye olde cinema. Although he usually takes off a day or two for either my birthday or our anniversary so we can spend the entire day in the dark slowly swelling up from eating waaaay too much popcorn. 

That said, I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button last Saturday night with my sister and her husband. Not Geo, you know, because of the whole "rules" thang. 

By the time we got there for the 2:45 showing, the previews had started. We bounded up the ramp, turned the bend at the top and found the ENTIRE THEATER PACKED!?! What the Eff? I realize I haven't been to a theater on a Saturday afternoon in a while, but... come on! There were only singles sparsely scattered throughout. Three of us...single seats, no thank you. Then I noticed a half wall in the back which corralled a smaller section of comfy leather lounge chairs. 

What kinda fascist caste system is this?  

Considering the lack of ample seating below, but lots of empty, comfy seats above I figured, what the hell. Let's use them. So my sister and I plopped down in the first row. Our butts hadn't even had a chance to warm the cold leather yet when the Comfy Chair Nazi swooped down upon us demanding to see our VIP ticket stub, ID, proof of our lineage and a blood sample. Okay, so I'm exaggerating. They didn't want our ID. 

Testing the philosophy that it is easier to get forgiveness than permission, I said we didn't have the aforementioned bourgeois VIP tickets. I mean, come on. There were loads of empty seats here in the lofty lounge. Surely he would take pity on us and give us a pass considering the lack of seating below deck. 

Alas, the power-hungry, prickly-faced, pubescent cast us out of Eden into the bowels of the cinematic underworld. Did I mention he was "prick"-ly-faced? I think I did. Our only remaining choices for seating were the first two neck-snapping rows. 

Resigned to our fate, we plopped down.. scrunched down.. hunched down as best we could for the slimmest..I mean, greatest optimum viewing. The last time I sat this close to the screen, I was a very young and nimble lass whose neck sprang back to its original shape in seconds. Now...not so much.

We were so close, I swore I was going to get sucked up into Cate Blanchett's flaring nostrils never to be heard from again. As it turns out, the movie was engrossing enough for me to forget my physical discomfort. That is until the credits rolled and I had difficulty releasing my neck from its upright and locked position. After what seemed an eternity and a thousand LOUD crunches later, fluidity returned to my vertebrae enabling me to look forward once again. 

Did I mention the Teutonic teen was PRICK-ly faced? 

Wait...this was supposed to be a movie review, wasn't it. 

The film I highly recommend.  Besides being a terrific story, the energetic, youthfully restored Brad Pitt is worth the price of admission. Seriously. But for the love of your movable parts, get to the theater early. 

Them teenagers are mean.

To Slur, With Love (borrowed from VSL...sorry) 

or why Jeff Goldblum in slow mo rocks  

Okay, so I've mentioned in a prior posting about this daily online newsletter my Geo subscribes to called Very Short List. Its goal is to share what's hip and happening on the internet. 

Anyway, this week contained another gem...the eight best "Drunk Jeff Goldblum" videos. A YouTuber (is that a noun now? sounds like a veggie.. "i'll have the roasted duck with a side of mashed YouTuber, Ceasar salad and the Pinot Noir." "Excellent choice, Sir") took all the old--like ten years ago old--iMac commercials starring Senior Goldblum and  slowed them down for hilarious effect. They Are Brilliant!! 

Here's a sample:

You can watch all eight on this site here. Trust me, it's worth it.

I had the pleasure of meeting ole Jeffrey a couple of years back when he was shooting his "documentary" Pittsburgh. He is delightfully... wacky. I don't know how else to describe him. He tends to stare a bit when you speak to him and his cadence is a little unsettling and... off. He's definitely peculiar, but in a charming way. In any case, the movie is a decent rental. 

But, seriously, these videos ROCK!! 

Be forewarned--make sure you don't have a mouth full of soda when viewing, cause that puppy will be spewing from your nose. As Ralphie from The Simpsons says, "it tastes like burning". Enjoy!

Breaking News! Storm of the Year Update

or In-AccuWeather strikes again...

And the grand total of snowfall for the storm of the year is....

a whopping.... INCH!? Psyche!!

Oh AccuWeather. Will you ever stop toying with us? Why you alwayz gotz to play to our fearz n'at?

Kind of reminds me of that old joke...

"Why is sex like snow? You never know how many inches you're going to get or how long it will last."

Clearly this team of experts is clueless. Thank God I'm not bumping uglies with any of these guys. Seriously. All talk, no action. Oh well...winter just started. They're bound to get one right sooner or later. Right? Feh. Don't bet on it.

It's Snowing!?! Run for Your Lives!!?!? 

or how local television yahoos try to scare the bejesus out of the public 

Okay, so here at the big K we use a weather service called Accu Weather whose accuracy is, shall we say...suspect. Seriously. This "weather expert" is wrong almost as often as it is correct. Hence we have dubbed it "In-Accu Weather". A fair moniker considering its track record. Although some would argue the inaccuracies are a result of the fact our little hamlet is snuggled between elevated topography which makes the actual weather event outcome unpredictable. yadda yadda yadda  Yeah, right. Pussies. 

Anyway, we live in the North East. The North East in the winter gets...wait for it... winter weather! You know like snow, ice, hail whatever. Go figure. So when the forecast calls for, oh say...3-6 inches of snowfall, there's no need to panic. 

Au contraire, mon frere! 

We loves to cause a panic! A mere dusting to two inches is enough to spur the public to rush to the nearest grocery store and stock up on toilet paper and milk, because...you know one might actually be trapped in the house, shut off from society for a grueling hour or two. Three to six inches (of snow--get your mind out of the gutter) and your staring down the face Armageddon! Run for your lives!! Break out that Y2K generator and the survivalist supplies. Load up the gun and position yourself by the door to fight off the inevitable anarchy and lawlessness. It's Accu-Scare!!

Now that's not to say we haven't had some major storms blow through our (deri)area. We've had actual blizzards. The real ones where we've all had to dig out from under two feet of snow and roads were actually closed for a day or two. All of us trapped at work for the weekend because our relief couldn't make it in to the station. But most of the time the "big weather event" doesn't come to pass. It's just hype to get ratings, and we look like schmucks for breaking into programming to report the storm that isn't. Reminiscent of the boy who cried wolf.

All that said, In-Accu Weather is calling for a relatively large amount of accumulation between now and tomorrow evening. It's been snowing that fine, quiet powder that suddenly is three inches thick for that last two hours...with no sign of stopping.  

Hmmmmm...  Could it be? Could they actually be...right this time? Are we headed for an honest-to-goodness, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die winter storm? We'll see tomorrow. Hey, even a broken watch is right twice a day. 

Friday Photo #9 

chair Jenga 

So where I work, the Mother Ship is so cheap she rarely ever forks over the dough-re-mi to buy us new chairs. Ergo, we are left to pilfer, er.. "liberate" chairs from other areas of the building.  On certain occasions, we've picked over the office equipment bones of defunct sister companies like hungry hyenas. We're not proud. Just need a place to sit our ever-expanding carcasses, is all. Don't be judgin' us. 

This particular type of chair is always blowing a tire, pitching the unsuspecting occupant hither and yon in the most ungraceful fashion. Okay... it is kind of amusing to watch. In true cynical newsroom fashion, someone put forth a naming challenge. The winning entry says it all. 

Attack Of The Fecal Spores 

or don't be dropping deuce in my neighborhood  

Okay, so at work we have two sets each of women's and men's rooms in our newsroom. The first two are for general po(o)pulace use. The other two (besides housing a toilet and a shower...yes, a shower. who takes a shower at work?) each contain a ginormous mirror surrounded by big ole lights so the talent can put their faces on. And trust me...some of them NEED to put their faces on. One in particular is so downright frightening without make up, she could scare dingos away. Seriously. If Zombies saw her in the morning, sans face goop they would scream and run for their very lives as if they were being chased by...well Zombies!! 

But I digress...

Anyhoo, this one blonde, chippie talent who hosts our little dog and pony morning entertainment show, without fail, drops a big, stinky deuce in our general bathroom. And then scurries off to her "talent" bathroom to fix her face, leaving us to fend off her fecal spore invasion. 

That. Ain't. Right. 

You know those spores adhere to the fibers of your sweater and then you end up smelling like whatever road kill she ate the night before. Seriously, what the hell is this chick eating?!? She's as thin as a toothpick, but she must be masticating on some major malignant meats to produce such a stench. Yiicccch! 

Honey, do us all a favor and drop those friends off at your home lake before you come to work. At least do a mercy flush half way through pinching a loaf to cut down on the seismic stank.

A little courtesy, Chip. That's all I'm saying.