What’s better than two little Black boys taking it upon themselves to gleefully rough-house in your backyard on a warm fall afternoon while you read laughably elitist media (my currently open tabs? An article each in the New York Times, Harper’s, and The New Yorker. YES I AM ASHAMED.) on the back steps?
Within the past three days, both M. Night Shamalan and Michael Cera have both come to dine at my place of work, a happenstance I am choosing to take as a curiously fortuitous couplet which should clearly form the basis of a Hodgman-esque omen/portent prediction.
Every time I read an article by stale (but darling!) old-media technocrat John C. Dvorak, I think about the time several years ago when I was sure that I saw him in an Italian restaurant; I stared him down, silently considering the propriety of approaching someone who may have just been an mildy-doughy, middle-aged, bespectacled, white nobody for an autograph, and finally decided to leave him be as I realized that he looked incredibly frightened of the wide-eyed, less-doughy, young-aged, bespectacled, black nobody who wouldn’t look away.
TAGGED: geekery
It is tomato season and the farmer’s market is twice a week but a few blocks away and I know I have a five dollar coupon lurking around here somewhere and I am reminded of how Ramona liked to call them “tommy-toes” (and am totes nostalgic for Beverly Cleary) and there are are peppercorns just waiting to be cracked over thick slices of red and orange joy and I’m starting to salivate with anticipation just a little bit andZOMGNOMNOMNOMINSEASONTOMATOES!!!!1
TAGGED: nomnomnom
Serendipitously enough–well, serendipitous to me and me alone because over the past week (and owing the fact that I have only the most intermittant access to the internet these days) I have been re-watching various STELLA goodies and listening to Me Talk Pretty One Day on CD–Michael Ian Black is attempting a literary feud of sorts with David Sedaris, which means that my dreams tonight will be pleasantly replete with tandem bicycles and Intro French vocab.
TAGGED: glee • popculture • whiteboys
Gore Vidal is the sort of person whose interviews I read not because I enjoy or respect (or, erm, am familiar with) his work, but simply because I hope that some sort of internet-negotiated mental osmosis might bless me with his covetsome verbal acrobatics–I yearn for his ability to insult with a detached elegance; instead, my own sense of humor is increasingly shaped deformed by a Gawker Media-influenced sense of crude snark.1
TAGGED: whining
I think if I am ever personally confronted with the ostensible short-comings of my generation, I will widen my eyes in disbelief, furrow my brow in mock concern, lower my voice in full and somberly declare, “We survived 9/11.“
Realizing with glee that there’s a new Death Cab for Cutie album early on a Sunday morning makes me a little ashamed and a lot happy.
TAGGED: music • popculture • shame
Why is it that I am the only person I know1 who is truly charmed by the obnoxious hipsterish cook Spike on the current season of Top Chef (example: he does not hesistate to declare himself as from “Williamsburg” instead of the apparently staid and boring “New York”)–it disgusts me that I might find myself attracted to such an unremittant nincompoop; I never thought that I would be so weak as to find myself enamored with so cliche an affectation as perfectly-cocked hats or perfectly-pursed lips or a perfectly-clipped beard…I guess there’s no accounting for poor taste in mildly-hirsute scenster braggarts.2
P.S. There is such a thing as Jedi Chefs. My life calling? Found.
TAGGED: food • popculture • starwars • whiteboys
All of the visual media I have consumed over the past two weeks–the uninspiring movie version of Ghost World, almost the entirety of the inaugural season of 30Rock, and the first half of The Big Lebowski–have featured the singularly peculiar personage of Steve Buscemi, a strange and delightful series of coincidences that leaves my interest piqued for May-December romance with a snaggletoothed curmudgeon.
TAGGED: popculture