Not being much of a singer, I can only imagine harmonizing with oneself to be difficult, since the voice we hear coming from our own mouths is never quite what we hear in playback. At least not in my experience.
Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah (my favourite song) as performed by Miss Courtney Woolsey, Miss Courtney Woolsey, and Miss Courtney Woolsey, with guitar accompaniment by Raquel.
"Cancel whatever you're doing tonight and go see Slumdog Millionaire instead."
- The Boston Globe
I love movies. I love the whole experience. The popcorn. The licorice whips. The giant vats of cola I can't drink without having to exit the theatre halfway through a production for a pee break. I love it all. And as we often are in love, I am usually disappointed.
I am jumping on the bandwagon late in the game, I realise, but I live in a small town that refuses to show anything other than lowbrow TeenDanceAction movies. I had to drive 100 km to get a theatre playing anything not starring someone who has appeared on Page Six in the last week. And Slumdog Millionaire did not disappoint. It was entertaining. It was thrilling. It had a little bit of everything: romance, drama, humour, tragedy, rousing Bollywood dance number.
Two important things happened while I was disconnected and wireless during our move back home: comedian George Carlin passed away at the age of 71, and Canadian religious conservatives are up in arms because Dr. Henry Morgantaler has been inducted into the Order of Canada.
I think the following is a fitting tribute to both men. Viewer discretion is advised.
This morning, as I was eating my breakfast, a commercial came on TV that advertised a service wherein one could text the word "Yo" to the number on the screen to receive trash-talking tips one could use on one's friends. You know, like "Yo mamma so fat, when she sits around the house, she really sits around the house". Definitely worth the 75 cents per message that your mom and dad will be charged on their next cell phone bill, right?
I have never officially ascribed to the theory of devolution; that is, that the human species has reached its pinnacle and is in a complete state of decline. However, I can see its appeal, and I do occasionally look for evidence of it around me. The aforementioned commercial is a fine example. In viewing such evidence, I have, over the years, come up with a theory as to why devolution might occur. Basically, it's because stupid people tend to breed a lot. Think about it. How many of the dregs from your highschool dropped out before graduation to spawn? How many of those people are still racking up the welfare cheques and Maury Povich "Joe is....NOT the father" moments? And how many intelligent, successful couples do you know who have waited and waited to have a child, only to find that particular window of opportunity had been slammed shut when the time was finally "right"?
Well, it would seem that I was not the only person to look around the world and think that something was seriously f*cked up. Mike Judge, creator of Office Space and Beavis and Butthead, seems to have agreed with me. Either great minds think alike, or our gene pool really has gotten so shallow that original thought it no longer possible. At any rate, his new movie Idiocracy nicely sums up exactly what I have been thinking for a long, long time. Basically, that our culture and society is going down the toilet because the lowest common demoninator is circling the drain.
As far as movies go, I hardly think Idiocracy would ever have been an Oscar contender. It's hardly as biting a critique as Office Space was. And sadly, it is one of those cases in which the people who could really benefit from seeing this movie never will do so. But it should probably be required viewing during high school dropout exit interviews, if such things even exist.
The radio last night was uncanny in its song selection as I drove back from Ottawa in a torrential downpour. There was actually a tornado warning in effect, which I didn't hear about until I was halfway between Cobden and Renfrew (and My FM was playing Spirit of the West's "Venice is Sinking"). The rain was so hard and visibility was so bad, it took me two and a half hours to drive 150 km. I pulled over twice, once to the Eurythmics "Here Comes the Rain Again", and once to Sting's "Desert Rose" (the one where he dreams of rain). I don't know if the DJs were doing it on purpose, but it was pretty a propos.
The Tomkitten has graced us with her presence, and already the poor little best hope for scientology's future is the butt of numerous jokes, the subject of countless spoofs and parodies.
I don't really care all that much about the pink, wriggly, placenta-covered evidence of Tom Cruise's ability to procreate, but I have to say, the name intrigued me.
Suri. Which is apparently Hebrew for Princess. Uh huh. Funny, I thought Sarah, Sara, Sarai, Sari, Sarit, Sydelle, and Sarita were Hebrew for princess.
Maybe Tom's dyslexia has gotten the better of him?
biblicalbabynames.com finds no Suri among its entries, but offers tzuriel, zuriel, and zuriela as alternatives (none of which means princess).
myhebrewname.com turns up very different results when transliterated into the alefbet.
In fact, none of the dozens of baby name sites that I searched listed Suri as a Hebrew name.
So TomKat, just be honest. You did what all celebrity couples do when faced with the daunting task of giving your spawn a handle that will set them apart from us mere mortals. You panicked, made something up, and then had your agents provide a convincing backstory to Entertainment Tonight.
You can go back to organizing your playdates with Apple and Banjo now.
Why didn't we hit her "one more time" when we had the chance?
Snapshots of Britney Spears driving around town one-handed while she holds young Sean Preston in her lap are circulating on the internet. At saedigh.com, we believe in freedom of speech. So, here for your viewing enjoyment, the young pop princess proves that not just anyone should be allowed to propogate the species:
Of course, Britney's copping a damsel in distress defense. She felt that the swarms of paparazzi around her were putting her and her spawn's lives in danger and she just didn't have time to strap up the ol' car seat. Because if we've learned anything from Hollywood, it's that when your life is threatened by camera-wielding bottom feeders, your best course of action is always to drive off at full speed in as reckless a manner as you possibly can, putting your family in far worse danger than if you'd just stopped and smiled pretty for the cameras.
Britney, you should've stuck to wallet-sized dogs. I think that was really the most responsibility you should try handling.
That's the tagline for Alias, the trendy Jennifer Garner vehicle that I have yet to watch. Apparently, ABC left the tail end of that tagline on the cutting room floor. It should read "I can be anyone I want to be, except for a decent actress."
I subjected myself to watching 45 minutes of 13 going on 30 last night. Strange things happen when you're trying to take your mind off things. I was looking for some upbeat escapism. Unable to finish the movie, I turned to some Ben and Jerry's Super Fudge Chunk ice cream instead.
I realise that she was supposed to be playing a 13 year old trapped in a 30 year old's body, but instead of coming off as charmingly awkward in that gawky pre-teen way, Garner managed to make herself look like an anorexic chimpanzee trying to escape from a straight jacket. She is almost entirely incapable of any facial expression other than pouty constipation. I believe that she was using this, in conjuction with a mechnical Paris Hiltonesque head tilt, to convey "confusion", but I couldn't be quite sure. Much more convincing was Mark Ruffalo's almost-constant look of bewildered disgust. I know that's how I was feeling.
Was anyone with an above-average IQ entertained by this movie? I guess I was hoping for the same sort of endearing, wide-eyed naivete that I remember from Tom Hanks in Big. Though early Tom Hanks is rarely described this way, his performance was a lot more... subtle. And despite what high school drama queens everywhere might think, subtle is usually the way to go with such an over the top plot. You've asked enough from your audience by expecting them to buy into magic fairy dust. Don't put them through 45 minutes of someone coming to grips with underwire discomfort.
As my coworker CP is constantly reminding me, it's "Hump Day". I prefer to call it "Onion Day" though, and look forward to my weekly dose of deviance and self-affirming condescension in Savage Love every Wednesday. As weird as I, my friends, and my family may think I am, I've got nothing on "the furries".
Yesterday's game was a good one. The Scooby Snacks and their opponents, Mickey Flicky, traded points until the half, when the Scoobies pulled away for a 7 point lead and sweet, sweet victory.
For the astronomy geeks out there (hell, who am I kidding, for all the geeks out there), tonight's full lunar eclipse promises to be a good one. Clear skies over Ottawa mean that it will be visible starting at 9 pm (2100 for you military types.... you know who you are), and the total shadow of the moon should last 1 h 22 min. I won't be out there that long, but I will watch as the moon slowly turns from silver, to orange, to deep red.
Jane seems to be okay with my not doing the Cookie Run. We will still run a 5 k, just not on Nov. 6th. Some of us have much better things to do on Nov. 6th.
Having had to take the bus through Vanier more times than I care to count, I am quite familiar with the Modern Urban Zombie (usually found in the company of the Modern Urban Mouthbreeder; they have similar markings and manners). The glazed-over gaze, the drooling, the incomprehensible mumblings and grumblings, the polyester... It's no wonder then that for the first 30 minutes of the movie Our Hero (Shaun) is completely oblivious to the fact that zombies are taking over London. They're virtually indistinguishable from the people he encounters daily, minus that horrible brain-eating habit they seem to have picked up.
But that's the whole point of Shaun of the Dead. Though not really falling into the social commentary genre, the film does succeed at its deadpan mocking of the zombification of the urban dweller's life style. Trips to the pub, trips to the corner shop, working minimum wage at a retail outlet... lather, rinse, repeat. Unfortunately, the subtleties of the film's dry, British humour may be lost on some members of the North American audience — there were quite a few instances in which the only laughter in the theatre was coming from me and my companion. But these are likely the same people who were overly confused by Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. My only complaint about the film were the rather schlocky attempts at sentiment towards the end. Without giving away too much, the dying utterances of one of the secondary players contains more treacle than the Hatter's tea.
Definitely a must-see for those of you who appreciate a tongue-in-cheek look at the horror genre, with 100% less Neve Campbell.