A Funny Story that I Should Probably Write but Won't Get Around To:

Phil Collins Attends the 6th Annual 'Phil Collins Day'  in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, Disguised as a Man Who is Not Phil Collins

 

Nobody does it like I do it

Here's how I wanted to start this entry: "I talk to myself more than anybody I know."

This statement is true - in a way. I really do talk to myself A LOT. In fact, I would say I am keeping a conversation running in my head at least 87% of the time that I am awake. [PS: I almost put "alive" there instead of "awake". DO NOT PANIC. It was just a mistype; I am NOT a vampire. I am always alive...at least 87% of the time.]

It's not all color commentary, either. If you looked into my mind, rarely would you see: "And here comes the orange juice into the glass! Glug glug glug! That will be delicious!" Nor is it some sort of long-running inspirational speech to myself. I do not kid myself into thinking that I am my own personal Coach Taylor.



OMG EVERYONE WATCH THIS SHOW RIGHT NOW!

Ahem...

OMG My Mom

My mom reads my blog (that's why it's always so squeaky-clean and full of happiness and flowers). Whenever you see comments that are from "anonymous," and that end in "love you! - mom," those are from her.

I'd like to give my mom a shout-out today for not only reading and commenting on my blog, but for greatly enhancing its content. She is the astute commenter, dear readers, who pointed out that the picture I shared with you in my last post was (maybe) of Ringo Starr's violinist. This put my mind at ease for a number of reasons, mainly 1) It explained why the first three pages of Google Image search for "sexy violinist" were populated with this woman's picture (she's quasi-Beatles-related! Of course she comes first!) 2) Let's just say I have some theories about Ringo Starr, international espionage and Julia Child, which are confirmed by the presence of hot Asian violinist.

Not only has my mom (maybe) solved the mystery of the Asian violinist, but she has solved the Greatest Mystery OF ALL TIME: Who was that flamboyant fiddler of fiery (f)passions that I saw on the TeeVee?

Yes. My mom watched, and waited, and finally, one fateful (f)Tuesday evening, she saw the commercial for herself. Then, like a good mom, she texted me while I was in class:

From: Mom
Violinist is david garret! I just saw the commercial.

Me: hahahahaha

I took my mom's word for it, and did not try to actually look him up, to match glorious face to name, until this second.

He is real!




He is also German and sort of goofy and endearing (I watched A LOT of YouTube videos to get one that captured the essence of that first commercial. The things I do for you people!), so I feel a little bad about mocking his "Sexy Violins!" schtick. But not too bad. If his handlers really wanted to impress me, they would play up the "stuttering man-boy" part of his persona - that's way more impressive for a VIOLIN VIRTUOSO (TM) to be borne of.

Because LeBron needs one more person to write about him

I don't know anything about basketball. Nor do I care anything about Cleveland, but still, something  - perhaps the collective rage-gasm that is shaking all of non-Miami America, rattling their bones and forcing them to extreme quotation marks usage? - makes me want to understand this whole LeBron James thingamajig (and by that, I mean, garble out a ridiculous metaphor that I thought up in the shower).

So it's like this: LeBron might be good at basketball or whatever, but I don't think people are really all that mad about that. Other people are good at basketball too -- but those other people are not from Cleveland.

It's like if the Empire State Building suddenly said, "You know, New York has been great and all, but I think I can be on more postcards if I move to St. Louis, with the Arch. Archie and I have known each other for a while, and I think, together, we can get into more tourist photos and movie backgrounds than I can by myself here in the Big Apple."

New Yorkers would be all, "Hellllll no!" And not because the Empire State Building is the freakin' awesomest building around  (we don't even have a giant gorilla hanging off the top, as so often happened in the good old days), but just because it's OURS.  We built it, it got famous here; we even trained it to light up in appropriate colors for different city events. What did St. Louis ever do?

And where do they get off luring it away when they already have the Arch? Is old Empy going to light up in Cardinals colors now? CARDINALS? UGH.

St. Louis will get theirs in the end, though. In a Team Edward/Team Jacob-style schism, the city will be rent asunder by the dueling preferences of its fans:
"Put the ESB on its OWN postcard!"
"Put the Arch on top of the ESB!"
"No, put the ESB under the Arch!"
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Whatever! We're angry, midwestern townsfolk!"

Bitterness will develop between Empy and Archie, as each wonders who is truly better loved by his home city.  ESB will consider returning home - only to discover that a new, combination PinkBerry/statue of Jay-Z and Mike Bloomberg shaking hands has been built in its old space. ESB will become despondent, sinking a good 10 or 20 stories into the damp mud of the Mississippi River. St. Louis will be blamed for the demise of a once-promising young building. New York will sell a whole mess of PinkBerry in commemorative Jay-Z cups. The world will turn black for three days and three nights, and then everyone will forget this ever happened.

Matches made in Heaven, vol. 1

Keith Olbermann (seriously? two n's?) and Seth Rogen.

Huh? What?

Yes. Listen to their deep, throaty, crazyperson growls. I am convinced they were created in the Jim Henson Creature Shop(pe) and then, to the great dismay of the puppeteers, managed to escape. The Olbermann character, originally intended for Sesame Street, was eventually replaced by Sam Eagle (see graphic a., below). Rogen was never truly replaced, but was fondly remembered during the creation of Snookums the giant monster creature.

These two need to do voice work on a father-son/buddy cop animated feature, stat. Entertainment demands it.

Figure a.:






RIGHT?!?!?

The one person you do not want as your opponent in a deadly manhunt

I've thought about this a lot over the years. Some celebrities you really believe you could take on, were you forced to play The Deadliest Game: Larry King, Bob Dylan, most comedians, the Pope, etc. I think I even stand a fighting chance against a few professional athletes, like gymnasts (they're tiny!) and golfers. 

Venus Williams, though, is not a person with whom I would willingly engage in hand-to-hand combat to the death. And neither would you, for the following reasons:

1) She is enormous. The woman is 6'1". If I stood on my dad's shoulders, we might make it to that altitude, but then Venus might be entitled to have Serena on her shoulders to make it fair, and we would still certainly die.

2) She is stunningly fast. Her legs are approximately 6 feet long (see "enormous," above). Her hunting me down would be like a greyhound chasing a corgi. 

3) She has stamina. I might try to run from her, and she might even give me a head start, but I would get tired within a mile. Venus Williams could hunt you day and night without rest. She would run alongside your getaway train, if you managed to snag one, until it stopped the next town over, and then she would get you.

4) She makes terrifying noises. It's one thing to be running through the woods with a giant, muscle-bound, physically superior opponent on your tail. It's another when said opponent is making noises you've only ever heard on Jurassic Fight Club before. As Gerard put it, being on the other side of the net (or ahead of her in the final run of your life), must feel like being a fish and hearing the shriek of an Osprey overhead. It is the sound of something better than you come to put you out of your misery.

Club Famous

I saw Paul Giamatti on my morning commute the other day. Or maybe it was just some guy who had the misfortune of looking just like Mr. G (only without that very handsome sheen of fame and the flattering glow of cash money lighting up his face), but that's not nearly as exciting, so I'm sticking with the famous-guy story.

New Yorkers want everyone to think that they run into celebrities so often that it's more of a nuisance than an event: "Of course!" they heartily guffaw at all you silly, midwestern rubes. "They all live here! They're practically swarming the streets! Gosh, sometimes I wish all these kooky celebrities would just go somewhere else and leave me alone, you know?"

These aggressive exclamations are nothing but bald-faced lies. Seeing famous people is still really freaking exciting, no matter where you live. Being a cool New Yorker just means you're very much aware (and afraid) that you'll look like a tool if you talk to them. New Yorkers, in my observations, often skip the chance to touch the famous in favor of quietly judging them as they pass by.

That doesn't mean it's not totally rad to see someone recognizable.

I live in Park Slope, a neighborhood with a celebrity-to-boring-person ratio of approximately 1.37:2.5 (babies, who are only kinda people but a large segment of the population here, make for some weird numbers). Sure, some of these so-called "famous" are not entirely recognizable -- a lot of writers, for instance -- but, according to all the reports, they are here.

HOWEVER, in nearly a year spent wandering our lovely, stroller-filled streets, I have managed only once to see anyone of note in the area. Granted, that one glorious vision of stardom was John Hodgman, and, when you love NPR as much as I do, a Hodgman sighting is rather like the average person catching a glimpse of, I don't know, John Stamos (sorry, he [as Uncle Jesse, no less] was just the first person to pop into my head -- but do you see what I was going for?). It was kind of amazing.

The reason why movie star/model/really rich person-spotting still manages to send our little hearts a pitter-pattering -- even in the big fancy city (or the big...Brooklyn-y...Brooklyn) -- is that famous people may be our neighbors, but they are certainly not "just like us" -- no matter what those lying minxes over at US Weekly are trying to tell you .

The most stunning difference between the famous and people who are just like us is not the swimming pools full of money or the all-night orgies or the secret stables full of flying unicorns. No, no. It's that they manage to have exciting, decadent, must-watch lives while never leaving their houses.
It's true.

Aside from The Hodg (and wouldn't it be awesomely douchebaggy if he actually called himself that?), I have never seen even the shadow of fame peeking from one of the Slope's brownstone fortresses. I imagine that this is because the "talent" sticks together, going to other famous houses for famous people dinners, playing famous softball in the Prospect Park Famous-Only Softball League, building famous forts with large "NO NON-FAMOUS ALLOWED" signs nailed to the outside.

I mean, really, where ARE these people? What do I have to do to score some face-time with Paul Auster? Sure, Buscemi (of the Steve variety. He's supposed to live a few blocks down from me) may have a great pitching arm, but, really, can we not share the famous? Maybe I want him on my softball team for once. Dammit, Auster, let Buscemi do his own thing!

Confession: I don't really have a conclusion for this post. I mostly just wanted to say, "Hey, famous people, why don't you show yourselves to your resident pretty pretty princess?" I can keep a secret, and I'm really fun at underground hot tub/unicorn/gold outfits parties.

SO, famous people -- those of you with faces that I may have seen on the gossip blogs or on your books -- come to me. Because you're not really famous until I mistakenly identify a random, ugly dude on my morning train as your golden, blessed famous self.