Beach Bound (& this time without human remains in tow)

Mollyblogger is less than 24 hours away from a lovely, lazy beach getaway with the fam. Last year's trip will be hard to beat (see "Blowin' up Mom" for all the details) but I'm still champing (I always thought it should be "chomping") at the bit to get going.

I plan to use the time to exfoliate my feet, let my siblings humiliate me on the Wii, read the new David Sedaris, worry the Democrats will somehow blow it in November (please no), and reflect on everything that was right about the recent Hulk movie (Bill Bixby shout-outs! Sad-walking-away-music from the TV show! William Hurt is never subtle!).

On my way home last night I saw on a carwarsh marquee that it's "National Detailing Month," hence all the sharing.

Happy 4th, all!

"So, this is Planet Houston."

For the two geeks--and I mean that in the nicest way possible--currently snickering at the blog title, I salute you. I think, though, that the three of us need to get some perspective.

Anyway: tonight the OBC (ol' ball and chain) and I went to see Get Smart. Not bad at all. Love Steve Carell, smell what The Rock is cooking, Anne Hathaway wore some fabulous clothes, quality cameos, etc. But what (or, I suppose, who) made the movie? Terence Stamp. Terence freaking Stamp plays the villain in Get Smart.

If you're unfamiliar with British actor Terence Stamp...well, first, I weep for you but next I direct you to think back to (or Netflix) Superman II and, the greatest villain to ever get trapped in a galactic hand mirror: General Zod. In Superman II, General Zod, his friendly giant and some ESP-happy chick who looked a little bit like Pat Benatar are Kryptonian criminals who Superman accidentally frees to run amok on Earth. Seriously. They toss people around, choke yokels, and chew scenery. Great stuff. And Terence Stamp (bless his clasically-trained, Oscar-nominated little heart) went the way of Alec Guinness in Star Wars and Donald Pleasence in Halloween. "I'm sure I can wear black rubbery tights and say 'Kneel before Zod' without Comic-Con bound devotees remembering me, only, for this little dalliance."

Not so fast, Terence.

Seriously, how do I explain my love for Terence Stamp and his hilarious awesomeness in Superman II? How do you quantify the geeked-out glee of Googling a man and getting results that begin with super-cool caveats like "With all due respect to Ian McKellan's Magneto?"

There are no words, only YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKDFop0aqYQ

The Fifth Dimension of Hell

So, my husband was paging through this trivia quiz book (the sort of gift people tend to give us a lot) and stumbled across a song title with which he was unfamiliar. So he decided to ferret out a clip of the song online.

THIS is why it pays to know your music trivia, people...so what happened to my beloved won't happen to you.

He clicked on the file and was treated to a synthesizer version of the Fifth Dimension's "Up, Up and Away." Why he didn't know better--didn't know this God-awful song--I'm not sure. But by the time I heard the first two notes from the adjoining room, I couldn't save him. I could name that tune in two notes, Bob, and that tune is "It's too late! Save yourselves!"

(If you're not familiar with the song, please take a moment check it out on YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXZDkkeSVBs or else you will be unable to grasp the horror of what happened next.)

So, he listened to the impossibly bad Muzak version of the impossibly bad song for 20 seconds, decided he had no clue what it was and clicked out. Or tried. He couldn't close the file. He couldn't pause the file He couldn't turn down the file. He couldn't CTRL + ALT + DELETE. He couldn't do anything but sit there and take it.

Listening to this festival of sound, I was reminded of watching this really disturbing sixth grade graduation video featuring two of my friends (who are still dear friends, one of whom is probably reading this and having a mega-flashback). As memory serves, the video was a loop of disembodied sixth grade heads floating up-screen, each head superimposed on a red balloon, while "Up, Up and Away" played again and again.

I was shaken from my flashback to realize that the song was STILL playing and that my husband was STILL calling for help. Eventually I proposed that he just power-off, damn the consequences. But I enjoyed the view--and the song--for awhile before I did it. The Fifth Dimension would have wanted it that way.

The five words you shouldn't be allowed to say on television

"Comedian George Carlin has died."

Seriously, universe...did I tick you off? Russert and Carlin in just over one week? I feel like I should call Bob Newhart and warn him.

R.I.P., George.

"Morning, Ralph"

Y'see, the nice thing about that blog title is that I could take it in a number of different directions. In fact, in retrospect, it sounds as if I'm planning an entry on morning sickness (which I do NOT have any reason to have, gun-jumpers). Another nice thing about this title is that, once you've read the blogs, only the one-time Looney Tunes viewers among us will giggle. Even as a relatively inexperienced blogger, I know that you're supposed to make obscure references that alienate 3 out of 4 readers.

The best thing about this entry is though is that, for reasons I cannot explain, I'm blogging in the dark--in my defense, 'twas dusky when I sat down to type--so my first attempt at the opening line came out, "U'see the mice things."

Now, down to the matter at hand. Driving home late-ish last night, I tuned in to the local ABC affiliate on my car radio [because I'm 80 years old, I guess, and can't stomach the rock 'n' roll on the other stations]. Before long, I found myself listening to Nightline (I miss you, Ted Koppel). I was only half-listening to the story when I heard a frustrated male voice say five magic words:

"Pollyanna view of wolf management."

How Nightline knew about the name I had pegged for my metal band, I'll never know.

Crazy Train

Last night I attended a community meeting about mass transit plans for the city. The part of me that's slavishly devoted to the wee blue donkey--not to mention the part of me that was scared witless courtesy of Al Gore--is pleased. The part of me that sleeps 30 feet from the historic train tracks where they want to put said mass transit wants to get the Hell out of Dodge. Convenient, since I can train-hop from my deck.

I was mostly there to listen. I was also there to be made wildly uncomfortable by all the tension in the room (not to mention the sartorial decisions made by several audience members...did that woman in the corner check herself in the mirror before going out and say, "I am victorious! I finally look like Eunice from Mama's Family!"). So, imagine my delight when I discovered that there was bonus fun to be had. I got to sit in front of Bartles and James, minus the charm.

When the planning commission started to speak, Bartles actually said, "Boo." He did not in fact boo, he did not even say "Boooooooooooooooo!" He just said "boo." Then, rather, that listen to anyone--even those on his side--he and James chattered on about the problems facing the country today. What I heard alarmed me. Ladies and gents, according to Persnickety Pete, this country is facing a threat we scarcely appreciate.

"You know who I blame? The Spanish."

Ay de mi.

I took a break from imagining how I'm going to set up my very own one-woman hobo town when they lay the tracks through my begonias to imagine the Spanish advancing on Indianapolis in pointy, shiny conquistador helmets. Cool.

Bartles and James were apparently thinking the same thing because they were painfully quiet for a long time. Until someone in the audience asked the planning commission-types, "Which would you rather have running through your backyard? A diesel train or a light rail?" When the suit answered with a chuckle that he'd prefer the one that works, Bartles could scarcely contain himself:

"Communist bastard."

I'd reflect on this further but the Spanish are coming, so I'd better not.

Darling, let me take you to the Casbah

So I'm trudging down-slope in my parking garage this morning, surveying my shoes and debating "elevator day or face-plant-in-the-stairwell day?" when I glance across the street at my office building and see romance blossoming before my eyes. I didn't see compromised conventioneers or junior executives locked in some icky, forbidden embrace. I saw a trash can and a recycling bin, side-by-side, pressed against a fourth floor window in an otherwise empty conference room.

It looked as if they were enjoying the last of the sunrise (which happened, oh, hours ago but trash bins don't have legs so I find it entirely believable that they would still be sitting there) before the day fell on a cold, unfeeling world. A world that does not understand their love.

"But we can never be together," whispered one to the other.

"Shhhhhhhhh...don't think about that now," chided her mate.


As the elevator banged opened--I am unconvinced that walking down the stairs is real exercise--it was hard to tell where the blue self-righteous rubber of the recycler stopped and the permissive, sticky confines of the trash bin began. So close, these two from different worlds, I sighed as I promptly got my heel stuck in the wee holes of the rubber mat they use to trap low-level professionals.

When I exited on the ground floor, I looked up to check on the refused refuse romantics and saw that the trash bin was gone. I hope he went out in a big way. Maybe he threw himself down an elevator shaft or faked his own death with the help of a friendly monk...but I doubt it. I guess some unfeeling office worker decided to pass judgment and separate the two lovebins. I guess it just wasn't meant to be. The world can be so cruel.

(Okay, seriously: I once had an employer tell me that, because I was so prone to weirdo mental images like those above, I should get a PhD. Someone should forward this blog so he understands that he should never, ever have validated me. Happy Tuesday.)

The Killer Isn't the Only Thing in this Movie that Blows

Sometimes you overhear or are told something so funny that you have to share it for that person, lest the originator be too modest or be trampled by wildebeests or something equally prohibitive.

Last night we went to see M. Night Shyamalan's latest movie, "The Happening." I'd go into why it was so painful (Did she just say, "What color is love?") and why it wasted so much talent (Betty Buckley, did you really need this paycheck? John Leguizamo, when you heard that Marky Mark signed on were you so blinded by his Oscar nomination that you didn't read past the first three pages of the script?), but I'm afraid I'd ruin the movie for you. Oh wait: M. Night did that for me. How considerate.

But my fury at being suckered into trusting M. Night again is not why, after almost a year, I've restarted my self-indulgent little blog. I'm here to share what might be the most brilliant reaction to having just sat through 90-minutes of George Lucas-worthy awkward speech. As we were walking up the aisle, giggling over the movie's final moments, the guy behind his turned to his date and said, "I wish I had the Sixth Sense to not see his movies."

Maybe this is a recycled comment, maybe it's not. Either way: y'hear that, M. Night. Now THAT'S how you time dialogue.

PS: Before you think I'm too pretentious, know that I liked "The Village." A lot. So there.