Monday, May 09, 2005
Jungle Red!
We watched George Cukor's The Women on Friday night. I got tanked but good, and that probably helped out with the enjoyment. It's such a long film, and could easily do without the fashion show segment, even though that was pretty cool. Joan Crawford is a frightening man-creature, Rosalind Russell was pretty but about as over-the-top as an Eggland's Best ad, and Norma Shearer was very convincing as the actress who only got work because she was schtupping Irving Thalberg. It's definitely nutty and screwy and actually sort of charming in that completely escapist, "let's all deny the real world", 1930's Hollywood sort of way. While those ladies were getting spa treatments and buying expensive dresses and perfumes, my grandfather was busy trying to grow dirt in some backwoods corner of North Cackalackie. But I guess things weren't quite so depressing for rich, white, society dames from NYC. Also, I don't know tits about feminism, but I'm sure this flick don't gibe with that a'tall. Still, some entertainment, and that Paulette Goddard certainly was a fox.
The next day the missus baked some bread, and it was good. Later we watched a few episodes of Monk, an alright show that would be awful if it weren't for Tony Shalhoub. Antonio's one hell of an actor, and I can't figure out why we don't see more of him on the big screen. Watching Monk reinforced something I've felt for a while now, that television shows that are self-contained and non-serial are kind of a waste of time. It's hard to get emotionally or intellectually invested in a show that hits the reset button every thirty or sixty minutes*. But after Monk, and after a couple of deliriously drunken phone conversations with Coke Breath and LD, we watched a pretty decent episode of Saturday Night Live. I had been drinking vodka since before the Derby, and was completely beyond any concept of comprehension by then, so if I'm wrong, and if the show did suck, well, sorry. But the return of Fred Armisen's deaf stand-up who tries to tell racist jokes through a black interpreter was welcome, indeed, and the Bear City was reliably excellent. After the show I stayed up 'til four playing MVP Baseball 2005 and listening to records; I played this weekend's entire Atlanta - Houston four-game series in one sitting, going 3-1.
I slept off my hangover the next day. Again, we didn't do shit. We talked to our moms, ate some lunch, and then returned to the house for some television. It was cold and rainy all weekend, so it's not like there was much else we could do. We caught a few episodes of Harvey Birdman (still the weakest of the Williams St shows), the first two from season one of Northern Exposure (I haven't seen this since high school - a damn good show), and then Meet the Fockers, which wasn't as awful as I was expecting. Not too good, or nothing, but not the absolute shit-heap I anticipated. We also watched the two new Simpsons, only one of which was worthwhile. And that was our weekend. Oh so unbelievably exciting. What a hell of a way to live one's life.
*: as usual with television, The Simpsons is the exception that proves the rule.
We watched George Cukor's The Women on Friday night. I got tanked but good, and that probably helped out with the enjoyment. It's such a long film, and could easily do without the fashion show segment, even though that was pretty cool. Joan Crawford is a frightening man-creature, Rosalind Russell was pretty but about as over-the-top as an Eggland's Best ad, and Norma Shearer was very convincing as the actress who only got work because she was schtupping Irving Thalberg. It's definitely nutty and screwy and actually sort of charming in that completely escapist, "let's all deny the real world", 1930's Hollywood sort of way. While those ladies were getting spa treatments and buying expensive dresses and perfumes, my grandfather was busy trying to grow dirt in some backwoods corner of North Cackalackie. But I guess things weren't quite so depressing for rich, white, society dames from NYC. Also, I don't know tits about feminism, but I'm sure this flick don't gibe with that a'tall. Still, some entertainment, and that Paulette Goddard certainly was a fox.
The next day the missus baked some bread, and it was good. Later we watched a few episodes of Monk, an alright show that would be awful if it weren't for Tony Shalhoub. Antonio's one hell of an actor, and I can't figure out why we don't see more of him on the big screen. Watching Monk reinforced something I've felt for a while now, that television shows that are self-contained and non-serial are kind of a waste of time. It's hard to get emotionally or intellectually invested in a show that hits the reset button every thirty or sixty minutes*. But after Monk, and after a couple of deliriously drunken phone conversations with Coke Breath and LD, we watched a pretty decent episode of Saturday Night Live. I had been drinking vodka since before the Derby, and was completely beyond any concept of comprehension by then, so if I'm wrong, and if the show did suck, well, sorry. But the return of Fred Armisen's deaf stand-up who tries to tell racist jokes through a black interpreter was welcome, indeed, and the Bear City was reliably excellent. After the show I stayed up 'til four playing MVP Baseball 2005 and listening to records; I played this weekend's entire Atlanta - Houston four-game series in one sitting, going 3-1.
I slept off my hangover the next day. Again, we didn't do shit. We talked to our moms, ate some lunch, and then returned to the house for some television. It was cold and rainy all weekend, so it's not like there was much else we could do. We caught a few episodes of Harvey Birdman (still the weakest of the Williams St shows), the first two from season one of Northern Exposure (I haven't seen this since high school - a damn good show), and then Meet the Fockers, which wasn't as awful as I was expecting. Not too good, or nothing, but not the absolute shit-heap I anticipated. We also watched the two new Simpsons, only one of which was worthwhile. And that was our weekend. Oh so unbelievably exciting. What a hell of a way to live one's life.
*: as usual with television, The Simpsons is the exception that proves the rule.
