My Life, My Card

Ok, imagine... IMAGINE my delight when I saw the new Wes Anderson commercial for American Express which featured Jason Schwartzman... Go ahead, imagine.

Here's the deal: I saw one of those American Express "My Life, My Card" commercials on TV just now, and, being a fan (I lurved the M.Night Shyamalan one and totally dug the Kate Winslet one), I decided to give it a look-see. Well, be-still-my-beating-heart because this one starred Wes Anderson and Jason Schwartzman. Double siiiiiiiiigh. Watch here, please... and then we can discuss.

Obviously, it's brilliant! The ad featured Anderson on a movie set and included such gems as a scene featuring Jason Schwartzman (the future Mr. Molly Jackson) losing his best friend in an explosion, debate over the usage of a hat ("Why would my character put on a hat when he just saw his best friend blow up?"), and a .357 with a bayonet attached to it. It also had random tributes to "Memoirs of a Geisha" and "The Da Vinci Code" to name a few.

Notably funny parts:

* Wes says, "Are those my birds? Hmmm... I need those."
* Jason's character's friend blows up, and he yells "Francois!" in a carefree sort of way.
* The entire ad uses the "Wes Anderson" font... and iHeart fonts! (just ask Ox)
* Wes: "Can I get my snack?" Assistant: "You're eating it."

But mostly, at the end of the day... I enjoyed me some Jason Schwartzman... which reminds me: Marie Antoinette, directed by the effervescent Sofia Coppola, comes out in May... Hooray! TRAILER (complete with french subtitles, natch. You know how I "loves" the French). And the New Order song on the trailer "Ceremony"- priceless.

"American Dreamz" they are not

Ok, so... on Sunday I saw American Dreamz. I was very excited, and so was CJ (Carol Jackson, aka Mom), because we both lurve Hugh Grant. He's so verrry dreamy. And British.

So, we smuggled in the requisite coffee (iced coffee for me, decaf vanilla americano for CJ), got there about 45 minutes early to get prime seating, put our feet up, and waited with breathless anticipation... or something.

And then it started, and while I found the satire of the Bush Administration and American Idol enjoyable in theory, I just felt as though this was not a dream I would remember (cue laughter for sad, sad attempt a joke)...

Dennis Quaid was a half-assed President Bush... who really emoted a whole lot of nothing. And while, yes- Bush is a President who does a whole lot of nothing, he still has personality. No matter how tragic and stupid it may be.

Mandy Moore was good- and tried her best to do more with a part that was only halfway written and therefore could only be halfway realized. Ditto with Hugh Grant's character... a Simon Cowell/Ryan Seacrest hybrid. Chris Klein, surprisingly, was pretty decent too.

I guess my main problem was that I wanted to laugh at it... but found myself forcing the laughter 90% of the time. Out of pity? Obligation? Wishful thinking?

The only shining gem was truly the character Iqbal... his gay-American-Dreamz-Contestant-wannabe character was a hoot and a half. No joke. When I laughed at him, I definitely meant it. Tony Yalda is his name. He gets two thumbs up.

It seems more like a bunch of character outlines, and not so much of an actual story. And while it seemed to mesh together at times, it appeared to do so quite desperately. So, go see it, I guess... but netflixing it would be a far better idea. No matter how badly we want to enjoy this movie.

I did, however, greatly enjoy the movie poster (please see picture above).

Like Mother, like Daughter

My mother is hysterical. She's also a bit obsessive, neurotic and irrational, but that is quite besides the point. Of this blog, anyway.

Anyway, with each passing day that I spend at home with her, I notice that I'm sadly becoming more and more like her. Sometimes it's a good thing; mostly it's not so much. Which brings me to the tale of today which I affectionately call, "If I don't see you, you don't exist."

My mom has this yard-man... a dude, and old dude, that cuts the lawn, trims hedges, whacks weeds, feeds birds (ok, wait- I actually do that one), and generally meanders around outside our house. I dislike him very much. Moms does too. However, she continues to pay him and solicit his help with yard-like things. And so, I continue to sneak out of my house to go about my unemployed business.

Yes, sneak. I'll escape through the basement, run up the outside stairs (amongst the spiders and crickets and bees...), hop the fence, and beeline it to my car-- all in the name of avoiding him. Or- I'll walk out the front door, shimmy up against the house, with head up and eyes down, and again: beeline it to my car. CRAZY, right? But he's that vile.

Today, for example, we had this exchange:
Whitey (oh yeah, that's his name): Hey! Hey! You got a job yet?
MJ: No. (I don't try and use many words with him, as to not confuse him.)
Whitey: Why not? No one want to hire you?
MJ: Apparently not.
Whitey: Well, ok. Hey, you look a lot prettier lately.
(awkward silence, and patented Molly-death look)
MJ: bbbssshhhk.
Whitey: What? You don't think you're pretty?
MJ: No, no. I think I'm hot (dripping with sarcasm). Thanks a bunch Whitey, good bye.
THE END

So, now that you're all with me, and you see the reasons why CJ (my Moms) and I go to these lengths to avoid him, you will not only sympathize but emphasize, with the fact that we hid (HID!) from Whitey this very afternoon.

He had been cutting our grass... all. day. long. And for those of you that have been here to Padonia Road- you know that there isn't that much grass to cut. So around 3pm, after the awkward exchange I have documented above, he came into the house (uninvited) to tell me he'd be BACK after dinner. Ugh.

When my mom returned from work, I told her, and she said, "Great! Now we can't eat dinner until he leaves... wanna go out for dinner?" I did not, however, want to dine out because I had stuff to do... so, because Mom refused to cook dinner with Whitey outside and able to look into our kitchen, I was forced to make a salad from the basement. Yep. The basement.

When Whitey finished the yard... he began knocking on the door. And knocking. And knocking. And my mom was hiding in the first floor bathroom- she was busted(!) and couldn't emerge until she knew the coast was clear. So I was forced to tip-toe up our creaky stairs, crawl to window space, take a peak, and report back. Ultimately, Whitey was forced to give up the fight and retire home. But not after leaving a note which read: I know you guys are at home. I can see your car. Why won't you answer the door?

D'oh.

Were CJ & I paranoid? Yep- you bet. Is it something my mother convinced me to do? Yep- you bet. Am I mortified? Yep- you bet.

Christ is Risen!

So, the Wonkette today, reported on this Washington Post Article:


And I love it. The Wonkette goes on to comment: Here’s our view. We think it’s really tacky that these parents would hijack such a cherished, non-gay holiday as Easter. You know, the holiday when you dye eggs pretty pastel colors and put little decorative touches on them, before donning a giant bunny suit and stuffing your face full of truffles.

All non-Wonkette readers needed to read this, so sorry for the plagerism.

oh! Peter

Speaking of marriage:

The two loveliest people in the world are getting married... and not to me. Why? Because life is unfair.

Perhaps it is because Peter sensed my inability to imagine actually being married.

Perhaps Maggie understood that I don't dig on chicks (it was ONE NIGHT IN MY LIFE, people, and most of you readers were involved... so back up off me!).

Perhaps it is a cruel, cruel joke, and I will wake tomorrow to learn that the Washington Post is a bunch of liars!

Ahhh, well. Here's hoping.

Josh Lyman, will you marry me?

Ok, so if i didn't already heart Josh Lyman enough... he had to go and make me cry like a damn fool last night. Well, it wasn't only his fault, but pretty much seeing my strong, stoic, and egotistical asshole act like, well, human... I don't know. It got to me.

(Another possible explanation of the tears could be the fact that we had a crack in our furnace and have been living sans heat since... oh, last friday... which essentially has had a negative affect on my mental effectiveness.)

Or, perhaps it's because it's just that time of the month. Tim, back me up on this...------>

I guess I really haven't worked through my grief over the passing of the great John Spencer. I was soo surprised that it happened, and I was so not ready to say goodbye to his character. I cried. Hell, I cried when his character had a heart attack on the show in '04 (or was it early '05?)... just ask Tim. He was there, he knows.

And now, next week, I'll have to deal with the funeral. Ummmm, no! I can't take it. Please, NBC, what are you doing to me? I will have to Tivo the episode and watch in increments as to not downward spiral into the depths of despair.

Anyway, back to Josh Lyman. I cannot, cannot, CANNOT get enough of him. Those eyes. That receding hairline. That manic personality. The cockiness. The smugness. The intellect. Uggghhh. I wish he was real. In real life, Bradley Whitford is married to that annoying chick from Malcolm in the Middle. So, I guess that's not going to work.

Which is too bad. But at least I won't have to fight all my friends for him (Ali, Meryl, etc. Y'all know who you are).

iHeart you #33 (Jason Varitek)

Going to see my baby play some baseball today...


Thunder-Thighs... here i come!

(I am so obsessed that I though I saw him 3 different times while drinking my morning coffee today at the Baltimore Coffee & Tea Company. Obviously, it wasn't him. He knows not where Timonium is.)