[There is nothing funny about this post. It's just what it would be like if you were in my mom's hospital room tonight and could hear me yelling at the TV.]
Holy saddlebags, Lady Gaga! But I am really proud of you for not lip syncing while dancing your green leotard off to a completely unlistenable version of Poker Face.
I don't need Elton John in this context. Or any other.
Stephen Colbert to his Daughter: "Stay away from Katy Perry."
Nicole Kidman takes her re-injected shameful joker lips out for a spin. A woman like me should not be sitting here with a face full of donuts feeling sorry for a woman like Nicole Kidman.
SONG OF THE YEAR: Single Ladies (Put a Ring on it), by Beyonce's airbrushed thighs
Jennifer Lopez must always wear neck-high spanx. Also, please learn how to read.
Green Day's performance of 21 Guns opens with a series of black women, someone who looks like Tom Hanks' wife, and a choir. Then the hobbit with the heavy eyeliner and bad teeth comes on with his comically large guitar. Is there some sort of political or religious message here? I can't tell because of all the awkward rocking out between the tall black lady leaning over from the waist to make eye contact with the hobbit. And I'm pretty sure that other guy has been wearing the same black and red diagonal striped shirt with that same black tie since I was a freshman in college.
BEST COUNTRY ALBUM: Fearless, Taylor Swift, who should quit while she's ahead and go home right now.
Simon Baker can talk to me all night long. If he takes off those glasses.
Beyonce performs (a song I don't know and don't feel like looking into) in a wind tunnel wearing a metal dress. With a band of dancing Star Troopers! I don't respond well to her working the edge of the stage like she is Def Leppard, which she is not.
Uh. She gets to perform 37 songs in quick succession, including You Oughta Know. This should be illegal. Is Alanis Morissette bound and gagged somewhere in Winnipeg?
Seal introduces Pink, who sings her white cape and her pelvic bones off. While wet. And performing a complicated, ass-boggling, Cirque-esque high wire act that will go down in history as the most elegant Grammy performance of all time. Carlos Santana is impressed. So is my ex-boyfriend. I didn't ask him. I just know. And now I feel really inadequate and inflexible. Thanks a lot, Pink.
Wait. I'm sorry. Keith Urban is Australian? I thought he was a country singer.
BEST NEW ARTIST: Zac Brown Band, who get to shake hands with Dave Matthews on the way up to the stage, but I guess they didn't feel like washing their hair today. I don't like your little knit cap for the Grammys, Fat Jesus.
The Black Eyed Peas sing Imma Be and I Gotta Feeling. The purposeful annihilation of spelling and grammar in every Black Eyed Peas song personally offends me, so I am not going to write anymore about this illiterate act. Yeah. I'm that crotchety. Stay in school, kids. Also, I don't like how they never let the vaguely Asian person sing.
Jonas Brothers introduce Lady Antebellum. One Jonas Brother distinguishes himself by wearing glasses and looks adorably like my first gay boyfriend. I don't want to make fun of these people because they have incredible voices. But, the curtain hits the female singer in the face, and the male singer appears to be trying to avoid the necessity of condom use for the rest of his life by sporting the nut-huggin-est Wranglers America has ever seen.
BEST COMEDY ALBUM: Stephen Colbert Christmas, The Greatest Gift of All
Of course I love Stephan Colbert, but I'm really sad that Kathy Griffin didn't win. And how did no one tell me that Spinal Tap had a new album? I have an armadillo in my pants!!
RECORD OF THE YEAR: Use Somebody, Kings of Leon (which Norah Jones mispronounces as Kings of Leone)
!!!!!!!!!!!! This is my favorite win of the night :)
Robert Downy, Jr., every man's man crush, comes out in a silk smoking jacket, to introduce Jamie Foxx, T Pain, and Slash, who energetically pound and stomp through a synthesized song-like something-or-other that Rihanna appears to have trouble finding the beat to, while the camera cuts away to Josh Duhamel standing stiffly with his hands in his pockets, gawking down Fergie's dress, till she turns around and gives him a dirty look.
I love how deceptively articulate Alice Cooper is.
BEST ROCK ALBUM: 21st Century Breakdown, Green Day (most perfect speech of the night)
For obvious reasons, they have to let Chris O'Donnell come out by himself. I'm surprised he isn't sitting in a thimble.
Leon Russell and Zac Brown Band perform America, which I'm sure is going to turn into something more grand, but I don't really care to be wildly amazed by southern rock. That's what the CMAs are for. Because I am sour at this filthy looking band for beating out MGMT earlier in the evening, I would like to fast forward through this bullshit. Comb your hair. Would you sit down to dinner with your mother wearing all these hats?
(Yeah, I know I sound like an asshole, but I lived in Nashville for 3 years so I feel like I'm allowed to dislike country music and not have to ever hear it unless I'm eating a steak at the Stockyards.)
Taylor Swift performs a song I'm sure I wrote when I was 7. I cannot watch this. Ears bleeding. Fast forwarding.
Well, who can't get on board with Stevie Nicks singing Rhiannon? Taylor Swift! That's who! Oh my. This is a travesty. I muted the volume and sang it myself. My mom says I have a pretty voice. She is on a morphine drip.
Lionel Richie! Is it 1984 again? I'm so happy! Dance on the ceiling motherfucker! Are we going to... party?... Karamu?... Fiesta?... Forever?
No. We're going to weep the careless and senseless murder of Michael Jackson. That's cool too. Celine Dion, Jennifer Hudson, Smokey Robinson, Carrie Underwood, and Usher sing Earth Song. I don't have any 3D glasses, but that's OK. I don't want to see my tears in 3D.
"I love trees."
You know what hurts your face? Celine Dion fist pumps in 3D when you're not wearing 3D glasses. Fuck, I'm gonna barf. Rhianna is so visibly bored I feel even worse for the dead king of pop. But no one ever looked cooler wearing 3D glasses. Will.i.am. is also bored. Luckily he is so futuristic, his eyeballs can see in 3D without glasses, so he is not wearing them. This is the best grouping of pipes on the stage so far. Not a Taylor Swift in the bunch.
Prince and Paris Jackson wearing little Michael Jackson military suits, pirate blouses, red arm bands... and no masks! Holy gosh. I'm gonna give them a pass on their piss poor speeches because they're so very young and because these are the only words they've ever heard spoken aloud: "I love trees."
Bon Jovi sings Who Says You Can't Go Home? but I can't hear the song through Jon Bon Jovi's bangs. This song should only be played in an elevator. Then, the at-home audience votes for Bon Jovi to play Livin' on a Prayer. It's as if this is their first time singing this number. Jon is cringing into the microphone, singing off key, and leaving the high notes to the leather-panted blond chick and the audience. Act more. Sing less.
Mos Def seems less mumbly.
BEST RAP/SUNG COLLABORATION: Rihanna, Jay-Z, and Kanye West. Kanye West isn't allowed to come to awards shows anymore, so they drag up little Jules (Z?). I don't know who he is, but he's a man of few words and I want to adopt him. Because I like the idea of the Christmas cards we would send out.
Clearly, I'm on a Boat needed to win that Grammy. You can listen to that song for millions of hours and it never gets old.
Wyclef Jean just knows how to speak. Classy.
Haitian relief stuff now. And Wyclef full-on disses Will.i.am for saying the music industry is dead. So are we raising money for Haiti or the music industry now? Or Target? This is where I want to tune out or rewind and watch Earth Song again. But then we have Bridge Over Troubled Water sung in French or Portuguese or Mary J. Blige. Also, I think what Haiti is missing at this point is... a bridge. This song is kind of rubbing it in, no?
Adam Sandler, in the best intro of the night, gives us Dave Matthews Band performing You and Me, and yes, I admit that I am stuck in the last decade, but I think this is the most enjoyable performance of the evening, Dave's jaunty jigging aside. This is the proper use of a choir of voices and electric violins.
Ricky Martin still got it. He's so full of penises.
FEMALE POP VOCAL PERFORMANCE: Halo, Beyonce. How can she win for performing vocals to a song with no actual lyrics?
L.L. Cool J. is the only person I want to see in a hat. Zac McBeardie band, take note.
Maxwell performs On Pretty Wings and then Roberta Flack comes out. Her face looks like the last scene in Robocop and her head is propped up with a neckerchief of cubic zirconia.
I think Jeff Bridges is actually pulling off all of this hair, but that may be because I really really liked Crazy Heart. Some great guitaring by Jeff Beck to Les Paul and some un-great lip syncing by an intriguing hairdo.
When did Quentin Tarrantino turn into a fatty fat fatty? Do we need 3D glasses to fully appreciate his shirt? Does he really talk like this? He sounds like a carnival barker.
OK, I know he spilt out of a plane not that long ago, but Travis doesn't need to put that much energy into slapping his drum sticks together. We get it. There is no discernible drumming in this tune. You wish you could do more.
OH FUN! EMINEM! This song turned fucking amazing in a hurry and the sound feed keeps cutting out. Are they swearing?! Are there bad words happening?! The other fella's pants are around his knees. I'm not exaggerating. His jeans are NOT ON HIS BUM AT ALL. The stage is crowded and I've lost track of who all of these rap artists are. I'm sorry. I don't know their names. There might be a Lil Wayne up there? In case I didn't mention this earlier, I'm a white female lawyer born in the 70s. It's amazing I know who anyone is other than Barry Gibb. OK, the pants emergency has been corrected and Travis Barker hit a cymbal once. I really respect how high up on his hips Eminem is wearing his pants. Our little Eminem is all growns'd up!
"Eminem" is really hard to type! It took me four days to spell check that last paragraph.
ALBUM OF THE YEAR: Fearless, Taylor Swift. I don't care for this win at all, but that was a very sweet speech that girl with the bad voice gave.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Facebook Notes: Vol. II
Here are some of the reasons I love Facebook:
(1) I love it when I go to parties and people who I didn't even know were my Facebook friends know that I cried when I saw the Grand Canyon and that I made an ass of myself trying to cozy up to Richard Roeper at a karaoke bar three months ago.
(2)
(1) I love it when I go to parties and people who I didn't even know were my Facebook friends know that I cried when I saw the Grand Canyon and that I made an ass of myself trying to cozy up to Richard Roeper at a karaoke bar three months ago.
(2)
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
No Pork Chop For You
My college girlfriends and I have had a tradition since we got out of school: whenever it is one of our birthdays, we all go out to dinner and the birthday girl doesn't have to pay. We do this because there are too many of us to keep track of and we're cheap and we don't like to buy gifts for each other. So on your birthday, you get a free pork chop and maybe a bottle of Bud Light. Most of your girlfriends are pregnant, so they watch you drink your beer and probably think how they shouldn't have to pay as much since they aren't drinking, although no one ever says this out loud.
Another part of the tradition, which started when we were in school, is that every year on your birthday, someone blurts out, "It's your year to shine!" Megan started this. It's a fantastic tradition. It makes everyone feel good, as traditions are meant to do. It's a ridiculous statement. It's cheesy. But it's your birthday, and you've got a whole year before you -- anything could happen. You could shine the fuck out of this year.
Sometimes it's your year to shine, but some years it's not. Sometimes people get married or have a baby or start to be better looking. But most of the years, if you're me, you have a year like all the other un-shiny years, where you have regrettable sex with a lot of people you shouldn't; one ex-boyfriend or another comes back, remembers why he didn't want to marry you, and then leaves you again; you don't pay off your car again; you don't pay off your law school loans again; you mean to go skiing, but you don't; no one ever tells you he loves you; and probably you get another cat. Also if you're me, you move at least once, after selling your real estate (that was supposed to have been in an up-and-coming location -- the realtor said so!) at a loss.
Now, I am massively clinically depressed, I drink vodka like it's water, I have more STDs than you can shake a stick at, and I take so much medication I should be dead, but every year on my birthday, I get caught up in the hype. So when Megan says, "It's your year to shine, Jules!" and we all laugh, I secretly, quietly think to myself (the voice in my head sounds like the chorus of intermission mice from the pig movie Babe), "Maybe it is my year to shine!"
But this year, ten out of ten of my best girlfriends have other plans on my birthday, which makes perfect sense, because Wednesdays are known for being the night of the week when people go out of town or have important things to do (I suspect that Jersey Shore is promoting a particularly compelling episode). I don't get my birthday dinner tonight, so I'm going to sit in my apartment alone eating Cheerios and cigarettes while listening to Tony Robbins' "Get the Edge!" It takes like 400 days to listen to this program, and so far I've put in about 25 minutes and I've learned that Tony Robbins is so fucking incredible at having The Edge, that he owns Turtle Island. Let me say that again: He OWNS Turtle Island. I don't even have a fucking pork chop. And for the first time in 14 years, no one is going to tell me that it's my year to shine.
But no matter! Be not afraid. I do not own a shot gun. I'm not going to the post office. It's a new year and things are really starting to happen for me! For one, I have this blog, and now when I go out of my house, people are always saying to me, "Are you going to write about this in your blog?!" and "Please don't write about me in that blog!" and "That's so weird that you have a blog." So all of this makes me think that people are secretly frightened to be around me now, and this may work to my advantage. People will perhaps do insane things to try to get me to write about it. Or, alternatively, people will be on their best behavior so I don't say bad things about them. People let me be in pictures all by myself because no one wants to have their photograph posted on this thing. It's very empowering having everyone around you completely on edge and biting their tongues and kind of not liking you very much anymore.
I went on a date this week and the guy said, "If I do something wrong, are you going to write about it in your blog?" He said it as a joke. I was quiet for a few seconds. I took a sip of my drink. Then I said, "Try me." I think it made me seem very mysterious and sinister, and there are few things that men are looking for in prospective wives than someone who could at any moment say, "Watch your step, bitchface -- I could totally fuck up your career with shit I post about you in cyberspace."
The other night when I was out with friends, I was introduced to a co-worker of a friend, and the co-worker asked me what I did. My friend said, "She's a blogger," which made me feel like a total jackhole, because it made about as much sense as telling the guy, "She likes peanut butter", because this isn't my job. But it was still one hundred billion times better than how I would have felt if she had said, "She's a divorce lawyer." It is always the case that one-one-trillionth of a second after I say that I am a divorce lawyer, and his eyes start to dart around the room for someone else to talk to, I wish that I had said that I am an airline hostess. But saying I am a blogger is so bizarre, it is almost like saying, "I'm independently wealthy and need not work," or "I'm a cosmonaut."
Another way in which things are looking up for me is that I cancelled my Netflix subscription. Netflix is the bane of my existence. I have wasted months of my life perfecting my queue with all of the movies I want to see, and the thing is like 140 movies deep with really great stuff. When the red envelopes come in the mail, it's like Christmas... "What will it be? What, oh what will it be!! Please let it be The Departed. I could so totally watch The Departed again! Or The Hurt Locker! I really meant to see The Hurt Locker in the theater, but I missed it. I really hope it's The Hurt Locker!" But the movie that keeps showing up is like, Land of the Lost or Wolverine: Origins. "Where is Sin Nombre? Where is Food, Inc.? I don't want to watch fucking Wolverine. How did that even get in there?" Any day that I don't feel obligated to watch Wolverine, well, it just puts a spring in my step. So, good riddance, Netflix. Happy Birthday to Me.
Finally, this year I am going to officially give up running. Running is a stupid hobby. Sure, it's great cardio, makes you want to eat right, helps you get better sleep, gives you a confidence boost from the endorphin high, is something you can do with your friends, and keeps your ass from becoming a continuation of your back, but it's bad for your knees, it takes up a lot of time, and it's really getting in the way of how much I like to smoke.
I think this is what Tony Robbins has in mind when he's coaching me about getting The Edge. If I keep up the good work and keep making all of these positive changes, I'm sure I'll own an island and comfortably sport a fu man chu too someday. I may even be asked to speak about my success, and the name of my program will be, "It's Your Year to Shine!" Everyone will get a pork chop for lunch and an eight-ball of coke, and no matter what I have to say, you are going to walk out of my speech with so much self-esteem.
Another part of the tradition, which started when we were in school, is that every year on your birthday, someone blurts out, "It's your year to shine!" Megan started this. It's a fantastic tradition. It makes everyone feel good, as traditions are meant to do. It's a ridiculous statement. It's cheesy. But it's your birthday, and you've got a whole year before you -- anything could happen. You could shine the fuck out of this year.
Sometimes it's your year to shine, but some years it's not. Sometimes people get married or have a baby or start to be better looking. But most of the years, if you're me, you have a year like all the other un-shiny years, where you have regrettable sex with a lot of people you shouldn't; one ex-boyfriend or another comes back, remembers why he didn't want to marry you, and then leaves you again; you don't pay off your car again; you don't pay off your law school loans again; you mean to go skiing, but you don't; no one ever tells you he loves you; and probably you get another cat. Also if you're me, you move at least once, after selling your real estate (that was supposed to have been in an up-and-coming location -- the realtor said so!) at a loss.
Now, I am massively clinically depressed, I drink vodka like it's water, I have more STDs than you can shake a stick at, and I take so much medication I should be dead, but every year on my birthday, I get caught up in the hype. So when Megan says, "It's your year to shine, Jules!" and we all laugh, I secretly, quietly think to myself (the voice in my head sounds like the chorus of intermission mice from the pig movie Babe), "Maybe it is my year to shine!"
But this year, ten out of ten of my best girlfriends have other plans on my birthday, which makes perfect sense, because Wednesdays are known for being the night of the week when people go out of town or have important things to do (I suspect that Jersey Shore is promoting a particularly compelling episode). I don't get my birthday dinner tonight, so I'm going to sit in my apartment alone eating Cheerios and cigarettes while listening to Tony Robbins' "Get the Edge!" It takes like 400 days to listen to this program, and so far I've put in about 25 minutes and I've learned that Tony Robbins is so fucking incredible at having The Edge, that he owns Turtle Island. Let me say that again: He OWNS Turtle Island. I don't even have a fucking pork chop. And for the first time in 14 years, no one is going to tell me that it's my year to shine.
But no matter! Be not afraid. I do not own a shot gun. I'm not going to the post office. It's a new year and things are really starting to happen for me! For one, I have this blog, and now when I go out of my house, people are always saying to me, "Are you going to write about this in your blog?!" and "Please don't write about me in that blog!" and "That's so weird that you have a blog." So all of this makes me think that people are secretly frightened to be around me now, and this may work to my advantage. People will perhaps do insane things to try to get me to write about it. Or, alternatively, people will be on their best behavior so I don't say bad things about them. People let me be in pictures all by myself because no one wants to have their photograph posted on this thing. It's very empowering having everyone around you completely on edge and biting their tongues and kind of not liking you very much anymore.
I went on a date this week and the guy said, "If I do something wrong, are you going to write about it in your blog?" He said it as a joke. I was quiet for a few seconds. I took a sip of my drink. Then I said, "Try me." I think it made me seem very mysterious and sinister, and there are few things that men are looking for in prospective wives than someone who could at any moment say, "Watch your step, bitchface -- I could totally fuck up your career with shit I post about you in cyberspace."
The other night when I was out with friends, I was introduced to a co-worker of a friend, and the co-worker asked me what I did. My friend said, "She's a blogger," which made me feel like a total jackhole, because it made about as much sense as telling the guy, "She likes peanut butter", because this isn't my job. But it was still one hundred billion times better than how I would have felt if she had said, "She's a divorce lawyer." It is always the case that one-one-trillionth of a second after I say that I am a divorce lawyer, and his eyes start to dart around the room for someone else to talk to, I wish that I had said that I am an airline hostess. But saying I am a blogger is so bizarre, it is almost like saying, "I'm independently wealthy and need not work," or "I'm a cosmonaut."
Another way in which things are looking up for me is that I cancelled my Netflix subscription. Netflix is the bane of my existence. I have wasted months of my life perfecting my queue with all of the movies I want to see, and the thing is like 140 movies deep with really great stuff. When the red envelopes come in the mail, it's like Christmas... "What will it be? What, oh what will it be!! Please let it be The Departed. I could so totally watch The Departed again! Or The Hurt Locker! I really meant to see The Hurt Locker in the theater, but I missed it. I really hope it's The Hurt Locker!" But the movie that keeps showing up is like, Land of the Lost or Wolverine: Origins. "Where is Sin Nombre? Where is Food, Inc.? I don't want to watch fucking Wolverine. How did that even get in there?" Any day that I don't feel obligated to watch Wolverine, well, it just puts a spring in my step. So, good riddance, Netflix. Happy Birthday to Me.
Finally, this year I am going to officially give up running. Running is a stupid hobby. Sure, it's great cardio, makes you want to eat right, helps you get better sleep, gives you a confidence boost from the endorphin high, is something you can do with your friends, and keeps your ass from becoming a continuation of your back, but it's bad for your knees, it takes up a lot of time, and it's really getting in the way of how much I like to smoke.
I think this is what Tony Robbins has in mind when he's coaching me about getting The Edge. If I keep up the good work and keep making all of these positive changes, I'm sure I'll own an island and comfortably sport a fu man chu too someday. I may even be asked to speak about my success, and the name of my program will be, "It's Your Year to Shine!" Everyone will get a pork chop for lunch and an eight-ball of coke, and no matter what I have to say, you are going to walk out of my speech with so much self-esteem.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Movie Review: 2012
There are two VERY BIG cinematic events happening concurrently as I write this. One is Avatar. Avatar is a fantastic movie, and I strongly encourage you to go see it, in 3D, and at an IMAX if possible. If you do not have an IMAX where you live, what are you? A lumberjack? Forget about seeing Avatar, and focus your efforts on moving to a place where there are IMAX’s and telefax machines.
The other big movie that is out right now is 2012. I haven’t seen 2012 and I don’t plan to and you shouldn’t either. A couple of years ago, I read a book called 2012 by Whitley Strieber. I do not know if the movie is based on the book, but let us assume for the purposes of this movie review that the movie is based on that book. First of all, I have problems with reading. I can read. That’s not the problem. The problem for me is retention. I read Jane Eyre every year, not because I like it that much, but because I can't remember what happens. There are moors, right? And an orphanage? And probably pox or plague or AIDS. I can’t remember. Does Jane end up with Heathcliff in the end? I guess I’ll have to read it again to find out.
So even though it’s been awhile since I read 2012, I do remember that I didn’t like it, which upset me, because I have a sort of history with Whitley Strieber. Even though you may not know it, you know about this author. He wrote Communion over 20 years ago, and they made a movie out of that book too. The movie is called Fire in the Sky and it features D.B. Sweeney, who went to my high school. The reason why you are familiar with this book is:
GAH! It gets me every time. I'm going to for sure have to sleep with my parents tonight.
For some reason, I got my hands on this book when I was in grade school and I read it one weekend and scared the living shit out of myself. In this book, the author, Whitley Strieber, who was already a published novelist, tells the non-fiction play-by-play of his encounters with “visitors” who abducted him and anally probed him, either actually or figuratively (if given the option, always go for the figurative anal probe). I thought it was super dumb that aliens should choose to abduct and anally probe a published novelist. It’s a sure way to generate negative press. But they're ballsy. They don't give a fuck. They took him and they probed him and he wrote about it, and as a pre-teen, I read about it, and it ruined my entire fucking life.
Here’s why: I have to sleep on my back and with the lights on until I die. Did you know that, according to Whitley Strieber, aliens, when they come into your room to take you up to their flying saucer, IMMOBILIZE you and then stand around your bed staring at you with their terrifying empty dinner plate eyes? They speak to you through your MIND and YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY because YOU CAN’T MOVE, and they probe you in your eyeballs or in your bum and then you’re done for. Once they have you by the ass, they do terrible and painful experiments on you and they make you impregnate their lady aliens, or if you are already a lady, they impregnate you with an alien baby and they keep you on their spaceship until you have the baby and then they take the baby and plant a chip in your skull behind your right ear and drop you off back at the farm where you live.
There is no reason for me not to believe that this really happened to Whitley Strieber. As a previously struggling horror novelist, what possible motive would he have to lie about such a massively world-view-shattering thing? So when I read about this strategy the aliens have of paralyzing you in your bed, I knew that I had to sleep on my back forever, because I couldn’t bear the thought of being immobilized while lying on my stomach with my bum in the air. Also, even though they are tremendously technologically advanced and can communicate with their thoughts, aliens don’t seem to know how to work a light switch, so if you leave your lights on, you can kind of ward them off.
[NOTE: When I was in law school, I was telling my cronies all these things I know about aliens, and my boyfriend and my roommate confirmed that I really do sleep on my back and with the lights on. One of our classmates, an awesome, slightly older (probably like 28 at the time, which seemed incredibly elderly), black fella named Mr. Cox (we didn’t have first names in law school) looked at me very seriously and drawled in his soothing, southern way, “Ms. D-. Don’t you think, after these aliens travel a hundred million light years and come into your bedroom, they can FLIP YOU OVER?” Touché, Mr. Cox. Touché. Still, I feel like if you’re sleeping in the dark with your butt out in the open, you’re just asking for aliens to come and put something in there, so I still like to sleep on my back.]
So I had this feeling of attachment to Whitley Strieber from a young age. While I didn’t appreciate having my life ruined and my sleep forever disturbed by his book, I did appreciate his giving me good pointers on how to protect myself in the event of an alien invasion. A couple years ago, I found out that he had written a new book called 2012 about the end of days as predicted by the Mayan calendar. Like Communion, 2012 is 100% true. I was about to head to Peru, so I bought the book to read on the plane and was fully prepared to take a lot of notes to get ready for the end of the world, which is apparently coming up. In 2012. He put it right in the name of the book, so I had that important piece of information available to me right off the bat. I didn’t finish the book on the plane, so I put it in my backpack and carried it with me for four days while hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. There are no lights on the Inca Trail, so I had to read the book while sleeping in a tent in 30 degrees wearing a head lamp. It was kind of touch and go on the last night, because I really needed the bulb on my head lamp to last all four days if I wanted to be able to find my way to the bathroom at night (“bathroom” is a euphemism, I hope you understand). But I really wanted to finish that book. I don’t know why. Half-way through, it turned into some kind of sci-fi thriller and it was terrible. I think there were ZOMBIES involved. Whereas extraterrestrials are believable, zombies are not. What would the Mayans know about ZOMBIES? The Mayans came WAY before Shaun of the Dead. It was so stupid. I hated it. I was disappointed in Whitley Strieber, who I had previously greatly respected for his honest account of true events.
On the last day of the trek, we got up at 3:30 a.m. to make our way to the Sun Gate. I was holding the stupid book that I was mad at myself for reading because I had to go to the bathroom SO BAD, but it was pitch black outside and my head lamp had gone out. I didn’t want to carry the book in my backpack anymore. I wanted to throw it away, but there is this whole thing about there not being any garbage cans on the Inca Trail, so I was just holding the book and not knowing what to do with it. One of the men in my group saw the book and he asked me if it was any good. I said, “No. It’s stupid. I’m throwing it away.” He said, “I’ll take it.” I said, “No. I don’t want you to read it.” And because I wanted to make my point, I dramatically threw it on the ground and stomped on it with my muddy, llama-and-human-feces-covered hiking boot (there’s a LOT of feces in Peru). He picked up the book, tore off the front cover (because it had poop on it), and said, “I think I’ll still read it,” and he put it in his backpack. So that was that.
And that’s why you shouldn’t see 2012. It has poop all over it. And also, it was written by a man who has been anally probed, has an alien homing device implanted in his skull, and has part-alien/part-failed-horror-novelist babies flying around in outer space as we speak.
The other big movie that is out right now is 2012. I haven’t seen 2012 and I don’t plan to and you shouldn’t either. A couple of years ago, I read a book called 2012 by Whitley Strieber. I do not know if the movie is based on the book, but let us assume for the purposes of this movie review that the movie is based on that book. First of all, I have problems with reading. I can read. That’s not the problem. The problem for me is retention. I read Jane Eyre every year, not because I like it that much, but because I can't remember what happens. There are moors, right? And an orphanage? And probably pox or plague or AIDS. I can’t remember. Does Jane end up with Heathcliff in the end? I guess I’ll have to read it again to find out.
So even though it’s been awhile since I read 2012, I do remember that I didn’t like it, which upset me, because I have a sort of history with Whitley Strieber. Even though you may not know it, you know about this author. He wrote Communion over 20 years ago, and they made a movie out of that book too. The movie is called Fire in the Sky and it features D.B. Sweeney, who went to my high school. The reason why you are familiar with this book is:
["I believe"]
GAH! It gets me every time. I'm going to for sure have to sleep with my parents tonight.
For some reason, I got my hands on this book when I was in grade school and I read it one weekend and scared the living shit out of myself. In this book, the author, Whitley Strieber, who was already a published novelist, tells the non-fiction play-by-play of his encounters with “visitors” who abducted him and anally probed him, either actually or figuratively (if given the option, always go for the figurative anal probe). I thought it was super dumb that aliens should choose to abduct and anally probe a published novelist. It’s a sure way to generate negative press. But they're ballsy. They don't give a fuck. They took him and they probed him and he wrote about it, and as a pre-teen, I read about it, and it ruined my entire fucking life.
Here’s why: I have to sleep on my back and with the lights on until I die. Did you know that, according to Whitley Strieber, aliens, when they come into your room to take you up to their flying saucer, IMMOBILIZE you and then stand around your bed staring at you with their terrifying empty dinner plate eyes? They speak to you through your MIND and YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY because YOU CAN’T MOVE, and they probe you in your eyeballs or in your bum and then you’re done for. Once they have you by the ass, they do terrible and painful experiments on you and they make you impregnate their lady aliens, or if you are already a lady, they impregnate you with an alien baby and they keep you on their spaceship until you have the baby and then they take the baby and plant a chip in your skull behind your right ear and drop you off back at the farm where you live.
There is no reason for me not to believe that this really happened to Whitley Strieber. As a previously struggling horror novelist, what possible motive would he have to lie about such a massively world-view-shattering thing? So when I read about this strategy the aliens have of paralyzing you in your bed, I knew that I had to sleep on my back forever, because I couldn’t bear the thought of being immobilized while lying on my stomach with my bum in the air. Also, even though they are tremendously technologically advanced and can communicate with their thoughts, aliens don’t seem to know how to work a light switch, so if you leave your lights on, you can kind of ward them off.
[NOTE: When I was in law school, I was telling my cronies all these things I know about aliens, and my boyfriend and my roommate confirmed that I really do sleep on my back and with the lights on. One of our classmates, an awesome, slightly older (probably like 28 at the time, which seemed incredibly elderly), black fella named Mr. Cox (we didn’t have first names in law school) looked at me very seriously and drawled in his soothing, southern way, “Ms. D-. Don’t you think, after these aliens travel a hundred million light years and come into your bedroom, they can FLIP YOU OVER?” Touché, Mr. Cox. Touché. Still, I feel like if you’re sleeping in the dark with your butt out in the open, you’re just asking for aliens to come and put something in there, so I still like to sleep on my back.]
So I had this feeling of attachment to Whitley Strieber from a young age. While I didn’t appreciate having my life ruined and my sleep forever disturbed by his book, I did appreciate his giving me good pointers on how to protect myself in the event of an alien invasion. A couple years ago, I found out that he had written a new book called 2012 about the end of days as predicted by the Mayan calendar. Like Communion, 2012 is 100% true. I was about to head to Peru, so I bought the book to read on the plane and was fully prepared to take a lot of notes to get ready for the end of the world, which is apparently coming up. In 2012. He put it right in the name of the book, so I had that important piece of information available to me right off the bat. I didn’t finish the book on the plane, so I put it in my backpack and carried it with me for four days while hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. There are no lights on the Inca Trail, so I had to read the book while sleeping in a tent in 30 degrees wearing a head lamp. It was kind of touch and go on the last night, because I really needed the bulb on my head lamp to last all four days if I wanted to be able to find my way to the bathroom at night (“bathroom” is a euphemism, I hope you understand). But I really wanted to finish that book. I don’t know why. Half-way through, it turned into some kind of sci-fi thriller and it was terrible. I think there were ZOMBIES involved. Whereas extraterrestrials are believable, zombies are not. What would the Mayans know about ZOMBIES? The Mayans came WAY before Shaun of the Dead. It was so stupid. I hated it. I was disappointed in Whitley Strieber, who I had previously greatly respected for his honest account of true events.
On the last day of the trek, we got up at 3:30 a.m. to make our way to the Sun Gate. I was holding the stupid book that I was mad at myself for reading because I had to go to the bathroom SO BAD, but it was pitch black outside and my head lamp had gone out. I didn’t want to carry the book in my backpack anymore. I wanted to throw it away, but there is this whole thing about there not being any garbage cans on the Inca Trail, so I was just holding the book and not knowing what to do with it. One of the men in my group saw the book and he asked me if it was any good. I said, “No. It’s stupid. I’m throwing it away.” He said, “I’ll take it.” I said, “No. I don’t want you to read it.” And because I wanted to make my point, I dramatically threw it on the ground and stomped on it with my muddy, llama-and-human-feces-covered hiking boot (there’s a LOT of feces in Peru). He picked up the book, tore off the front cover (because it had poop on it), and said, “I think I’ll still read it,” and he put it in his backpack. So that was that.
And that’s why you shouldn’t see 2012. It has poop all over it. And also, it was written by a man who has been anally probed, has an alien homing device implanted in his skull, and has part-alien/part-failed-horror-novelist babies flying around in outer space as we speak.
[D.B. Sweeney, who went to my high school, and
who played Whitley Strieber in the movie Fire in the Sky]
[FOONOTE: D.B. Sweeney did not actually go to my high school. The movie Fire in the Sky is not based on the book Communion. And the movie 2012 is not based on Whitley Strieber’s novel of the same name. But everything else I wrote is true, especially the stuff about aliens.]
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