It's like when you were in middle school (or in my case, now) when you made fun of someone because it was just so damn easy to get a reaction out of them (Elena, you're crazy!). Iowa is just so easy to poke fun at -- it sits there right under Minnesotta growing it's corn and soy beans every summer and, ummm, doing other stuff the rest of the year.
Every four years the country remembers it exists for a few months until it chooses a candidate in its caucus that doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning it all (Pat Robertson anyone?). Eneter me...
I've been to Iowa a few times for business in the past several months and am about to set out on a 5 week adventure to the Hawkeye state at the end of the week. All I have to say to the Iowans is "you'd damned well better know how to decorate for Christmas." I don't want to see Santa eating corn -- the man likes his cookies! Rudolph eats carrots, not some member of the legume family dammit!
I will try to upload some fun stuff to this blog but if you really want to see what I'm up to, find my reporters profile on facebook as they actually pay me to update that site.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
In Love with Words
I can watch television shows and films written by Aaron Sorkin over and over and over. I have worn through the box set of Sports Night -- I have watched the first four seasons of The West Wing at least three times each (in some cases four times I think). The American President is a rare film in the vein of Shawshank and Jaws in that it really doesn't matter where I start watching.
I took a bit of criticism last week when my friend came over to find my newest Sorkin purchase: the first (and last) season of Studio 60... I'm no dope -- I get it -- Studio 60... was insulting to the average American and many a viewer were, by now, tired of Sorkin's knack for scenes in which 15 people all spoke, rapid fire, over one another.
It doesn't take away from the man's brilliance. Sure his words are coated with cocaine and according to a co-worker who got to see an episode of The West Wing being shot (I want to get into his brain and steal that memory)the man lends new meaning to the term "motherf$cker." I get it, but good LORD the man can write. I'll lend you my dvd of the first season finale of Sports Night (and by lend I mean bring it to your house, watch it with you, and bring it back home) and you'll get wrapped up in the words too. Sure, they're not how real people talk, but his language is intoxicating and his characters so wonderfully idiosyncratic that it just doesn't matter that they aren't speaking realistically.
Saturday the 2nd, Aztec Two-Step at the Bottom Line with Gordon. Sunday the 10th, Turandot at Lincoln Center with Gordon. I'm assuming, although your modifier was dangling, that you were going WITH Gordon to SEE Turandot, and that you weren't going to SEE Gordon IN Turandot."
I took a bit of criticism last week when my friend came over to find my newest Sorkin purchase: the first (and last) season of Studio 60... I'm no dope -- I get it -- Studio 60... was insulting to the average American and many a viewer were, by now, tired of Sorkin's knack for scenes in which 15 people all spoke, rapid fire, over one another.
It doesn't take away from the man's brilliance. Sure his words are coated with cocaine and according to a co-worker who got to see an episode of The West Wing being shot (I want to get into his brain and steal that memory)the man lends new meaning to the term "motherf$cker." I get it, but good LORD the man can write. I'll lend you my dvd of the first season finale of Sports Night (and by lend I mean bring it to your house, watch it with you, and bring it back home) and you'll get wrapped up in the words too. Sure, they're not how real people talk, but his language is intoxicating and his characters so wonderfully idiosyncratic that it just doesn't matter that they aren't speaking realistically.
Saturday the 2nd, Aztec Two-Step at the Bottom Line with Gordon. Sunday the 10th, Turandot at Lincoln Center with Gordon. I'm assuming, although your modifier was dangling, that you were going WITH Gordon to SEE Turandot, and that you weren't going to SEE Gordon IN Turandot."
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Boss Will See You Now
Do you want to cure the malady I mentioned in my previous post? It's simple really, just make an appointment to see this man:
So I was a little down in the dumps this weekend. It was cold and gray and I was feeling sorry for myself...then last night I had the sad slapped out of me by probably the most magnificent live performer rock and roll has ever seen. The Boss, my man from NJ, Mr. Bruce Springsteen. You can't go to one of his shows and leave with a frown on your face. I don't believe it is humanly possible. Your dog just get run over? Go see Bruce. Did you just get fired and come home to find your girlfriend in bed with your best friend? No worries, go see Bruce.
If you can still feel sorry for yourself after they juice up the houselights as the boys from E Street start blasting the opening chords of "Born To Run," you need to hand in your membership to the human race. If you can still hang your head after pumping your fists in the air along with 20,000 of your closest friends while screaming "STRAP YOUR HANDS CROSS MY ENGINES" then there is no hope for you.
Some in the arena last night may have scratched their heads because the Boss played half old stuff half new stuff (and the old stuff was largely his brilliant but less commercial fair). The thing is, it just doesn't matter. I'd pay the $100 ticket price to hear him rock out to two hours of "Happy Birthday" and "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." He energizes you like alligator clips on your nipples.
As Jon Stewart said in his review of last month's NYC shows, "Are you a fan of joy? Do you like joy?" Why yes Mr. Stewart, yes I am!
So I was a little down in the dumps this weekend. It was cold and gray and I was feeling sorry for myself...then last night I had the sad slapped out of me by probably the most magnificent live performer rock and roll has ever seen. The Boss, my man from NJ, Mr. Bruce Springsteen. You can't go to one of his shows and leave with a frown on your face. I don't believe it is humanly possible. Your dog just get run over? Go see Bruce. Did you just get fired and come home to find your girlfriend in bed with your best friend? No worries, go see Bruce.
If you can still feel sorry for yourself after they juice up the houselights as the boys from E Street start blasting the opening chords of "Born To Run," you need to hand in your membership to the human race. If you can still hang your head after pumping your fists in the air along with 20,000 of your closest friends while screaming "STRAP YOUR HANDS CROSS MY ENGINES" then there is no hope for you.
Some in the arena last night may have scratched their heads because the Boss played half old stuff half new stuff (and the old stuff was largely his brilliant but less commercial fair). The thing is, it just doesn't matter. I'd pay the $100 ticket price to hear him rock out to two hours of "Happy Birthday" and "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." He energizes you like alligator clips on your nipples.
As Jon Stewart said in his review of last month's NYC shows, "Are you a fan of joy? Do you like joy?" Why yes Mr. Stewart, yes I am!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Rainy days, Mondays, and sometimes the fall get me down
Melancholy - ˈme-lən-ˌkä-lē
adj
depressed in spirits : dejected : pensive
I have a love hate relationship with the fall. I love cold weather, sweaters, scarves, and warm hats but the gray skies and brown leaves get me down. It's an interesting dichotomy really -- the trees in brilliant red and yellow, the air with a little bite in it one minute, gone the next, replaces with barren branches, a brown crunch under your feet and that dreary cold that gets into your lungs.
This mood probably isn't being helped by my listening to Death Cab and The Submarines and watching "The Last Kiss" -- anyone got a razor blade? But really, it's both my favorite and least favorite time of year. Once we get past Thanksgiving and I can put up my Christmas tree this will all fade away, but right now it kind of sucks.
Anyway, that's enough venting for now. It' just me and the "Ratatouille" DVD on this chilly Saturday (once I make it through "The Last Kiss") so maybe I'll make up for a month-longblog hiatus with some special extras.
adj
depressed in spirits : dejected : pensive
I have a love hate relationship with the fall. I love cold weather, sweaters, scarves, and warm hats but the gray skies and brown leaves get me down. It's an interesting dichotomy really -- the trees in brilliant red and yellow, the air with a little bite in it one minute, gone the next, replaces with barren branches, a brown crunch under your feet and that dreary cold that gets into your lungs.
This mood probably isn't being helped by my listening to Death Cab and The Submarines and watching "The Last Kiss" -- anyone got a razor blade? But really, it's both my favorite and least favorite time of year. Once we get past Thanksgiving and I can put up my Christmas tree this will all fade away, but right now it kind of sucks.
Anyway, that's enough venting for now. It' just me and the "Ratatouille" DVD on this chilly Saturday (once I make it through "The Last Kiss") so maybe I'll make up for a month-longblog hiatus with some special extras.
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