And I Cried All Night Into My Giant Mobile Phone

Last night, a friend and I celebrated our almost-mutual birthdays by watching, in its entirety, the Lifetime “unauthorized” Saved By The Bell movie. To say that I want those two hours back would, first of all, be unfair to my friend, who opened up her house to me and whose company I cherish — also, it wouldn’t quite be true, because during the course of those two hours, I came up with several ideas for better Lifetime movies that I assume some television executive will see here (because all of television reads my blog), not steal, and subsequently pay me large amounts of money to bring to fruition. 

So, sure, I spent the evening, as my friend put it, neither so excited nor so scared, unless you count the fear I felt when a warning light came on in the car on the drive to-and-from, that I can only describe as instructing me to dive very swiftly into the Himalaya range (I looked it up; the coolant was low). Sure, I spent most of the movie wondering if the director had learned the storied art of filmmaking by doing nothing other than repeatedly viewing Death Bed: The Bed That Eats. Indeed, the pacing, lack of character development, over-reliance on a single conceit, and stilted dialogue and inexplicable jump cuts reminded me exactly of Death Bed: The Bed That Eats — the primary difference between the two filmic masterpieces being that Death Bed’s conceit was better, and its budget was actually about $32, in stark comparison to SBTB, which seemed to have had a $9 billion budget, $8.99 billion of which went to obtaining the rights to “Poison” and “Baby Got Back.”

So here, as I watched 120 minutes of mild arguments between well-mannered teens, with barely a mention (much less evidence) of sex, drugs, or eating disorders (all of which were allegedly rampant), wherein the main dramatic event was NBC network exec Brandon Tartikoff’s debilitating car accident (in which case, they should have titled the movie: TARTIKOFF’S CRASH, AND ALSO SCREECH), were my competing Brilliant Ideas. You’re welcome, television:

1. A behind-the-scenes making-of of 90210

2. A behind-the-scenes making-of of Showgirls

3. Actual Showgirls, especially the edited-for-TV version, which, since most of the film is so obscene, is about 57 minutes long, fully nonsensical, and contains Roger Rabbited cartoon brassieres

4. A Weird Al biopic

Think these ideas are underwhelming and pedestrian? That’s how debilitatingly not-even-so-bad-it’s-fun bad that movie was. I know, I know, what did I expect? I cannot begin to tell you how low my expectations were going in. That this film managed to disappoint even me, who watches The Carrie Diaries religiously, is a feat unto itself.  Its best parts — and I’m talking by considerable measure — were the re-enactment of actual scenes from the actual show. It’s clear that even though the movie was “unauthorized” it was obviously authorized, because there is no explanation for how mind-numbingly free of even the remotest hint of scandal or intrigue it was other than “all the original cast and producers threatened to sue and if they’d won, there go the rights to ‘Poison.'”

 

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A New Look

…not to be confused with THE New Look. I figured that since a) I myself have a “new look” (the fashionistas are calling it “being a giant wide-load”), I should do a miniature makeover around here as well.

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Here’s me looking, erm, buxom, with my best friend Billy Budd.

So, here’s my new look. My life, for now, has gone sans serif. Sans. Motherfucking. Serif. Living wild. Wild, I tell you. What’s next, buying a horse? 

Yes, I Am Bad At Blogging, Here’s Caftan #2, and It’s My Birthday

Whoop-dee-fuckin’-do, amirite? Anyway, I’ll be back to, you know, saying things, as soon as I can muster up the energy/desire to be picked on. For now, you get this. I’m 38, and I made this caftan yesterday out of silver and black leopard-print stretch silk. I made it knee-length because a pattern like this would otherwise swallow even my impressive girth whole. My MO right now is big hat + big hair + big purse + big pattern + big sunglasses + big gal = Hooray?

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tl;dr

Please enjoy my newest on Slate, especially if you need a break from polishing the Thunderstorm Contingency Plan pages of your 99-page syllabus.

PS: as I am so vehemently quick to point out, as a freelancer I don’t often write my own headlines. But when I am allowed to keep the hed I wrote, that’s because it’s fucking awesome, and I am comfortable tooting my own horn about “Syllabus Tyrannus.” The end. <3 <3 <3

Is This the Worst Fucking Person in the World?

All right, so, if we’re being honest, I would rank this person well below the genocide-causers of the world, ISIS, Dick Cheney, racists, sexual predators, homophobes, etc. But for an academic, or someone who fancies herself one, I think this Chronicle letter-to-the-editor writer, who penned (in, I believe, no satire) a letter to the readership of the Chron entitled “Is That Whining Adjunct Someone We Want Teaching Our Young?” might be in the running for worst fucking (academic) person ever. So, congrats, Catherine Stuckel, for inspiring me to break my “no ad-hominem attacks during pregnancy” rule. You were worth it.