You're Kidding, Right?
1 April 1999
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
|
You're Kidding, Right?
1 April 1999
|
|
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
I dreamed my office crush became the new Snack! lady, and I was paralyzed by my choice: love or immediate oral gratification? It wasn't an easy choice, no, not at all. Love could result in immediate oral gratification, though. Why shouldn't I have both? No, she said. Choose wisely, but quickly. I froze, paralyzed with indecision, knowing that I wanted to have it all, love and Ding Dongs in equal measure. Then I woke up.
If this were an episode of the X Files you know what would happen next, right?
9:08: Uh oh. Someone's hired Keanu Reeves for another sf movie. The Matrix. Maybe he's found his forte as a simulacrum. His agent finally realized he looks manly and in control as long as he doesn't have to emote much. Stick him in some distant future where his job is to react with a stupified expression ("Well, see, he represents Everyman confronted by the exigencies of a world gone mad where the technology Haves are trying to stave off the rebellion of the technology Have-Nots") and he's box office gold. A good career move, that.
I'll still go see the movie. Have to, don't I? A sci fi guy, aren't I? Channeling Yoda, I am. He's my hero. No, really. Lives alone in a swamp, speaks in metaphors and farce masking serious commentary on serious issues, nods off whenever he needs a quick nap, makes pungent fun of youthful arrogance, gets to wear a kimono around the cave. A special Jedi robe, right, whatever. I have a special robe I wear around my place with some Star Trek insignia on it. I got it cheap at a convention. No one else would buy a red bathrobe. You know what happens to the guys in red on ST. Sssszt! Foam cubes. Or plant food. Anyway, they were cheap and I needed a bathrobe. How much of a demographic can there be for crappy Star Trek merchandise? Uh, don't answer that.
11:42: This CD by the Spice Girls isn't half bad. For what it is. Which is pap. But sugary, gooey, bouncy, jiggly pap. Kids these days with their pierced whatnots and mile wide pants doing the hokey pokey and calling it hip hop. There's something about Baby Spice, though. Maybe I shouldn't have had that fourth cup of coffee, I dunno. More sleep, that's the answer.
