Tag Archives: Humor

May I Opine on The Muppets?

A few years back, a colorful committee convened to craft with care and concern a film designed to make a late 30s/early 40s parent cry 5 to 8 times.

That film was The Muppets.

But what if you want to enjoy some Muppets with some moppets without them seeing you cry?

Muppets Most Wanted. All the wackiness, none of the calculated nostalgia.

Contra nearly all published critics, I like the second reboot more than the first.

For the third, may I request that Disney feature the Electric Mayhem? And revive 60s San Francisco rock? A Big Brother and the Holding Company-style version of “Rainbow Connection”?

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Book Reviewlets: The Essential Dykes to Watch Out For

You, like me, were wondering. Every night, the salty breezes blowing across the bow of your yacht. Wondering while savoring the peaty elmish notes of scotch.

Scratching your chin stubble and wondering.

What’s the best way to relive the Iraq War?

Through Rachel Maddow’s and Errol Morris’s investigative cinematic journalism?

Through dinner parties where everyone comes dressed as their favorite CNN hologram?

Through nightmares of Abu Graib?

Man. What a bummer. Except for the hologram.

Thinker for Hire, are CNN holograms the only answer?! They CAN’T BE?!?!

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Lydia Millet at the End of the World

I’ve now read five books by Lydia Millet. All tremendous. All completely distinct in feeling.

Each time I read one, I spend some time reminding myself that this particular one was written by that same author. Really? I ask myself. Really! I answer.

But despite their stylistic or tonal disparities, each book is about the the same thing: the way that humans are destroying the world while building new worlds to hide from themselves the devastation already in their wake.

In other words, each book is about Los Angeles.

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Book Reviewlets: Everyone’s Pretty

A Christian Scientist, a delusional messianic boozer pornographer, and a drag queen walk into a bar. The bartender says, we don’t serve your kind here.

So the Christian Scientist duct tapes his wife to the toilet, the messianic boozer plots elaborate capers, and the (after-hours) drag queen goes back to his management job at “Statistical Diagnostics.”

They all live in LA. Obviously.

That’s pretty much the plot of this book, Lydia Millet‘s fourth book, from the mid-2000s.

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It’s OK to Laugh

I’ve been trying not to feel so angry about the patriarchy today. So my media diet today is at least 60% funnies. Only 10% news about Ariel Castro, San Diego, Texas clinics etc. etc.

And lo, Richard Lawson surely salves my wounds.

For example, the Daily Show made hash out of the royal baby’s non-royal grandparents living in “Buckleberry,” which is named in nigh the Englishiest way possible.

Lawson upped their comic ante a zillionfold:

This week People magazine, which is about people, will tell us all about the new life of Prince George, the little squirming heir recently born to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, William and Catherine. Thus far, little Georgie is being raised unconventionally, not kept spirited away in a dark, candle-lit Kensington Palace chamber, attended to by wet nurses and lady maids, as all heirs have spent their formative years for a thousand years. Instead, Wills and Kate have taken the child to Bucklebury, where Kate’s parents, a pipe-smoking badger and a hedgehog wearing an apron, have a home and where little Georgie will be cared for by his parents, by his grandparents, and by one solitary housemaid. No army of nannies just yet, no attendants or onion-smelling tutors. It’s only family for now, plus one housekeeper, giving the little prince the most normal early life a royal can have, perhaps. Everything will be charming and pleasant there in Bucklebury, which is near Biggleby and one town over from Crumbly Crossing. A little wisp of smoke floating up from the thatched-roof cottage’s chimney, the smells of warm baking things, the countryside rolling and green. All will be so nice, in little Bucklebury, until a chill falls upon the little glen, and a dark steed approaches the house, whinnying and snorting. The door opens and a man strides through. “Harry!” Kate calls. “What a pleasant surprise.” “I want to see the child,” he says gruffly. “This… heir.” Kate smiles, suddenly a little unsure of the mood, and says “Of course. He’s your nephew. I’m sure he’d love to see his dashing Uncle Harry.” And so she takes him, warily all of a sudden, to the baby’s room, and Harry stands over the crib, glaring down at it. This thing, this new thing, standing between him and what he just realized, not but a week ago, he’s so desperately wanted all along. [People]


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