« February 2008 | Main | April 2008 »
Sorry I've been AWOL from the blog for a couple days, but I was trapped inside a giant colon!
When I finally got out, I watched one of the world's top classical pianists play ping pong at a Steinway store in Fort Worth.
Needless to say, it's been a bizarre few days.
Those wily guys at Google are at it again.
If you went to "google" anything today (March 29), this is what you got.
The Google guys were expressing solidarity with the World Wildlife Fund, which asked everyone everywhere to turn off their lights for an hour between 8 and 9 p.m. local time -- Earth Hour -- as a symbolic demonstration against global warming. They included an explanation of their effort.
A nod to Al Gore for creating the internet?
-- T-Bone
In Zimbabwe, $10 million will get you 2 rolls of toilet paper.
So, can you spare a square for $27,000?
LA company creates greeting cards for your beloved behind bars.
Shanks for the sentiment, dear.
Canadians try to "Caddy Shack" pesky gophers, start grass fire.
Um, it's a Cinderella story...
Woman pulls gun on deliverymen who refuse to take off their shoes.
No biggie. Last week, she threatened to kneecap the gardener.
Russian shepherd sues space agency over fallen rocket parts that nearly crushed outhouse.
This guy doesn't take any crap from anyone.
he giant magician/comedian couldn't conjure up enough hoo-doo voo-doo to keep him dancing, and neither could Monica Seles. She's sweet as could be, but about as graceful as Michael Moore at a Republican fund-raiser.
My only wish is that this show, and its sadistic taffy-pulling producers, would give the heave-ho to a few more couples each week so we could get to some real dancing.
It's a flavorless crop of stars this season -- Kristi Yamiguchi is an elegant dancer, but she's got the personality of an ice skate. And Jason Taylor, well, the hunky football star is great -- if you like dancing mannequins.
So please, oh, please, just boot Toyota Carolla and The Gut and the way-too-bubbly Broadway girl, and get on with things, puleeze!!
At first I think, "Why didn't I come up with that?" and then, "There's a reason ..."
Tania Cowher, a commercial photographer in Austin, "thought it would be fun to provide everyday people with the experience of being a celebrity," according to her Web site, Celeb4aday.
For a nominal fee (for people like us) we can live the dream: have our own personal paparazzi follow us around on a downtown outing, fall over themselves to snap our picture outside the concert hall, pepper us with questions like, "Where's Britney?!" and create a scene as they loudly greet us at Planet Hollywood. Famous.
Evidently there's quite a market for this, and of course there would be. Cowher's company has expanded to Los Angeles and San Francisco. (Can Cowtown be far behind?) Time magazine recently featured this trend.
TV did a bit on it this week, showing a guy on the street getting caught up in the excitement of a Celeb-4-a-Day nobody lit up by parazzi. He quickly pulls out his camera-phone, clicks a snapshot of her and turns and asks, "Who is that?"
It's Amanda, duh!
-- T-Bone
Along the lines of man bites dog, we've got ...
Nine police officers chase down stolen doughnut truck.
The thieves were said to be glazed and confused.
Workers p.o.'d about Qwest's suggestion they use portable urinal bags.
Human resources suggests additional potty training is required.
Mom arrested after 6-year-old daughter pulls off bank job.
Her two-year-old was driving the getaway car.
Man gets stolen Mustang back -- 38 years and 300,000 miles later.
Boy are his feet tired ...
World's most expensive apartment goes for $240 million.
But that includes free cable.
Not to sound like a cranky old man, but here's a high-gloss version of what's wrong with sports today.
Sure, it's just a Nike ad, but somewhere there's a rage-aholic Little League dad watching it and getting a bit too revved up. Or a high school football player trying to resist the urge to take steroids, who'll see this and give it a another thought. Or a little kid who will think it's OK to be a trash-talker because, well, LT of the San Diego Chargers is doing it right there on my TV.
It's a shame, I think, that Nike has to resort to that to keep up with the UnderArmors of the world.
Sermonizing, over and out.
David Spade really is one of our most underappreciated sniveling little actors on the planet. ...
Come to think of it, he reminds me of the waifish scientist guy who landed on Lost -- just one of the many annoying "mysterious" characters who have parachuted onto the Grand Central Station of deserted islands this season.
While I'll admit my esteemed colleague makes some compelling arguments in favor of Lost, and, unlike me, has actual information to back up her opinions, she's clearly spent too much time in the hatch.
I mean, if I have to endure another "emotional chess match" between Locke and Ben, I will shoot them both and toss them in a mass grave. And how many times are the islanders going to get fooled by Juliette? And then forgive her!?!
And did Kate have Sawyer's baby in the flash-forward and just name it Aaron? Or is she really raising Claire's baby? Maybe the dingo ate her baby?
No matter, Claire's probably gonna eat it tonight.
Now, I'll admit that Lost has thrown some intriguing possibilities into the sea this season, but it's like a drunken octopus who's been blinded by a jellyfish -- all of it's tentacles flailing around in so many directions that its bound to sink and die a slow, painful death.
OK, even I confess that made no sense. Top that, Heather!
I was just having a conversation with a friend about Lost, which is one of the few shows I make a point to watch every week. She thinks it's great this season; I think it's about as exciting as Jack's facial hair.
From what I can tell, I'm the only who feels this way. It's gotten hosannas all around, but all I can say is I'm glad that tonight is the final show for awhile. We're promised another key character will bite the dust.
Promises, promises.
