Saturday, January 15, 2005

I Don't Know Where You Get Your Delusions, Lazerbrain

As part of Blonde Champagne’s careful chronicling of George Lucas’ descent into utter batcrap insanity, we present the following from this month’s issue of Vanity Fair, purchased for the pure research purpose of staring a whole lot at a full-color picture of Ewan McGregor in leather boots.

Herein, George discusses why is was actually a good thing that the new Star Wars trilogy sucks in epic proportions when propped up against the original, which he refers to as—and this makes me feel, as a fan, just spiffy—“the children’s trilogy.”

“I could have had that same tonality…” he says. “The thing about children is, they’re exuberant, they’re naïve. You know, they’re funny.” You know, they like movies that don’t suck.

We also learn—and I would like everyone out there to grab onto their desk chairs for this one—that George just might not be the world’s best source of dialogue. “I’m trying to tell a story using cinema, not trying to write a great script,” he says. Well I for one am shocked. So he isn’t trying to write a great script when he sees to it that words like “Sand storms are very, very dangerous” actually come out of people’s mouths?

He then explains that Star Wars is in fact all about how awesome the baby boomers are. “With the Vietnam War we were going from a very idealistic, patriotic-thinking country to a ‘Hey, wait a minute, who’s in charge here? This isn’t what everybody says it is. We’re going to stand up against the system’… it’s really up to the sons and daughters, the new generation, to make up for the mistakes of the last generation.” Because that World War II generation, they really screwed the pooch what with the Hitler-stopping and the democracy-defending and the moon-landing-on and all. Good thing their kids came along to reform them via a constant refusal to shower.

George also confirms in the article that the odious JarJar Binks will return for Revenge of the Sith. In other news, I just blinded myself with a Bic pen.

NOTE FROM THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE: Class, today is my twenty-eighth birthday. Required reading for the next post, which will undoubtedly detail how crappy it was, may be found here, here, and here.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Signs That Western Civilization Is Deteriorating Even Faster Than Originally Thought

1) Seen on a box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars: “America’s Best-Selling Peanut Butter Wafer”.

Well, that certainly affected my purchase. You hear all the time about how devastatingly cutthroat the peanut butter wafer industry is, and knowing that the suspiciously titled Nutty Bar sits alone atop this great nation of ours? Makes me a better person.

2) Heard on a public service announcement encouraging donations to a tsunami relief fund: “We can create a second tsunami—a tsunami of hope.”

That’s beautiful. I’m a tsunami! You’re a tsunami! “I DONATED $500 TO THE UNITED WAY AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS INCREDIBLY CREEPY SENSE OF HAVING LAID YET ANOTHER TSUMAMI ON THESE PEOPLE.”

3) Seen on a Cingular Wireless mall kiosk:
“Cell phone damaged or having trouble making a call? Simply dial customer service at 611.”

Clearly a marketing tool designed for those of us who feel a need to make major personal telecommunication decisions between Things Remembered and the Manchu Wok. As opposed to me, who set up her Cingular account in the middle of a Wal-Mart.

4) Read on a bottle of Walt Disney World At Home Bubble Bath: “Excessive or prolonged exposure may cause irritation to the urinary tract.”

Well, so does the line for the Flying Dumbos, so… it’s appropriate, really.

Monday, January 10, 2005

This wasn't in the brochure.

We freelance writers typically stitch together a patchwork resume to bring home the Prozac until Hollywood calls for the movie rights of our latest collection of free verse poems about the 1988 Winter Olympics double luge competition. Name a job involving a uniform shirt, a name tag, a training video: I have held it.

When I come across a tyrant of a time card signer, I usually make plans to light out for kinder, gentler minimum wage territory as soon as humanly possible. That escape hatch jammed, however, the summer I socked myself into a Colorado ranch two hours from the nearest airport and two million light years from humanitarian aid.

Before I left, I described the place as something akin to a City Slickers setup without the need to birth calves with Jack Palance; once I got there, I began to ache for an employer with Jack’s comparative warm and comforting presence. These managers… these “people”… were the worst bosses ever… ever… in the… I am out of words. I, Writer, lack appropriate analogies. Find your own adjectives in the following illustration:

I worked as a cabin girl, pitching soapy water while the wranglers down in the corral pitched… substances far less genteel. Fine: it was honest work and in the middle of scenery you can’t factor into a paycheck. What wasn’t fine was—and bear in mind, this is but a single example—moments such as the day I was ordered to de-scum a shower stall, one that had clearly not been visited by Mr. Clean since, at the earliest, the Hoover Administration. I spent the morning on my knees, I won the war on hard water stains and I reported to my supervisor, who had graduated from the Wicked Stepmother School of Management, and I stood proudly as she observed the miracle of sterilization I had achieved there in that Rocky Mountain shower stall.

“Next time,” she said, “don’t use so many paper towels.”

Do the best you can, we are told, in all things. Don’t let that lamp burn beneath a basket. Spend your talents freely. Nobody tells us what to do, however, when standing between us and the best we can do is a chief who is clearly George Steinbrenner, only less reasonable. When our work, our very selves, aren’t dealt simple respect, it’s a little difficult to show up with any enthusiasm for the mandatory company picnic.

The finest bosses, I think we can all agree, are those who provide the employees with free liquor at the 10 AM coffee break. Sometimes they go one step further and take seriously the responsibilities of the souls in their care. When the time is right and I am in charge (by “in charge,” I mean as in, “of the whole entire world”) I will look to my experiences as an employee to inform me on the right moves as a good employer.

There will be plenty of paper towels for everyone.

Bounty at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

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