Watching all the movie credits

The movie’s over. I know this because I hear the strains of some shitbox Celine song and I see credits rolling.

This is my cue to vamanos. I saw Scream 2. The theater’s still dark. I could die if I stay in my seat popping Milk Duds. Anyway, I have to hit the head. It was a 90-minute movie, after all.

There’s just one problem. Peen Shalit next to me is gazing at the screen as though it’s the beginning of Star Wars or a Magic Eye image.

Excuse me, sir, did you work on the film? Are you in the business? Did you happen to be in Utah during Sundance last year? Is Jeremy Piven your second cousin? Do you think there’s a clue to an episode of Lost embedded somewhere between the grip and best boy credits? Do you sleep with your eyes open? No? Then why are you still sitting there? You’re blocking my passage and the ushers need to clean up the remnants of your jumbo combo snack box before the next screening.

Sure, if outtakes or additional footage have been added to the credits, hang out. I'm right there with you. I don't want to miss Will Ferrell ad libbing hilarity, either. But that's not usually the case. If you have to watch the credits because you’re avoiding going home to an empty or angry house or because you’re an aficionado who says “film” instead of “movie” and takes your two-week vacation during your city’s film festival, at least have the decency to sit in the middle of a row so I don’t have to play impromptu aisle Twister. Consider doing what any self-respecting film buff does: study IMDB when you get home.

If I have to give you one more lap dance as I’m leaving The Squeakquel, I’m going to pack a boom mic in my bag along with my contraband snacks and go Darth Maul on you.

(photo: hereinmyhead.wordpress.com)

Giant balloons

I love me a marching band and I admire the ephemeral art of a flower-festooned float, replete with a has-been or never-was singer, but I don’t really get the point of a giant Underdog balloon. You can’t play with it, you can hardly see the details of it from ground level, and it takes a small army to keep it from taking flight. Is the point to create something large enough to be seen from space? I think Kayne’s ego and Opryland Hotel pretty much have that covered.

In a year where Balloon Boy took us on a fright of fancy, helium’s never been so hot. But sorry to burst your bubble, Buzz Lightyear, but I think the hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs to create, fill, and parade you down Seventh Avenue could be better spent feeding the homeless during the holiday or hiring Rick Astley to rick-roll a few floats. Didn’t we learn anything from Mr. Stay Puft? Giant inflatables are freaks of nature and bound to give kids nightmares.

Stick a fork in these things, already. (Unless, of course, you want to bust out a blow-up Rob Pattinson, in which case I might be forced to reconsider my position.)

(Photo: nytix.com)

New Year’s Eve

My “top” New Year’s Eves:

• 1970-something: Mom and dad went to some party at the Holiday Inn—the motel where mom waited tables—and left me at home with my two older brothers. My Mrs. Beasley doll was decapitated that night, a harbinger of the tragic NYEs that were to come.
• 1987: Me, Lois, and Chris in Chris’s basement drinking Jager and playing euchre while wearing U-M boxer shorts. This would have been fine except for my inability to hold my hooch. I think I hurled around the time Weird Al was explaining his secret hangover recipe to Joe Piscopo on MTV. Poor timing, indeed.
• 1989: I was freshly heartbroken and covering the Rose Bowl for the yearbook, so I was in L.A. with the staff photographer. We wound up at a giant alumni party in the Valley on New Year's Eve, where I ran into my ex-boyfriend with his new girlfriend. I spent the night walking around the party with a 12-pack, dispensing beers to people who had a reason to live. I then sped back to the hotel on one of the freeways in a fugue state, stayed up all night, and then downed gallons of black coffee in the Rose Bowl press box…where I was seated next to my ex-boyfriend, a sports editor for the Michigan Daily. Oh, and Michigan lost that year.
  
• 1994: Me, my boyfriend, and a giant party at the Washington Hilton—the hotel where Reagan was plugged—with a few thousand of our closest strangers. We left in short order. The highlight of the night was getting a lift from one of the idling limos, which were acting as gypsy cabs while waiting for clients.
• 2004: Got stoned with my best friend while teaching her to knit and watching Gigli. This officially marked my march into spinsterdom.
• 2008: Me, a sorta boyfriend (who drank too much and eventually passed out), and two gay bears sat on the couch and watched Mythbusters. Holla. Oh yeah, he broke things off the next week via IM. This really set the tone for the massive suck that has been 2009.
• Tie for first/worst: 1990 & 2003: 1990 found me in Detroit, partying it up with my college friends at a party at the top of the RenCen. I wish I could say I was drunk, but I was just dumb-ass stupid. I went up a down elevator…or tried to. After a scary ambulance ride to Detroit Receiving with a driver who resembled Large Marge, I spent five hours getting my Frankenknee stitched up while hiking up my Ann Taylor skirt to avoid bloodshed and eyeballing the motley crew around me. One poor woman sat in a chair, holding her face because her boyfriend hit her with a bat. A dude in red briefs was shot in the thigh at a nightclub and bloody rags surrounded his gurney. And a guy was chained to his bed because he was caught stealing a Rolex; his head was swathed in bandages like he was a Dickens’ character with a really bad toothache. He didn’t have a toothache; the po po beat him. I couldn’t bend my knee for two weeks, which made driving a bit of a challenge. Fast forward a decade and change, and you’d find me at Bob & Barbara’s, a dope dive bar in Philly, watching my boyfriend kiss a guy in front of me. I walked out and left him behind. I wish I had the sense to ditch New Year’s Eve as well.

I've wised up and punched this holiday in its festive fucking façade. Should New Year’s Eve be forgot and never brought to mind? Hells, yeah. If I want to stay alive, I’m now finally ignoring this most ignoble of days.

What was your worst NYE experience?

(photo: cheapoairbuzz.wordpress.com)

Blabbing on red-eyes

You’ve made your connection, and he’s in the aisle seat. It’s like some sort of dreamy Sofia Coppola movie and you’re the romantic lead. You’re enjoying pillow talk with a sexy stranger who may be your true love, or at least your ticket into the mile-high club. Sorry to interrupt, but can you do me a favor?

Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

I don’t care what time zone we are currently flying over—my internal clock and my wristwatch say it’s 3:30 in the morning. I took this flight and an Ambien because I’m good at sleeping on planes. I have my rituals: I don’t drink caffeine, I listen to Joni Mitchell laced with Sufjan Stevens, I wrap myself in my giant knitted shawl.

All I ask is that a bratty toddler not kick my seat and that you Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

Even with headphones on, I can hear you yammering away with your life story and relationship history (which, from the sounds of it, you might want to keep to yourself until the third date; just a thought).

When I ask if you could lower your voices because every other single person on the plane is trying to sleep (as evidenced by the pitch-black cabin and profusion of navy blankets, sleep masks, and earbuds), you stare at me as if I just killed your dog. I explain that of course you have the right to talk but that I’m just asking for some courtesy of your fellow travelers. Bring the volume down or I’m going to descend into madness and punch you in the face. Forget about true love’s kiss from Prince Charming in 18C. Your kiss is on my fist when they turn out the lights.

What passengers have you wanted to kick the crap out of during a flight?

(photo: flickr.com/photos/wenzday01/3357083325/)

Pajamas as outerwear

While I’d like to think of life as one big pillow fight, it’s not. It’s not a slumber party, and the frozen food section is not Maria Greene’s basement, as much as I sometimes wish it were. So why are you wearing pajamas and slippers as you’re reaching for those Totino’s Pizza Rolls? Put them back and put some clothes on. I think you can find some in aisle 10.

Dressing has become more and more casual as we slip on flip-flops and pull on fleece hoodies for all sorts of occasions. But nightgowns, flannel PJs, and bathrobes cross the Casual Friday line and step into crazy, depressed, or another state of mind that might demand medication or, at the very least, light therapy.

Admit it: you’ve thrown in the towel. You might as well just curl up in the fetal position under a Snuggie and give up. I won’t kick you while you’re down but do me a favor and keep your crazy behind closed (perhaps locked) doors. If you don’t, I’m going to surprise you in the bedding aisle and whack you with a big-ass pillow until you wake the fuck up and change out of your crib clothes.

(photo: reidaboutit.com)

Erotic asphyxiation

I don’t know about you, but I want to be conscious when something feels gasp-out-loud good. Like many mountain climbers, I don’t want to be oxygen-deprived during life's seminal moments. I saw Rising Sun and took it as a cautionary tale. Don’t have sex on the boardroom table during an office party (that’s what supply closets are for, natch) and don’t allow yourself to be choked during the act. (And don't ever question Sean Connery when he's sporting a beard, but that's another story.)

Even if you don’t die, you could lose consciousness and then be susceptible to death or other indignities. Do you really want to go out as Gasper the Friendly Ghost or a Darwin Award nominee? While they left behind impressive bodies of work, the late David Carradine and Michael Hutchence will always have the taint of autoerotic asphyxiation hanging over their heads.

Honestly, isn’t a cock ring or a playful slap-and-tickle enough? If you keep experimenting with ropes, shoelaces, and such, I’m going to have to punch you in the neck. I can help you lose consciousness, and it will be anything but erotic.

(photo: mortonbranding.com.au/)

Mash-ups

I like to think that some things are greater than the sum of their parts. For instance, each TIWTPITF post is pretty rad in and of itself. But when seen in total, it’s mind-blowingly awesome. But then there are mash-ups, video, literary, and musical medleys that are pretty much pastiches of crap. Crap + crap = huge steaming pile of crap.

I never really like medleys at awards shows. They always seem disjointed and rarely flow from one song to another with any finesse. But musical mashups actually are released as singles, as though they are a new, interesting creation.

Guess what? They’re not.

Then there is the current literary trend toward mashups. Take Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, for example. I had an open mind, and not the kind that gives zombies access to my brains. But this new interpretation of one of my most beloved books is a monstrosity, and not in a good way. The co-“author” just took Jane Austen’s public domain text and sprinkled zombie shenanigans around key scenes. As I read it, I just kept thinking that the zombie text was getting in the way of Austen’s elegant, biting prose. I wanted to get back to the meat of the story, which has nothing to do with the undead or Charlotte Lucas’s increasingly gray pallor. The concept was admittedly genius (I love me some Quirk Books) but I want substance with my style, not a hackneyed attempt to ride on the coattails of a literary giant like Jane Austen.

If you uninspired leeches continue to co-opt legitimate works of art and bleed them of their brilliance, I’m going to have to bring about some bloodshed of my own. And no, it doesn’t involve snacking on the undeveloped right side of your cerebrum.