Until the other day, I hadn’t been to the dentist in a long time. Like a long long time. Like such a long time I have trouble translating the true length of my dental hiatus into language. When I finally did go the other day, my new dental hygienist asked me how long it had been:
“A long time,” I said.
“How long?” she asked.
“How many years?”
“Oh I don’t remember,” I lied.
“Like five years? Or ten years?”
“Probably between five and ten years,” I lied again.
Like I said, these aren’t words that come easily. . . .
A. Her being reprimanded for abusing her power as Alaska governor after holding that office less than two years? B. Her view of herself as on a divine mission from a fundamentalist god? C. Her unabashed whipping crowds into a frenzy by repeatedly chanting that Obama is a terrorist?
I’m going with D. When John McCain asked her to be Vice President, she boasts, “I didn’t blink.”
Watching Palin in the VP debate with Joe Biden, I had a strong gut reaction I couldn’t explain: sheer terror at what might happen if this person were President — if . . .
It’s been five years I’ve lived in Minneapolis, and about time I froze my ass off (or some other body part).
When I typed this last Wednesday night, it was 9 below zero outside. 9 below zero? Big deal, you say, if you are one of the one 12apostrophes reader/contributers who lives in Finland, or are someone’s grandparent, and have reached the age of scoffing hyperbole (“9 below? We used to walk to school when it was 9 below, on our hands. With paper bags for mittens. And we were grateful.”).
Now that Veronica Mars is off the air, I have to rebuild my TV-viewing slate from scratch. What better way to do that than sampling all of this fall’s new series? And what better way to alleviate my pain—because, come on, most of those shows are going to suck—than by warning other hapless viewers away from the networks’ lesser offerings?
First up is K-Ville. Premiering September 17 on Fox, this procedural (strike one! Like we need to see any more from that genre) concerns the efforts of the New Orleans police to maintain law . . .
Ridley Scott must have seen Pearl Harborand said, “That’s what I want to do!” And William Monahan, who had split a jumbo carton of Raisinets with Scott, said, “I’ll get you a script by Monday.” What other explanation is there? Since Pearl Harbor, no one can claim ignorance of the historical epic’s cinematic follies; Scott & Co. must have meant to employ them. Judged by those standards, Kingdom of Heavenacquits itself admirably. It nails the trifecta of overblown-period-piece suck.
Writing. William Monahan won an Oscar for writing the departed. He sure . . .