PunkKittyDiddy

The Pre-K Music Video Critic: Whereby Billy Idol Fails to Do Anything Right

Z. is now five years old, and she's developed a keen interest in music videos.  Given our desire to impart in her a love for the arts, and a healthy respect for pretty much any form of creative expression, this should come as no surprise.  What is slightly surprising is that, despite our attempts to mold her into a free-thinking bohemian of some sort, she's developing unmistakably pragmatic leanings. 

I offer up Z.'s initially staid observations on a small and not-so-random sampling of music videos:

Upon beholding Billy Idol's complete lack of social decorum at a formal affair in 'White Wedding':

"He ruined that wedding." 

[Editor's Note:  Yes.  Yes, he did.  And this is just ONE of the many pitfalls that one can expect when one marries a musician, little missy.]

Upon beholding Billy Idol acting as a gyrating human semi-conductor to repel well-coiffed zombies in 'Dancing with Myself':

"That's not really how you kill zombies."

[Editor's Note:  No.  Not it's not.  SO proud that she knows this.]

As I teetered on the brink of despair, fearing that we were saddled with an unrepentant and slightly dour realist for the next thirteen years, she soon rallied.

Upon beholding Billy Idol merely riding a motorcyle in 'Hot in the City':

"He's riding a motorcyle.  That's all he's doing.  I don't like this video."

Poor Billy. He can't win.

"I Don't Know How She Does It"

I'm not seeing this damn movie. After beholding the nincompoopery of the trailer, it got stuck in my craw and has been jackhammering around in there like the Tasmanian Devil on crack.  Why?  

The title pisses me off.

While I realize the title is likely meant to be coy and purely rhetorical, it falls sooooo short of the mark, it's ridiculous.   A box of rocks could figure out how she does it.  The trailer drops more clunky, minivan-and-farm-silo-sized clues than an F-5 tornado.

Clue #1:  Some of Sarah Jessica Parker's trademark banter is lobbed at (wait for it......) a nanny.  Let's mull over that one a bit.  Nanny?  Nanny.  Not ringing any bells so far.  Nanny.  Naaaaaanny.  Ohhhhhhhhh.  Nanny.  Right.  They must mean "nanny" in the "person who takes care of your kids for you" sense of the word.  (Not to be confused with the "female goat" connotation.)  

Indeed, Sarah Jessica Parker's character can comfortably afford one of those nanny types.

Were this the extent of it, there would already be sufficient evidence to allow for a title change to, Hey, I Think I MIGHT Know How She Does It.

Clue #2:  In this flick, Sarah Jessica Parker is married to Greg Kinnear.  Now, Greg isn't playing a sensitive, doting and earnest wife murderer as he did in The Gift (2000).  Noooooo siree.  It appears that he's merely playing a sensitive, doting and earnest husband.  One who'll do the bulk of the parenting and still gaze adoringly at her even though she's too tired to put out.

With this sort of ludicrousness in hand, I could make a strong case for retitling the movie, Are You SURE You Can't Figure Out How She Does It?!?!

Clue #3:  Sarah Jessica Parker's big-time, career-making client is played by Pierce Brosnan - a suave yet wholly understanding mogul who says things to her like, "It's OK to miss your kids."  He appears to be seconds away from offering her a foot massage.

Really?  That's it?  That's the big-time, career-making client with whom she must curry favor?  Not Will Farrell's Mugatu from Zoolander?  Not Kevin Spacey or Colin Ferrell from Horrible Bosses? Not Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada?  Not even Dabney Coleman from 9 to 5?

At this point in the trailer, I made a mental note to refer to the movie henceforth as, If You REALLY Can't Figure Out How She Does It, You're A Drooling Half-Wit.

To the film's hapless heroine, I can only taunt:  Call me when you grow some lady-balls and have a real obstacle to complain about.

 

Bad Blogger. Bad.

I keep falling off the blogging bandwagon.  Which doesn't halt the world's spinning on its axis or anything, I realize.  (Um, what an awesome ego stroke it would be if that were the case.  Except for the fact that we'd all likely die.) 

Anyway, I will try to be more consistent with the blogging, since it's good practice for....being more consistent.

In my defense, I've been busy with the usual.  The freelance writing. The mom-ing.  And I've launched a new venture, hawking my wares on Etsy!  A few random items are featured to the right, or just follow this link. 

That's been super fun.

More.  Soon.  (I swear.)

 

Oy, My Aching Mandible.....

En route to the pediatrician for an annual check-up, Z. asks me, "Does everyone have to go to the doctor?"

 

Me:    "Yes."

Z.:      "Even grown ups?"  

Me:    "Of course.  Even grown-ups."  

Z.:      "Even ants?"  

Me:    "What an excellent question.  If they do go the doctor, they probably keep it within the species, you know?  Not unlike our society, they can't all be manual laborers.  It stands to reason that some of them must go to medical school....."

As usual, I was talking out my a**.  I thought we should consult an expert.  I don't actually have access to an entomologist, but since we were already en route to the doctor, perhaps he'd know if other species have also been known to produce overachieving type-A personalities who are determined to drive fancy imported automobiles and shop at Neiman Marcus. 

When Z.'s check-up was underway, I say to the doc: "My little friend over there was wondering if ants have to go to the doctor, too?"

He rolls his eyes, then looks at Z. and, without missing a beat, he says,  "They go to therapists.  What, you've never seen the movie 'ANTZ'?"

It's L.A..  We're all a little bit showbiz-obsessed.

Potty-Mouthed Parrots In Proximity

True story.

We are lucky enough to have very cool neighbors.  One of them is an ex-Marine and current construction worker.  He and his wife are transplanted New Yorkers.  They own a couple of parrots (although judging by his reaction to them, I'd venture they are more hers than his).  Now, those parrots talk.  It may or may not surprise you to learn that the vocabulary spewed by a couple of parrots who live with an ex-Marine, former New Yorker and current construction worker is very colorful.

Lots of mornings begin with the parrots squawking, and our neighbor shouting, "F**K OFF!" at them.  Those two parrots give as good as they get, let me tell you.  They volley a massive round of "F**K OFF!!"s right back at him (in stereo, no less).  Sometimes our neighbor can't help but engage with them.  (Maybe it's a Marine thing?)  More "F**K OFF!"s from him.  More "F**CK OFF!!"s from them.  This can go on for a good ten minutes.  (It only feels longer sometimes........)

You would think this would be a really annoying way to start the day, but it's weirdly hilarious, and mostly it just makes me giggle.  Also, it helps to put my day, and my own pet ownership issues, in perspective.  It's not like I'm being awakened by the sound of gunfire tearing through the walls of my mud hut in the Congo or anything.  Plus, our dog and our cat may have their own idiosyncratic and sometimes maddening personality quirks......but at least my pets can't tell me to go screw myself. 

Counting your blessings is a really good way to start the day.  That's all I'm saying.

She Calls 'Em Like She Sees 'Em

The other night at bedtime, Z. was adamantly refusing to do that whole "horizontal, silent and motionless" thing.  Refusing, and making her point in no uncertain terms.  Of course, four year olds can dispatch melodrama like nobody's business.  You'd normally have to travel to Naples and get stuck in a rush hour traffic jam there to witness the level of hand-wringing and gesticulating that she was unleashing in my general direction.  It was like my very own instant Tuscan vacation!  (OK, not really........)

So I ask her, "How many more times am I going to have to tell you to stay in bed?!"

Her response?  "Lots."

Pass the vino, please.

Adventures in Netflixing: "Nine"

 Daniel Day-Lewis is only one of a handful of actors who could even attempt to convince me that being surrounded by a bevy of beautiful, smart, passionate and/or talented women who adore him is every bit as torturous as being stricken with cerebral palsy, or being falsely imprisoned for an IRA bombing he didn't commit, or being tried and hanged for witchcraft in Salem. 

And yet........what a silly, silly premise.

Disliked Nine for that and a whole host of other reasons.

Next?

The Pre-K Cinema Critic: "Predator" (1987)

I feel one of my parental obligations is to provide my child with a solid foundation in culture and the arts.  Immersion in classic cinema is an important part of this curriculum.

Cue Predator (1987), which was showing on Spike the other night.  It was edited for television anyway, plus for a nearly-four-year-old, she is already sporting a serious sci fi/supernatural genre preference.  (Gee, I don't know where she gets that from...)

At any rate, she didn't think much of this movie.  More specifically, she didn't think much of the characters.  And it wasn't a "You call this a character arc?" or an "I don't find his stoicism in the face of mortal danger to be believable" development-related complaint.  She didn't even take issue with the typically terse, action-movie-appropriate Ahhhnuld-esque dialogue.  Rather, she felt the characters were too wimpy, and she completely lost interest during the scene where Ahhhhnuld and his gang of fellow commandos were crawling G.I. Joe style on their bellies through the jungle undergrowth toward the enemy camp.  She watched this segment with a fair amount of incredulity, and could barely contain her disgust.

"They're crawling," she pointed out.  "Like babies."

I never really considered it from that perspective before, but yeah - I guess they were.

(And yes, her anti-baby smear campaign continues....)

What I've Learned From The World Cup So Far

1. Never prance around in a big budget, globally telecast TV commercial in which you're depicted as an invincible immortal before you've won the top prize.  (I'm talking to you, Rooney.)
2. Bragging about what you're capable of diverts energy away from proving what you're capable of.
3. There is no such thing as a sure thing.
4. No matter how confident you are that God is on your side, try to get it in writing* before you proclaim it to the world.  (* Burning bush, parted sea, or comparable token gesture may be substituted for written contract....at your peril.)
5. Watching penalty shoot-outs after having consumed four or more cups of coffee within a two hour time frame is ill advised.
6. Mutiny is only effective if you have a pirate ship, a plank, and shark-infested waters at your immediate disposal.  It's also probably more convincing if your name is "Blackbeard" or "One Eyed Jack," not "Patrice."
7. I should buy stocks in the largest global manufacturer of body paint before 2014.
8. I should buy stocks in the largest global manufacturer of silly wigs before 2014.
9. I need to invent a more obnoxious noisemaker than the vuvuzela, manufacture it, and market it globally before 2014.  We'll trademark it and call it the "Pernicious Piehole Pipe of Perturbation," because it will be amusing to force sports commentators to say that repeatedly.  Who's with me?!?!?!?!?

The Christopher Walken Finishing School for Girls

Admit it.  It's a great freakin' idea. 

Now if I weren't already reasonably sure that Christopher Walken hasn't opened some sort of etiquette-focused finishing school for girls, I would suspect that little Z. (who is now the ripe old age of three and a half) has been stealing money from my purse and spending it on tuition at such a place.   

Not to digress, but.........am I dating myself for even using the term, "finishing school"?  Although, in this era in which ladies of a certain elementary school age are more likely to pack heat than know which one is the salad fork, maybe Christopher Walken would be a more relevant tutor than, say, Emily Post.

Back on topic:  Z. is blossoming into a friendly, albeit fearless, little lady.  Alas, it's a sad commentary of our times (or maybe just of life in Los Angeles) that she'll often approach others (kids and adults alike) to say, "Hi!" and gets no response.  She routinely gets blanked. People stare back at her like she's mugging them for milk money.  I get that we don't live in Mayberry, but are manners that out of vogue?  Would it kill people to stop sipping their half-fat grande lattes (yes, even the kids on the playground are hipsters) long enough to say hello back?  

It's OK, though.  She's come up with a solution.  It's a tad tough love, but hey - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. 

Today we were browsing in Marshall's, and Z. walked up to a random lady.  "Hi!" Z. said.  The lady looked at her with a "Does not compute" expression, then redirected her attention back to lovingly caressing the impressive assortment of polyester blouses in front of her. 

Z. persisted with another "Hi!"  Still no response.

Z.'s eyes got wide.  Buggy, Christopher Walken-manning-the-phone-lines-of-the-Psychic-Friends-Network-in-that-SNL-sketch wide. Actually, it wasn't just in her eyes.  She was channeling him.

She says to this lady, in a slightly unstable tone, "I SAID HI!  YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO SAY HI BACK!"

I'm pleased to report that this is how you get a response to an attempt at casual conversation in the greater Los Angeles area.

Z. then proceeds to browbeat this total stranger into having an actual conversation with her.  Just to make a point, I think.  She normally doesn't give a rat's ass what most adults have to say beyond "Hi."

Sheer genius.  Usually I try to keep Z. from harassing innocent bystanders, but I'm sorry - that broad had it coming.  If she'd just said hi back, things wouldn't have had to escalate into full conversation mode. 

I shudder to think how Z. will react when someone uses the wrong salad fork.  Plus, now I can vividly imagine taking her to the symphony, resplendent in a fancy dress and perhaps even gloves, only to have her suddenly shriek, "MORE COWBELL!"

Stay tuned.....