PunkKittyDiddy

The REAL Reason Why 80s Power Ballads Make You Sick To Your Stomach: You Might Be A SUPERHUMAN GENIUS!

There was this intriguing show on the Science Channel last night called Real Superhumans - it featured people whose senses are far more advanced and attuned to sensory stimuli than average, and whose senses are sometimes intertwined in atypical ways, allowing them to "feel" colors, "see" mathematical algorithms come to life, "taste" music and so on. 

Sure, feeling colors and seeing weird crap is nothing new, at least not for those who've dabbled in hallucinogens.....but the prospect of tasting music raises a lot of interesting questions.  Would that head in the obvious and literal direction?  Would the Rolling Stones taste like brown sugar?  Would the Beatles explode on the tongue in a smorgasbord of strawberry fields, honey pie and savoy truffle, washed down with a hippie hippie shake (a variation of a chocolate shake, but with a strong herbal aftertaste that imparts the ability to see colors, as noted above)?  Would a steady diet of Britney Spears' bubble gum pop indeed prove toxic?  Bad taste would actually be a literal affliction, instead of a matter of opinion.  That kind of blows my mind. 

I've never been able to stomach the musical pablum churned out by the ongoing parade of American Idol winners, whose subsequent debut albums bleed together like an endless loop of call center hold music.  All this time I've suspected I was merely suffering from high standards, but perhaps I'm superhuman and possess mysteriously intertwined aural receptors and taste buds instead?

Highly unlikely, however - perspective eventually rears its sensible head sooner or later. Real Superhumans also featured a gifted painter who was born without eyes, which certainly puts me back into a more mundane context.  I can put on a good show about being a working mum who spins plates like a pro, until you put me in the same room with some tenacious and talented trooper who has had to overcome real obstacles - like, uh, HAVING NO EYES - at which point it becomes obvious that I whine a bit more than my circumstances really warrant.  

I can breastfeed and type simultaneously, however.  That's surely impressive as far as second-rate minor sub-superpowers go.......

Clip of the Day

A little something to tide you over.......

COME WITH US NOW ON A JOURNEY THROUGH TIME AND SPACE....

Partly because I've been piddling around with a few other half-baked entries, and I'm torn as to which one has any potential whatsoever, but also because I never get tired of the Boosh schtick.......click on the link below to behold the terrible, magical fury of The Howard Moon Elite Elbow Patch Collection:

"Look at the range of colors - going all the way from deep, profound muffins, through the angry beige, right out there to a very aggressive nutmeg......."

'Eels' is one of my favorite episodes.  I don't think incontinent tone-deaf Victorian hooligans are featured often enough as The Villain in television or film these days.

Adventures in Channel Surfing: "Make Me A Supermodel"

Convalescing has its perks (albeit few).  More leeway to catch up on viewing television instead of dusting it, for one thing.

Make Me A Supermodel starts where America's Next Top Model left off, and the world is a far funnier place because of it.  I happened to catch my first episode last night.  Geez, I needed that.  Kind of hard to believe that a whole sub-genre of elimination-based modeling competition reality shows has emerged, but whatever.

Added bonus that this show goes where ANTM feared to tread, on a number of levels - for one thing, they've thrown himbos into the mix!  Oh yeah!  Upon initial contemplation, you might assume that the words "genius" and "male model" could never peacefully or convincingly co-exist in the same sentence, but watch and learn: it is genius that Make Me A Supermodel has seen fit to shove some male models onto the catwalk, along with the requisite skeletal 19 year old girls, for our viewing pleasure.   I guess it just appeals to my feminist side to have dim-witted boy toys to poke fun at, too.

Frankly, it's always gonna be amusing to hear aspiring models of either gender waxing eloquent about how they're NOT just modeling because they are, as Ben Stiller's Zoolander once so eloquently put it, "really, really, really ridiculously good-looking," but also because they, like, want to inspire other young people out there to follow their dreams and believe, like, that anything is possible.  Heck, anything is possible if you are really, really, really ridiculously good-looking, and your only goal in life is to be photographed appearing really, really, really ridiculously good-looking, right?

Beyond the oft painful attempts to wax eloquent, there's the more literal pain associated with the waxing of assorted body parts, which again has become something of a mandatory scene in the modeling show sub-genre, but at least the boys breathe some new life into it.  In last night's episode, the pack of himbos twitter nervously amongst themselves after being herded into a beauty salon for a waxing session.  We then proceed to watch one lad with Farrah Fawcett hair get his nipples waxed, and he giggles like a demented Cro-Magnon schoolgirl when asked to describe the experience.  In fact, he lifts up his shirt to reveal the hairless nipple, and even though he was actually there at the salon for the waxing, he seems stupefied all over again as to how his teats came to be naked.  No, really - you have to see the expression on his face.  This scene so beautifully encapsulates the most perfect possible use of the word "stupefied."  It's like Tarzan was whisked out of the jungle by an army of spa aestheticians and dropped into a vat of hot wax....you can't help but want to stay tuned in order to watch poor Tarzan react to that magic picture-taking box that flashes like lightning when it's time for the photo shoot!

Then you have the panel judges who engage in lengthy and dead-serious analysis in order to decide which really, really, really ridiculously good-looking nitwit should be placed on the chopping block and voted off the catwalk. The somberness employed is reminiscent of the current crop of CNN pundits discussing the merits of assorted presidential candidates:

Judge #1:  I don't know....Krista is a really striking looking girl, but....I just don't know ....

Judge #2:  Totally!  These pictures from the photo shoot....

[The judges mutter sadly amongst themselves.....)

Judge #3:  Yeah, she just didn't bring it this time.......

Bring what?  The laxatives?  The cocaine?  The Yorkie in a handbag?  (One downside of this show is that for those not fluent in modelspeak, it can be a bit difficult to follow at times.)

And last night, they actually made the models dress up as S&M circus clowns before facing the elimination judges!  I kid you not.  As a general rule, I don't want to be the sort of person who gets her kicks by watching another human being, even a reality show contestant, having a full-fledged nervous breakdown on television in front of the whole wide world, but surely I can get some sort of karmic pass if there are models involved, and if they furthermore happen to be wearing leather harnesses and clown make-up at the same time.......I mean, in the midst of the economy tanking and endless warfare and rising crime rates, isn't it OK to secretly be the teensiest bit delighted when a really, really, really ridiculously good-looking person is sobbing because they have not been voted THE most really, really, really ridiculously good-looking person in the room?  Where's the harm in that?

Maybe it's the Pepto Bismol talking, and/or maybe what little common sense I had left was expelled from my body along with everything else during this unpleasant bout of Volcanic Butt and Mouth disease, but this was the most fun I've had in ages.....bear in mind that I rarely leave the apartment, so the bar is set pretty low.

Anyhoo, back to changing nappies and scrubbing the kitchen floor.  More soon!

Booze = Boosh

I got I.G. drunk last night (well, technically, he got himself drunk.....my role simply involved saying, "No, not at all!" when he repeatedly asked if another glass of wine would be unwise....), and we finally ordered a multi-region DVD player from Amazon.com!  YAY!  Since it was not a premeditated purchase (at least on his part), and the purchase will not come as a surprise to me (me being the one who pushed the "Complete order" button and all), it doesn't even count toward my Christmas present quota, so there's still more good stuff to come on Christmas day!  Mwahahahahahahaha!   

OK, Mata Hari I ain't, but at least allow me my delusion that I possess artful feminine wiles, rather than merely a fiancé with an overwhelming love for fine wine.

Anyway, this is good news because (for those of you unfamiliar with basic DVD technology) this means we can now watch DVDs from the UK, which in my unbiased opinion is merely where the best comedy in the world comes from.  As a matter of fact, this DVD box set is now headed our way as I type.  YAAHOOOOOOOO!  Yes, it's that age-old strategy of buying a gift for a loved one that is really for yourself, although I.G. finds the Boosh as riotously funny as I do, so I'm still acquiring relatively good gifting karma. 

And P.S., for those of you who consider yourselves clever, NO, you have not spotted the fatal flaw in my gifting plan - I.G. doesn't read this blog (I've never provided him with my blog site, because I rather enjoy the sensation of having a secret second life, even if nothing untoward happens in it because it wholly consists of pecking away at a keyboard), so the surprise remains unspoiled.  More to the point, I.G. has an inkling of what's coming anyway, as he wanted to buy the box set along with the DVD player, and I had to pose to him a hypothetical situation in which Santa would be forced to pay him an early visit and rough him up a tad, sending a message to others who wish to buy coveted gifts for themselves so close to Christmas and leave their hapless loved ones with naught but proverbial breadcrumbs where clever gift ideas once were strewn.......I.G. agreed that being manhandled by the Jolly One did not sound like much yuletide fun, so I believe we reached some sort of unspoken agreement there.

And that is how PunkKittyDiddy, armed with only a bottle of wine and an unopened can of Santa-sanctioned whup-ass, saved Christmas.........!

P.P.S.  Lest I make it sound like it's all about the prezzies, we're actually cutting back significantly this holiday season, what with me no longer bringing in steady income, and it's not all that depressing (which I rather feared it might be).  I know we're pretty lucky overall with the life we have, and if there were to be no other presents whatsoever beyond that DVD player and the Boosh box set, I'd still be stoked!  All I want for Xmas is to cuddle up next to I.G. on the couch after Z. and C. have gone to sleep and watch every episode five times over.....plus we'll be snorting ourselves silly with laughter for years to come. 

Torchwood

  I've really been digging Torchwood on BBC America.  Besides It's Always Sunny.... (which is on at such an appallingly late hour, I'm often collapsed into a forgetful heap of slumber by the time it airs.....ack, the perils of old age!), Torchwood is really the only show I'm watching consistently at the moment.

It's somewhat casually spun-off from Dr. Who, but I'm enjoying it far more.  It triggers my nostalgia for the now defunct X-Files, for starters, what with the obvious alien-hunting cops parallel, although there's that decidedly British flair present, and not just because the characters are speaking with limey accents and having tea willy-nilly.  Well, maybe it is the accents and tea....I'm not sure.  What do I care?  I'm an Anglophile - the accents and tea are good enough for me.  Though it doesn't hurt that there'll be precious little smoothie drinking, tanning bed action or stupidly obvious product placement either.  Even the car chases come across as more dignified somehow.  (Imagine the American cop pursuing the bad guy in an American show - would he really take the time to call up his quarry on their cell phone and say, "Pardon me, but would you be so kind as to stop?  Otherwise I'll be forced to continue to pursue you......"?)

I always thought John Barrowman should have had Tom Cruise's career.  He's better-looking, and more importantly, better able to wield irony and nuance as an actor.  Then again, would I really wish Tom Cruise's career upon him?  Maybe Barrowman comes across as more talented precisely because he's never uttered lines like, "I feel the need, the need for SPEED!" while playing bare-chested volleyball.  Important Comparison #2:  Barrowman is comfortable enough with his sexuality to be openly gay.  Cruise has a whole entourage employed whose sole function is to make him look like a convincing hetero (well, except for those times he's uttering lines like, "I feel the need, the need for SPEED!" while playing bare-chested volleyball.)  Important Comparison #3:  Barrowman simply hunts space aliens on a TV show.  Cruise prays to them in real life.  Such is the price of suppression, I guess.  At any rate, I know who I'd rather be riding shotgun in a car chase with.

Wow.  That was a long, winding tangent.  Er.....sorry.  Thanks for riding shotgun with me on that one.

Watch Torchwood.  It's inventive sci-fi fun.            

Project Runway 4

  And the hits just keep on comin'..............finally an ETA (November 14th, to be exact) on the fourth season of Project Runway!  Hurrah!

I know, I know....most reality shows sift through the dredges of humanity for cast members whose only goal in life seems to be appearing on national television.  And most such reality shows basically aim a camera in the faces of people who are whining about be forced to interact with other people they don't like, be it on an island or in a boardroom or in a bedroom.  Please.  I already hear everyone whining about being forced to interact with other people they don't like everywhere I go - standing in line at the post office or grocery store, applying for a parking permit at the city parking office, or visiting my folks during major holidays.  Sometimes I chime in with a bit of whining myself in these situations.  So I wouldn't find it all that entertaining or relaxing to go home and turn the TV on in order to suck up more whining just for whining's sake.  It strikes me that as I'm writing this, if I were speaking instead of writing, I would be whining.  So let's move on.

At least on Project Runway, the participants possess a modicum of creativity and talent - and some of 'em have it in spades.  I mean, if I were told to wade through a recycling bin, find stuff with which to make a proper dress, assemble it and have it runway ready in 24 hours, I'm pretty sure the end result would be a dress that still looked exactly like a crumpled newspaper, with maybe some styrofoam peanuts for earrings if I were feeling particularly fancy that day.  There's no way I could whip up an evening gown made of aluminum cans and duct tape that could pass for something you might actually see in Vogue.  (OK, OK, yes.......there is the argument that certain ultra-arty, decontructionist garments in Vogue do occasionally resemble items more likely to be found stuck to the bottom of a garbage bin.....rather like Will Ferrell's haute couture designing character Mugato in Zoolander who creates his new fall line, Derelicte, based on homeless "style"...........but I digress.)  I'm just saying that the PR competitors have at least studied their craft, and it's pretty cool to watch the creative process unfold, in a deadline-driven, pressure cooker environment to boot.  Which means that in addition to watching these often highly talented craftspeople plying their art, as they start to crack under the pressure, admittedly they do tend to whine.  (Hey, it's what works about the reality show formula, right?)

It would be cool if Z. will watch this show along with me in seasons to come and learn a little something about inspiration and creativity.  So if you see her decked out in a onesie seemingly made of partially decomposed banana peels and half-digested Cheerios.....it's not your typical toddler sloth, it's art.  Cheerios are the new black, after all. 

But don't worry - we draw the line at snot-and-poo encrusted overalls.  (Overalls are so last season.)

Does Nyquil Work On South Pacific Pygmy Gypsy Flu?

I've been getting repeatedly sucked into two riveting shows on TLC - Mystery ER and Diagnosis X.  Not shows that I'm ever intending to watch on a regular basis, but inevitably I find myself channel surfing at roughly the same time every night while laying in bed with Z. and nursing her to sleep and getting some cuddle time in (yeah, yeah, bad habit, I know, only I don't have any good habits lined up to replace the bad habit with, so we're kinda stuck), and these damn shows keep popping up.  Much as the titles suggest, they are both medical mystery reality shows, starring real doctors, and both feature re-enactments of people walking into the hospital with very pedestrian complaints (headache, sniffles, fever, etc.), and finding themselves diagnosed with, you know.......a tapeworm lodged in the brain, or, say, a really rare and obscure 1-in-1.7-million-people-get-it disease that is more typically diagnosed in male pygmy gypsies living on some remote island in the South Pacific. 

One episode even featured a couple who were building their dream home themselves from scratch - while cutting up the lumber, they neglected to wear protective masks, and it just so happens the lumber they were using was treated with a chemical that, if inhaled, resulted in arsenic poisoning.  I think we can all learn a valuable lesson from this - namely, that being industrious and budget-conscious can kill you.  Then again, I'm a laid-back shopaholic, so I might be coming at this with a bit of bias. 

At any rate, Mystery ER and Diagnosis X are not good shows for me to watch.  I'm already paranoid.  If I feel so much as a twinge in my elbow, my first thought does not tend to be, "Hmmmm, I bet that's due to bumping my elbow on the door frame when I wasn't paying attention to where I was going a second ago."  My first thought is always, "Elbow cancer."

I don't think I am your typical hypochondriac, exactly - because I tend to not share my fears of elbow cancer, or brain tumors, or accidental arsenic poisoning, with anyone else out loud.  I just quietly let my fears fester.  Yes, I'm well aware of all those studies indicating that bottling up stress and worry can make you sick - I've already devoted ample hours to stressing about that, too.  And now, thank goodness, there's a TV show or two that can point out all the other diseases out there I wasn't even aware of that could tiptoe up behind me and permeate my immune system, or elbow, or wherever.

These shows have the added charm of interviewing real doctors who confess to the camera, "We don't always know what we're doing!" or even "Man, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with this guy, and he was obviously moments away from death - I nearly crapped myself!"   I appreciate that doctors are fallible human beings, capable of crapping themselves if spooked, just like the rest of us, but I'm not sure I want to be reminded of this.

And yet I keep watching.  Why?  I'm not sure.  Perhaps the segment of my genetic coding that is responsible for this is the same one that has infused me with a love of horror movies.  Maybe I just enjoy a good, benign, cathartic scare.  Hopefully this likes-to-watch-slasher-flicks-and-doom-mongering-medical-reality-shows gene is not next to one that will make me more susceptible to an acute case of South Pacific Pygmy Gypsy Flu down the line.......but you never know. 

Scary.

America's Next Top Narcoleptic Who's Mildly Attractive.....

....is what the show should be called.

I admit it. I caught part of the America's Next Top Model season premiere last night.  And watching the premiere was more than enough to tide me over for the rest of the season.  The show used to be good - what's not to love about cramming a dozen starving nincompoops into one apartment and watching the fur fly?  Plus it's just darn amusing to observe girls whose loftiest ambition is to model.  Better yet, so many of them combine this with a simultaneous bid for the Nobel Peace Prize by insisting that their main motivation for modeling is to "be an inspiration to other girls everywhere."  Yeaaaaaaah.  Hopefully earning mountains of cash for doing nothing, driving a Ferrari, and dating movie stars won't get in the way of the altruism.  (Not that they'll reach that pinnacle, anyway.....they would have to actually look like...you know....a model for that to happen.)

I understand that reality shows must cast in order to generate the most drama and conflict, and I'm obviously taking the title of the show too literally.  But casting for the past few seasons really took a nosedive somewhere along the way......they're now trolling the gutters and trailer parks and psych lock-down wards for fresh meat that is relatively easy on the eyes (if you've got double cataracts and squint really hard).  Plus the producers and Tyra keep casting their net for the same stock characters over and over again.  There's the requisite Hard-As-Nails-Beeyotch who likes to say stuff like, "I'm here to win this thing, and anyone who gets in my way is gonna GET CHOKED TILL SHE BLEEDS FROM HER EYEBALLS!!!!!"  Later in the season, she will protest that she is misunderstood - she's not a bitch, she's just a "strong woman" who happens to enjoy choking people till they bleed from their eyeballs, that's all.  And don't forget the Pretty-Girl-With-A-Random-Medical-Disorder.  Past season contestants have represented partial blindness, lupus, and serious fainting spells (I don't think that girl was a full-blown narcoleptic - I think she just forgot to eat....).  This season's poster girl is representing mild autism.   Frankly, I think Tyra is just looking for situations in which she can cry on cue, embrace the afflicted, and say in a quivering voice, "I think you are so....brave....for being here.  Now stop rocking back and forth saying, "I'm an excellent driver! Kmart sucks!" and go fix your lipstick."  On last night's opener, there was even a girl with a Brooklyn accent that was so strong, it was a speech impediment: "Yeah, I've always wanted to mawhduhl 'cause them broads are real classy...... yo, where's my f***in' nailpawlish??!?!?"

It was excellent comic fodder, but being busy with a toddler this time around, I have to budget my television-watching time a lot more carefully, and there's a whole slew of other shows to poke fun at this season.  Did you hear they've built an entire sitcom around the GEICO spokescavemen?!  Seriously.  I might have to take a gander at that.  Here I spend months on end banging my head against a wall trying to write original comedy screenplays, and it turns out that coming up with a new hit show is so easy, a caveman can do it............

Stay tuned.