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Save Knut!

In all the flurry about the furry, adorable polar cub, many ignore the larger question: Should the "animal rights" activist be put down? Clearly, he has not been reared properly amongst the Germans and is not fitting into his Natural Habitat. He probably doesn't like beer or Fassbinder films or even a good Riesling, for heaven's sake.
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You know it's bad when you cherish a tooth extraction, and a day lost to bloody gauze and daytime TV (I watched As the World Turns, no lie), over going to work.

On Friday morning I was sitting in the dentist's chair, listening to Billie Holiday (they let you choose your own music for the procedure; how cool is that?), when the dentist's assistant plopped a rather large teddy bear into my lap. Before that, the bear had been eyeballing me from his seat in the corner, coolly assessing my weaknesses: Sure, muthafucker, you said you can go with needles and the local. You don't want the doctor to think you're a pussy. Thing is, I think you're a pussy. A BIG pussy. Apparently the assistant thought likewise.

Over the hiss of laughing gas and Billie, I saw the glint of the needle.

"Squeeze the bear!" shouted the assistant.

The needle slid into my gums.

"SQUEEZE THE BEAR!" shouted the dentist.

Feebly, I squeezed the bear. I heard a drill.

The next thing I knew, the blinding light was off, the bear was in a very compromising position between my legs, and the dentist was grinning at me. "Well! Whaddya say?"

"All done?" I mumbled.

"All done!"

"Holy crap."

"That's what I say! I'm writing you a prescription for Vicodin and I'm going to give you a brief lecture about presecription painkillers..." Well, he didn't quite say that, but he did lecture me. So not only do I have WUSS written on my head, I have POTENTIAL DRUG ABUSER renting space up there as well. (I still have plently o' pills left. Come on-a my house, I'm going to give you Vicodin. Vic-o-din.)

And so I've been on a diet of oatmeal, yogurt, soup, smoothies, peanut butter out of the jar, and crankiness ever since. Because I am dying for a bagel or a slice, you know what I'm saying?

Now that I've bored you with dental talk, onto movie chitchat!

The Battle of the Bads )
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We all know what it means when a black cat crosses one's path. But what about...a gray squirrel?

I nearly forgot to share our recent DVD misadventures. Netflix sucks worse than a two-dollar whore at the Gem Saloon because...we are currently in the midst of renting season 1 of Rome. After consuming disc 3, we pop in disc 4...only to discover that masquerading in disc 4's envelope is...disc 6. You know, the sucky disc with all the bonus features that you only watch if you're really bored or drunk. Woe. We report the problem to Netflix and send back the discs, fully expecting disc 4 & 5 to arrive for our viewing pleasure over this weekend past.

This time in the disc 4 envelope is...disc 3. Which we've already seen. {Another angry email sent, the disc shipped back, and we are nervously awaiting what the postman brings.}

In lieu of Rome, my spouse was charged with the duty of renting DVDs at a local store. She picked Syriana (which hurt my brain, in a good way) and...A Prairie Home Companion.

Let me tell you about my relationship with this Midwestern phemonenon. Picture a young holy, living in a communal household in an urban area, faced with the weekly task of making dinner. Picture her only entertainment as coming from an old FM radio. Picture her happily listening to the local NPR station while making a tofu curry casserole until the dreaded hour when...A Prairie Home Companion came on the radio.

The numbness coursed through my limbs. It was a peculiar sensation, this hostile boredom, as I was forced to crumble tofu in a pot while listening to the soporific voice of an unfunny man followed by tedious musical numbers that involved yodeling or banjos or...

"Hey, is dinner ready yet?"

...or unfunny fake commercials...

"You are using up the tofu, right? It's gonna go bad soon."

...yes, the tofu covered my hands. I was helpless. "For Christ's sake, CHANGE THE STATION."

"Why? I think it's kinda funny..."

"Anything. Classical. Punk. Cock Rock. EZ 101. I DON'T CARE. CHANGE THE STATION."

"It's quaint. I don't understand why you don't like it...only real Midwesterners don't like A Prairie Home Companion, and you're not a Midwesterner."

It was too late. I was unconscious, face down in the pot of tofu, nearly killed by my own sleepiness. The curry irritated my eyes something fierce, but I was fine within a few days. I still love curry, though.

Needless to say I barely lasted 15 minutes into the movie. Barely.

More later on the Other Truman Capote movie, Infamous.
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Robert Wagner scares me. The voice, the dead, beady little eyes.

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May 2013

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