For you, the dress code is casual.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

That's Some Good Wine, and a bit about Eli Stone and Ikea

My sensational pinot noire has gone straight to my head. So it's a good thing I'm on my third glass.

I had this "I should see what's on now" feeling at 10:02, when I was in the middle of some strange crustacean scene in the depths of Lake Baikal of the tourist hotspot Serbia in the Plant Earth series, and turned on my Guide Plus to see a pilot "Eli Stone" about to play, featuring hallucinations of George Michael.

Naturally, I tuned in. I know, George is a filthy dirty boy who's fucked up a lot in life, but I think he's just the really intelligent, educated, business smart, talented singer version of the fucked up child actor all grown up. I think he's an idiot but I still love him, and I still think his Songs from the Last Century is WAY underrated. What a great, great album of covers. All treated with jazzy cabaret-style big band renditions and George crooning over 'em. That's the music he was meant to make, the music I always hoped to hear after hearing "Cowboys and Angels" 15 years ago. One track from every decade in the 20th century, all given the same treatment, from "Brother Can You Spare A Dime" to "Roxanne".

Nice to see him poking fun at himself. I have every hope he'll get his shit together and realize he's got different ways to go, music-wise, than pop pretty boy, which he doesn't seem able to let go of.

Oh, so, Eli Stone. Well, I think GM's done for now in the episode, but it was great while it lasted. Apparently this show is controversial, from the one site I've look at. Ohkay. Shure. How? We'll see.

Apparently it pushes all the Big autism buttons. You know, conspiracy. Big-biz vaccines. That sorta thing.

We'll see. The first 39 minutes have been good tv, though, and I'm pleased. It means my cable bill's worth paying for another month. This whole writer's strike thing is making me think I should be concerned about the job thing. That'd suck. We'll see. Should be resolved soon. 'Course, this time I'd appreciate a few weeks downtime and I'd... gotta have faith, baby.

(Show's over. Total thumbs up. Dr. Chen fucking rocks. Go, Eli, go.)


This weekend is the reckoning of purge. If I get everything done, I'll head out in the world on Sunday. If not, I'm fully prepared to go three days into the fray, my friends. It entails a visit to Ikea.

Oh, yeah. Ikea. You know girl means bizness. Ikea. Svedish for organization.

Out goes the fuckin' albatross busted-ass dresser that is making my life a complete and under disaster. It'll take ALL my restraint to NOT throw it off my 3rd floor balcony. In a Tom Green/Jackass alter-universe, I'm so pitching that bitch off that balcony.

But in my repressed lower-middle class almost-urban white-girl life, I'll grunt and suffer and risk further shoulder injury trying to hike it down four flights of stairs. Fuckin' MDF. HEAVY, man. What part of the "fake means light" memo did these manufacturers miss, anyhow? God! It broke anyways, dude, and it's heavy! Get your cheap asses over here and hike it down the four flights of stairs your own corporate ass selves, all right? God. Damn Ikea MDF.

Ironic that they're going to solve the problem they're creating. Aside from the four-floor shoulder-straining hike left up to yours truly. (Thanks! Smooch!)

When I lay me down to sleep tonight, I'll envision myself pitching one-drawer-missing dressers off my balcony and watching them splinter, and counting this sequence as I would fluffy sheep bounding over a rickety fence and hedge. One exploding dresser, two exploding dressers, three --whoa!-- splintering-exploding dressers, four...

There's more wine left. Sigh. Whatever shall I do?

Tune in next time for the continuing wacky adventures of Miss Steff and her zany cohorts.