I spent a portion of my last afternoon of freedom watching Barbra Streisand's 1968 movie Funny Girl.

I can't quite articulate the extent of my adoration for it (if I had to, I'd say maybe 10"), so instead I'm going to just run through a few "thoughts" on the movie:

1.) The line "I'm a bagel in a room full of onion rolls" makes me extraordinarily happy.

2.) The line, "You must be around gorgeous girls all the time. I'm probably a change for you" and the reply, "You are" also makes me extraordinarily happy.
(this happiness is obviously more confusing to me, I still can't say why)

3.) My only sizable grievance with the movie is that Barbra is supposed to be playing Fanny Brice (ahem, see above), a funny, but ugly, entertainer. But Babs is GORGE. GORGE and HILARIOUS. I mean even the real Fanny Brice (above right) wasn't so bad. I hate the false dichotomy of pretty vs. funny. Fuck you C. Hitchens, you will never get laid again. Ha!

4.)A lesser grievance, and one that musicals are prone to, is the sex-via-a-song insinuation. The only musical I can think of that features outright sex instead of song insinuation sex, is Ave Q. But that's puppetry so it doesn't count. In Funny Girl the sex insinuation song is even worse because it's sung as what the characters are thinking but not saying out loud. So Nick sings "You are a women, I am a man...You are softer to the touch, I like that very much" in his head, while Babs sings, "It's a feeling, oy vey it's a feeling."

I'm sorry but if the writers were realistic about what those characters were thinking about during sex the song would go thusly:

Nick: "omg, I'm getting laid. Tits. Pussy. Tits. Tiiiiiiiiiits"
Babs: "Do I look fat? Do I look fat? Do I look fat?"


But despite these minor criticisms Funny Girl might be my new favorite movie-- I can't understand why I didn't find Babs as my jew girl role model earlier in life.

This weekend I'm going win a million at the slots, so I can finance Riesling's and my life to go as follows each day:

10am: A bagel w/Funny Girl

2pm: Lox w/Funny Girl discussion group

6pm: Kosher Chinese takeout w/ Funny Girl bloopers and extras

To the young naif who arrived at my blog via the Google search "Is there such a thing as the perfect life?":

First let me just say I'm honored PerfectRatio was within the top ten results, and I'd be nowhere near as perfect without the sizable bosom of my mother and my assorted vibrators.

But the answer my friend, is no.

Struggle onwards!

Best,
PR

Twenty-three poor girls just looking to buy a little friendship got unceremoniously ejected from sorority life at DePauw University last November, as the NYT's reports, under the guise of being "insufficiently committed."

And by "insufficiently committed" Delta Zeta headquarters meant the girls were insufficiently committed to purging, nose jobs, and peroxide-- all twenty three were overweight and also included the only members of color in the sorority.
Now I usually avoid empathizing with those who live the Greek life, but my heart softens a little for pretty chubsters and minorities (I'm like a really good person). So girls, for a small monthly due, I willing to cook with you, gossip, watch MTV, and figuratively, okay maybe sometimes literally, hold you down on the bed for drunken acne-ridden frat boys. Individually Unique, Together Complete! 4 eva.

Happy President's Day!

In honor of the old men who once ruled this nation, the New York Times offers a headline piece on the marriage of two of our baser cultures (perhaps relevant because they're made up of voters who put the current president in office): NASCAR and Harlequin Romance books.

The female stock of this country apparently aren't being satisfied by the heaving bosoms of yesteryears: you know, those heaving on pirate ships, plantations, and various sundry locations in 18th century England. The stuff that once had me glued to the toilet seat as a small pubescent girl and may be responsible for my initial milkmaid-esque sexual encounters (hands up over the head, a face that says "Take me on the haystacks!")is no longer good enough, perhaps too antiquated, for the modern woman. Charming English accents, well, Harlequin's transcribed version of charming English accents, have given way to a Southern trailer drawl. High adventures at sea, ladies being coerced into marriage, have become ladies showing their tits for a Bud light.


Besides for the obvious unsexy-ness of the protagonists (call me elitist, whateva), the new litter of NASCAR themed romance novels don't seem to even be romantic. Take, for instance, this example of one of the modern Harlequin plots:

"Last year, with Nascar’s approval, Harlequin successfully published three Nascar-theme books, including one in which the heroine, an ex-kindergarten teacher, falls in love with a Nascar driver after first being hit by his car and then driving his enormous motor coach from race to race."

Please bring sexy back.

Happy Valentine's Ladies

Feast your eyes on this (not Jimmy Kimmel)

The Will of the People...Rendered Inaudible, Perhaps Profane.

Q Does the President think that the role of the Commander-in-Chief is so powerful that he can ignore the will of the people as manifested in the election and also in Congress?

MR. SNOW: Helen, if you can find somebody who says that they want us to fail in Iraq, then perhaps --

Q That's not the question. I --

MR. SNOW: No, what you asked was a very vague question about the will of the people.

Q It's not vague.

MR. SNOW: Yes, it is, because if you want to talk --

Q I want you to -- do you think the power of a Commander-in-Chief is so all powerful that he can ignore the people?

MR. SNOW: The President never ignores the people. And that's why it's a tendentious assumption on your part that somehow the President runs roughshod over the will of the people. But he does have an obligation to keep the people safe --

Q -- ignored --

MR. SNOW: No, he doesn't -- if you get a non-binding resolution, he certainly is not going to ignore it. But on the other hand, he's going to do what it takes to keep you safe, and everybody in this room safe.

Q That's not the question.

MR. SNOW: Oh, yes, it is. Au contraire, Helen.

Q It is, is he going to ignore --

MR. SNOW: I got to tell you, you've got to understand in this particular case, when the President is thinking about national security, he understands the importance of opinion. He shares people's opinion that what's going on is --

Q (Inaudible.)

MR. SNOW: What do you think --

Q -- responded to it?

MR. SNOW: He's responded to it. He's responded to it by laying out a new way forward --

Q (Inaudible.)

A Collection of Space Jokes

Based on the absurd fodder that is the substance of the news story blogged about below, Talia and I decided to dedicate a post to "You Know You've Been in Space Too Long If....." Honestly these will be a lot funnier if you're on drugs or coming down from a NY Burger & Co. lunch high.

You know you've been in space too long if you wear diapers during car rides.

You know you've been in space too long if you drop your coffee because you set it in air for a second to put on your gloves.

You know you've been in space too long if you pick up an oatmeal raisin cookie, hold it to your head, and exclaim loudly "Wow, this is cookie is bigger than my face!"


You know you've been in space too long if "69"ing seems unbearably difficult.

You know you've been in space too long if the wind on Earth forces you to shout on a crowded sidewalk, "Fuck! My! Face!"

You know you've been in space too long if Fly Me to the Moon: Getting the Most from Your Martian is your favorite self-help title.

You know you've been in space too long if Live a Little, Launch a Little: Five Steps for Widening Your Social Orbit is your second favorite self-help title.


More to come as transmissions are received, but please feel free to add.

There's a right way and a wrong way to kidnap someone

and this is the right way:

"Lisa Nowak, 43, drove hundreds of miles to confront a rival for the affections of a fellow astronaut, wearing diapers so that she would not have to stop."


I'm sure the smell of shit adds to the delight that is captivity.