It’s a foggy morning in LA by the ocean, and I started today like I start most of my Mondays — looking through Brandi Cyrus’ myspace page (she’s Miley’s older half-sister). Now Brandi might only be 50% related to teen star Miley, but she certainly got 100% of the ugly genes that are floating atop that family’s genetic pool like fermented, mutant algae. Misshapen, asymmetrical faces, hair like a bad wig, and the world’s worst tooth-to-gum ratio on record are just some of this family’s trademark looks. Now I realize that I’m not the most handsome man in the world…wait, scratch that, I just got a phone call from HMI (Handsome Man International) informing me that I actually AM this year’s “Most Handsome Man in the World” so I guess that means I’m extra qualified to call out the Cyruses and the achy-breaky effect their faces have on mirrors. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against unattractive people in general (Tori Spelling), I just think that if you have the kind of face that makes babies reflexively burst into tears (Howard Stern), then you shouldn’t be plastering that face all over my tv/movies/internet/city. Luckily, we live in a society where men are primarily judged by what’s on the inside, not the outside, so I’m gonna be just fine for years to come — well after my stellar, boyish looks fade into the wise, rugged handsomeness that comes with age — but women aren’t that lucky. Sorry ladies, I don’t make the rules, I just alienate people by pointing out said rules. You’re welcome.
In other news, my continued quest to completely and utterly destroy my liver, leaving nothing more than a shriveled, mangled ball of vodka in its place (yes, you heard me, a ball of vodka. I’m not sure if it’s possible, but I’m gonna keep trying anyway) came to another sad defeat this weekend. I pulled out all the stops, too: had friends in from out of town, attended another friend’s going away party — all the usual tricks for manually forcing your liver to shut down — but nothing seemed to work, and I sit here before you on Monday morning decked out in full University of Michigan attire (PJ pants, hoodie) as a broken, defeated man. Oh well, there’s always next weekend. And since technically my “next weekend” starts today, I had better get my gameface on asap.
I had a friend point out to me the score of the Ohio State Suckeyes’ spring game the other day, and how massive the attendance was. I think she said the score was something like 23-3, Gray beating Scarlet. Now while I love any excuse to salvage football out of an otherwise baseball-laden season, I couldn’t really understand why she was so excited about the score. Because she told me about it as excitedly as if it were an actual game, but the thing is, IT’S NOT. To me, if one side really houses the other in the spring game, that just says to me that either your defense is way worse than your offense, or that your A-Squad is way better than you B-Squad — which is how it’s supposed to be, I’m pretty sure. So if you’re excited about the score of that game, it either means you don’t understand how football works (a definite option with this girl), or you’re legitimately surprised that your first team is significantly better than you second team. Either way, not a good sign. You know what the score of the Michigan Wolverines’ spring game was? Neither do I. Because it doesn’t matter. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve loved to attend the game and see how our boys look for this season, but since I live 3,000 miles away and I’m not being recruited to play football for U of M, seeing that game in person isn’t really an option. The only score that should matter for OSU football players at this point in the season is that 2.0 they need to maintain in order to achieve academic mediocrity and athletic eligibility. And no, I’m not bitter about losing the last several meetings between these teams, who do you ask?
Final thought: people don’t need to be afraid of computers taking over the world and enslaving humanity for quite some time, because until they can build a computer that can run a proper grammar-check without getting a couple dozen items wrong, we have nothing to worry about. Once that paper-clip stops auto-changing “your A-Squad” to “you’re a-squad,” that’s when we should start nervously looking over our shoulders.
My day = twittering (like a boss), writing, showering (maybe), resume-ing, calling the folks to wish them a happy belated anniversary, and getting too geeked out about the season finale of Heroes. Oh and continually name-dropping Alec Baldwin as if he knows/cares who I am after seeing a bad movie with me.