Taking one for the team

The other day I did something completely selfless: I didn't go to work. Not at all! Not even for a little while! On a workday!

And it was all for you, dear readers! I know that there have been days when you've felt a bit peaked* and have considered staying home, but you've thought, "But what would I do all day? Won't all that free time and relaxation be hard to manage?" Thus, I decided to bravely explore the treacherous unknown terrain of the Sick Day so that I could make it safe for all of you.


And explore I did! have prepared a detailed map of the best way to handle your day at home:

7:00: Wake up. Note sore throat, swollen glands. Turn off alarm. Rejoice.

9:00: Send "staying home sick" email to work. (Eliminates conundrum re: Should you fake a sorer throat than you actually have on the phone. Not that your sickness is fake or anything! but risk that primordial instinct for exaggeration will take over cannot be ignored.)

9:05: Realize that, in preparation for impending move, you have efficiently packed all books and DVDs. Reconsider sick day, but persevere.

9:06-10:30: Sleep on couch.

10:30-11:00: Eat bagel while reading Entertainment Weekly. Learn that Rosario Dawson grew up as a squatter and ponder why Al Gore looks like a Chinese Leonard Nimoy. Deep thoughts for day: check!

11:00-12:00: Watch World Series of Pop Culture on VH1 (and cosponsored by Entertainment Weekly; did EW brand the sick day when I wasn't paying attention? Is this blog entry a copyright violation?). Find experience more enjoyable than average gameshow-viewing: World Series is low-budget in authentic way; e.g., contestants mutter snarky things about opponents under their breath and you can kind of hear them; unflattering lighting makes even pretty players look wrinkly, worried, accessible. Consider feeling like failure when you do not know many of the answers (The name of the boat in Jaws? The cost of a vowel?), but decide to take positive view that this means you do not watch too much TV, after all.

12:00-1:00: Sleep on couch.

1:00-1:20: Eat cereal while reading Entertainment Weekly. Read about drug problems of guy who plays Jay in Jay and Silent Bob; find desire to watch Clerks II increased not at all.

1:20-3:00: Flip back and forth between HGTV and "How Do I Look" marathon. Consider feeling superior to makeover victims who cling to much-too-large sweatpants and torn T-shirts like life rafts, but then wonder how self would react if large hoodie sweatshirts were taken away; reconsider superiority.

3:00-3:30: Sense impending feeling of slothfulness, self-loathing. Get off couch, do dishes, take bath.

3:30-4:30: Look at the internets (in chair, not couch). Find world depressing, but design-conscious pet decor inspiring.

4:30-5:30: Concerns re sloth can be safely abandoned after 4 pm; return to couch. Watch portions of Stepford Wives (remake); note movie is very bad, Nicole Kidman's immobile forehead makes her look like bat. Return to HGTV; find fear of homeownership increasing; switch back to VH1.

5:30-6:00: Eat Spaghettios while reading Entertainment Weekly. Make note to self to take magazine's advice by watching Weeds on DVD and visiting catsthatlooklikehitler.com.

And there you have it! Don't all those unstructured hours seem a little less scary now? Be brave, dear readers, and explore the Sick Day yourself!

*Peaked, not PEEKd, as in "How sad for Britney, she peaked at 17 and now it's all downhill," but PEEK-Ed, as in "You look a little bit peaked, T&A Girl," as my mom used to say, which literally means "you are not wearing any makeup so you look kind of pale and I am acquiescing to your obvious desire to stay home today."

Excuses, excuses

If you've been worried that my nearly month-long absence means I'm pulling a David Lat and abandoning my blog for greener pastures, never fear, I'm not going noplace. What's my excuse this time? Well, I'm passing over my usual "I'm lazy" in favor of the bolder option: I've been busy! Shockingly, I even have something to show for it: Mr. T&A and the T&A Kitties and I are joining the propertied class by buying a house. Consider yourself warned: In the future you can expect to see discussions of such issues as paint colors and patio furniture (if things go well) and second jobs and foreclosures (if not so much).

Contemplating which excuse to use to explain my absence has led me to reflect on what makes a good excuse. Popular culture, in its endless bounty, has recently provided us with several impressive examples:

Zidane: The French soccer star who headbutted the Italian player and got kicked out of the World Cup final says he doesn't regret it because the other guy insulted his sister and sick mother, made a comment about getting with his wife, or called him the "son of a terrorist whore," depending on who you talk to.
Discussion: The mother/sister/wife combo captures the the ultimate trifecta of unforgiveable disses, and Zidane's savvy refusal to say exactly what the insult was allows our imaginations to cavort about in a filthy mess of sexual/religious/racial possibilities. On the other hand, he screwed up a game that I understand a lot of people care a lot about. I give it an B+.

The Italian guy: Said he couldn't have provoked the head-butt by calling Zidane a terrorist because "I'm ignorant. I don't even know what the word means."
Discussion: Huh? There may be some kind of different-cultures-how-can-we-possibly-understand-one-another explanation for this, but that's lame--a good excuse should transcend our differences, if you will. This barely gets a C-.

Britney: In the midst of the gum-chomping, hair-not-combing, boob-flopping, mascara-clumping, maternity-hooker-clothing-sporting glory that was Britney's interview with Matt Lauer, Brit-Brit managed to explain that she drives with her baby in her lap rather than in a car seat because her family is "country."
Explanation: At first glance this might seem as inexplicable as the Italian guy's "ignorant" thing, but upon further examination you realize: No, it actually works, because you really believe it. I totally buy that Britney remembers sitting on her dad's lap as a little girl--albeit probably a 6-year-old, not an infant--and that she has ignored all the information about car seats that one might have picked up in the intervening 18 years. Also, the word "country" itself is great--it's relatively innocuous, but it invokes a rich tapestry of stereotypes about trailer trash that are reinforced by Britney's aforementioned appearance. Good job, Mrs. Federline--I give it an A-.

That's it for now, folks. Tune in next time, same bat-channel, couldn't say what bat-month.

Wonkette hotties contest demonstrates democracy's failure

The whole Bush v. Gore, Grandpa-Abe-voting-for-Buchanan thing made you wonder, but now we have definitive proof that democracy does not work. Behold David Copley, the male* winner of Wonkette's recent White House Hotties competition:

19.5% of the vote, people. I'm not questioning the assertion by one of his flunkies that he's a "gentleman" to the ladies, which, I do not agree that simply not being a date rapist qualifies you for praise, but the point is that this is a hotties contest. Mr. Potato Head in an off-the-rack Republican Senator wannabe getup is not a hottie. By contrast, behold Jeb Mason:

That cowboy hat and those teeth . . . only 17%. Where is the justice, people? Where is the eyesight? I pose to you that feudalism is due for a comeback.

*The winner of the female half of the competition, Taylor Hughes, I have no quarrel with. She is undeniably hot, with her smirky smile and her tall volleyball player/prom queen vibe. The fact that she's Karl Rove's aide also highlights her likeness to the Evil Queen in Snow White, who objectively speaking was the second fairest of them all. That goes pretty well with DC's not-quite-as-cool-as-New-York-or-maybe-even-Philly complex.

The wisdom of the non-chart

Again it is time for a brief amount of thought which you should pretend is in chart form:

In: Pitying Britney
Five Minutes Ago: Worshipping Angelina
Out: Identifying with Jen

In: Reproduction
Five Minutes Ago: Renovation
Out: Reinvention

In: Anti-estate taxes
Five Minutes Ago: Anti-gay marriage
Out: Anti-sex

Your revolution is over, Mr. Lebowski

Last week I attended a Big Lebowski Music and Movie night at the Arlington Cinema & Drafthouse. Whilst outwardly keeping my cool, inwardly I had anticipating this event the way a 5-year-old with a jones for Legos looks forward to Christmas morning.

So, predictably, I am now feeling some post-Lebowski malaise.

The first problem was that I didn't have enough time to pull together a good costume. I had had visions of going as the high school cheerleader version of Bunny Lebowski, or (as per the suggestion of loyal reader Toolstein) the gold Maude Lebowski Roman Goddess/Viking outfit from the Dude's dream sequence.

However, my day job having gobbled up the time I would have spent costume-shopping, I instead ended up throwing together an interpretation of the Dude's outfit in the opening scenes of the movie: plaid shorts, undershirt, bathrobe, carton of milk (should have been half-and-half, but I didn't have any, so instead it was the milk discussed in this post, which was past its prime for drinking purposes anyway), and a checkbook. Kinda predictable, but at least the bathrobe and the milk marked it as a costume, not just a fashion misstep.

The next problem was that when I got there, it appeared that I might be the only person in costume. Can you say laaame? Also, in looking around for costumed individuals, I found a disturbing number of people of indeterminate costume status. Was that girl in the bright red shift dress, the clunky-circa-1997-shoes, and the handbag with the picture of Marilyn Monroe on it, in costume? (Turns out no.) What about the guy with the high-waisted pants and the purple shirt--was that a lame version of Jesus Quintana? (Again, no.) In addition to the self-consciousness, I began to feel very accutely aware that I was in Virginia, and not in a good way.

Later on in the evening, more costumed people did show up, and some of them were pretty good. In fact, the winner of the costume contest was wearing the gold Maude Lebowski Roman Goddess/Viking outfit that I had not managed to pull off. Wahh.

I won't go into painful detail about how lame the music was--suffice it to say that the musician started off his set by saying he'd never seen The Big Lebowski, and that he talked in a fake Scottish accent and used the term "feck" a lot.

Now we get to the really painful part, which is where I bombed in the trivia contest. I really did not expect this--surely, I thought, watching this movie every Friday night for a whole summer--OK, for 2 years (1997-1999)--I would know every single thing there is to know about it. But no! I started to get nervous when I didn't know several of the questions asked of earlier contestants. Pop quiz, readers!:

• With whom is Walter's ex-wife vacationing in Hawaii?*
• What is the male version of nymphomania called, according to Maude?**
• Who sings "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In) in the soundtrack?***

No idea! So my palms were sweating by the time they got to my question:

• What TV show did Larry Sellers' father write for?****

I knew the part of the movie--Walter comes into the performance art piece late and tells the Dude he's tracked down Larry Sellers, the 9th grade kid who stole his car and, presumably, the $1M, and Larry's father is Arthur Digby Sellers, who wrote the "bulk of the series" of . . . some Western. Nuthin, I had nuthin.

I hope I haven't gotten you too depressed. Luckily, the evening ended quite well: I got to watch The Big Lebowski.


*Marty Ackerman
**Satyriasis
***Kenny Rogers
****Branded. A Google search will tell you that while there was such a TV show, Arthur Digby Sellers did not actually write for it.

Jesus "Insured with State Farm" Christ

I have had the song "Jesus Take the Wheel" by Carrie Underwood stuck in my head all day. This has been somewhat annoying, but also strangely thought-provoking.

(I will admit that I basically like the song, and basically this is because it makes me cry. Mind you, this is not saying much, because most country songs that are not about drinking or putting a boot in someone's ass--I mean the ones that are about the soldier getting a letter from home or the hooker and the preacher dying in the bus crash--those all make me cry. Now you know about the gap in my otherwise insanely tough exterior! The next time I'm holding up a bank or engaging in other similarly tough activity, you will know how to break me!)

Back to the thought-provoking issue: Does Jesus know how to drive?

Deep, man.

An open letter to capitalism

Dear Capitalism,

I really don't think that I was asking too much of you today. As per our usual arrangement, I wanted to exchange money for products and services. I wasn't even going for the funny stuff--no feathers from a dodo bird, no stylists flown from Milan to apply fox eyelashes to my lids, no reasonably priced health insurance. All I wanted was:

1. Khaki pants, and
2. Skim milk.

But you were all HAHAHA no I don't think so. I went to the Gap, which, why does it even exist if not to provide me with khaki pants? But today, the Gap was all Wouldn't you prefer an eyelet skirt, or a cable-knit halter-top sweater, or a teeny polo shirt for a dog? For reals.

So I gave that up, and moved on to the next task. Going to the store for milk is so standard that doing it makes you feel like you're in an after-school special: you half-expect a dope pusher to come slinking out of the alley, offering a joint to your wide-eyed self, and perhaps as you take the drugs you will drop the carton of milk to the ground and its splatter will represent your broken innocence. (As it is, the drug dealers don't offer me anything, nor do they stand in the alley; they find it more comfortable to lean against my car in the street.) Anyhoo, there I went to the grocery store for milk. Store #1: Only whole milk. Store #2: Closed. Store #3 (Safeway): Whole milk, 2% milk, $5 organic milk, a few skim milks, but the lines stretch back into the aisles, and as it's already 9:15 even the prospect of reading all of US Weekly and Life & Style isn't enough to make me wait 20 minutes when I could just as well eat cereal with water in the morning. Finally, the small store that always has cilantro but whose name I can never remember because it's in Spanish and I never really studied in Spanish class, even though I took it as an adult and paid good money for it, why did I do that, they have skim milk, but that seems almost like an oversight on your part, Capitalism.

Capitalism? Are you listening? Well, I certainly hope you try harder in the future, or I am taking my business elsewhere.

Brangelina starts Celebricapitalismhobby trend?

Brangelina is launching a line of African housewares--they're working with Namibian craftsmen to develop the rugs, pottery, and other household items, which will be introduced at an art fair in Paris in the fall, and they'll donate all the profits to charity.

After you get over the initial "whaaa?" reaction, you realize that this is the gorgeous, perfect offspring of Brad's interest in design and Angelina's dedication to humanitarian work. (OK, I didn't realize that myself, the article pointed it out, but I totally agree.) It's kind of like how David Arquette and Courtney Cox Arquette's show "Mix it Up" combined their interests in home decor and counterintuitive couples, except that's less an attempt to save the world via attractive microcapitalism, and more of a lame, cancelled WE: Women's Entertainment program.

Of course, this makes one ponder what new products other celebricouples could come up with if they combined their passions:

• Vince Vaughn does stand-up comedy, and Jennifer Aniston didn't speak to her mother for years . . . they could launch an Estranged-o-Gram service whereby a comedian would inform your former friend or family member(s) that you are no loner speaking to them. Convenient AND hilarious!
• Britney likes downward mobility, and KFed likes to irresponsibly impregnate lots of women . . . well, I guess that's not so much a consumer product.
• Hilary Clinton likes to kiss up to Republicans, and Bill Clinton likes to kiss women with full lips (can't find a tasteful link for that, sorry, but think about it, it's true). I'm envisioning Red State Restylane, a lip-enhancing injectable for the more conservative American lady. Genius!

Hmmm. It appears we've produced yet more evidence that Brangelina has cornered the market on celebrity couple awesomeness. Sucks to be everybody else.

Hope springs eternal

The American People have recently started to recognize that a man we used to admire for his intense, unshakable confidence and enthusiasm (and the way he looks in a flight suit) is actually an intense, unshakable zealot who is enthusiastic about nutty, proposterous ideas (and the flight suit was just a costume, anyway).

So, now that our revelations about Tom Cruise have hurt Mission Impossible 3 at the box office, do you think we'll remember our lesson in November, when we get to have a referendum on our nation's other favorite non-pilot?



Happy Friday!

At least I'm not blaming you

So I've been absent for, like, almost a month. I've been avoiding posting again partly out of a sense of guilt and resultant avoidance. How could I come slinking back after heartlessly neglecting T&A for so long?

But this recent post on Underneath Their Robes gave me insight into a different approach to the situation. Article III Groupie hadn't posted for many moons, and when she came back she did so by spraying a whole lotta piss & vinegar at her readers:

If you're angry at A3G for not doing more judicial gossip blogging -- A3G asks: Are you paying her to do this? No? Well, then she doesn't owe you anything. To the contrary, if you've enjoyed this blog at all between its inception and today, then you owe A3G a debt of gratitude.

Bitchy Bitcherina McBitcherton! Clearly I should never have even considered apologizing for my totally infrequent blogging; I should taunt you instead. In that vein, I just typed, "Why are you still checking my blog, when it's clear I've abandoned it? Don't you have work to do or something? Get a life, will you!" but then that seemed mean, and also not funny, and also I really want for you to check my blog, so I deleted it.

Now that we've had that talk, let's never speak of it again, shall we?

So the season finale of Veronica Mars is on on Tuesday (9 EST, UPN), and I can barely sleep with anticipation. However, if you've never watched the show before, you should probably start with the Season 1 DVD rather than just jumping in this week, since the plot is very twisty and complicated, and plus it's a whodunnit, so if you watch the end then you'll kind of spoil the whole Season 2 experience for yourself.

That is, unless you're a Neislon Ratings Family, in which case you should invite your whole town over to watch it with you. Part of the reason for my bated breath about the finale is not just because I'll find out who crashed the school bus and whether Veronica and Logan will get back together (pleasepleasepleaseplease) but also because it will bring us closer to the announcement about whether Veronica Mars will be picked up for a third season when the WB merges with UPN to form CW. It seems Veronica is at risk of becoming the next Arrested Development or Freaks and Geeks--shows that were just too pure and beautiful for this world, kind of like Beth in Little Women or the Democratic party in an election.

All hope is not lost, however--there is a dedicated and very active fan base agitating mightily for a third season, as demonstrated by this press release about how they've hired a plane to fly between L.A. and Burbank with a "Renew Veronica Mars!" banner in tow, which aaaaalmost crosses the line from "dedicated" to "nutso loony with a side of the crazies." Almost.

Needless to say, I am not part of this group--as my aforementioned monthlong hiatus shows, I'm more "lazy" than "nearly insane with activism"--but to those who are, I say: I mock because I am impressed. Godspeed to you, and may your aeroplane be the harbinger of many seasons of Veronica Mars to come.

Happy birthday, Suri and T&A!

So Katie had Tom's illegitimate Scientologist offspring! Happy birthday, Suri!

In a coincidence . . . or is it?, tomorrow (April 19) is the one-year anniversary of my humble little blog, (read: isn't it the smartest, cleverest, prettiest blog in the whole world?). Happy birthday, T&A!

Now, I must say, at first I felt a bit peeved about the TomKitten news, because I had planned a one-year anniversary posting devoted entirely to Cruise-Holmes gossip, as a means of thanking them for providing me with such a very large amount of fodder over the last year wow there are more than I thought I think this is the last one. I had this whole vision that I would pretend that their whole relationship was staged for my benefit, and I would rank their most recent exploits in terms of their smack-talk-worthiness, like so:

• Tom Cruise's "joke" about eating the placenta: too gross to mention. (Oops!) D+
• The Scientologist silent birth, and in particular the people bringing signs encouraging aforesaid silent birth into Tom and Katie's house: Holy crap. Holy crizzap. Mind-boggling to the point that I am (ironically?) speechless. A-
• Tom's "seminars" with Katie and her family, and possibly his other children, about childbirth: This is a tough one, because it's deliciously uncomfortable New Tom Cruise, even better than his "You're glib, Matt, you're glib" incident with Matt Lauer last year. However, Katie's parents and Connor and Isabella are innocent bystanders, so that makes it kind of sad. B
• Katie's conversion to Scientology: I thought that already happened last year. Come on, publicist, new material, please! C-
• The whole pregnancy is fake: THE BEST NEWS EVER!!! A++++

So you see my conundrum: Suri's arrival makes the whole "pregnancy hoax" theory a bit harder to defend. Also, I feel a little bit bad making fun of a baby who, I'm not a gambler but I'll bet you a billion dollars on this one, is going to have enough troubles without me messing with her.

So let's just focus on the other birthday girl, shall we?* Being electronic and all, she doesn't eat cake, but I know what she would love for her birthday: a bunch of supportive comments from her e-parents!

*Brooke Shields also had her baby today. No news on whether Tom got over there to make sure she wasn't taking any drugs or making noises.

Real estate deathmatch

So I have a confession to make: the reason I've been a bad blogger lately is not because I've been working hard, or because I've been outside enjoying the weather, or even because I've been lying on the couch watching MTV and drinking a whole bottle of wine while vainly imploring the cat to write another one of those non-chart things. (That's just the reason why I haven't been working hard or enjoying the weather.)

No, I've mostly been right here, at the computer, but instead of reading about gay parents storming the White House for Easter eggs or whatever else happened this week, I've been . . . reading about real estate.

That's right! Mr. T&A and I wandered into an open house on our way back from brunch one day, and thus thought vaguely about buying a house, and thus I turned to the Internets for guidance.

Dude, let me tell you, discussions about the D.C. real estate market put celebrity gossip controversies to shame. I mean, sure it's interesting to discuss whether Gwyneth and Chris named their baby Moses because they're obnoxious self-obsessed crackpots or because they're beautiful visionaries who recognize that only their offspring will be able to save us all. But if you're looking for real passion, real feeling, what you want is a real estate debate. Nobody feels neutral about the topic. You have to pick a side:

Side 1: The real estate market is a huge mouthful of Bubblicious about to burst all over those smug yuppie gentrifiers' faces, and that will show them to fuck with the affordable attached rowhouse dreams of the deserving masses. (For instance, see Bubble Meter.)

Side 2: Homeowners are moral and wise, and shall be justly rewarded with double-digit annual appreciation and mortage-interest deductions, while all others will burn in the hellfires of eternal rental payments. (OK, so that's mostly the Real Estate section.)

You can't beat this stuff with a whole bag of Lindsay Lohans. (Yes, I regret the mental image, but it's too late now.) It's gonna take something major to snap me out of this phase. TomKitten, where are you when I need you?

Another non-chart!

I quite enjoyed my last foray into imitating Entertainment Weekly's In-5 Mintutes Ago-Out charts. The format lets you bring up topics that are floating around in your head without going to the trouble of linking them to other topics to form entire thoughts, and also to make dramatic declarations without having to defend yourself. Hence:

In: Demishton Jr.
5 Minutes ago: Brangelita
Out: TomKitten

In: Bratwurst
5 Minutes ago: Tater tots
Out: Homefries

In*: Solipsism
5 Minutes ago: Ontology
Out: Magnanimity

*The point at which I start using words whose meanings I don't know.

Public transportation and our republican system of government

The other morning I saw an ad for the DC Metro system on the side of a bus that said, "House, Senate. Bus, Rail." I experienced a mini-flashback to the SATs and thought to myself, "That seems like an apt analogy--but why?"

Well: like the House, the bus system is the black-sheep sibling; it's less well-known, less predictable, and it has a lot more crazy people.

But is this possibly what Metro meant? Unlikely--why would they want to point out to bus riders that the strangers in whose armpits they are standing are probably wackjobs like Tom Tancredo?

But what else is it supposed to mean? That Metro is bicameral and that in order to get anything done you have to ride both a bus and a train? That once you get on the metro you'll be there for 6 years, while you'll only stay on the bus for 2?

It's a mystery. At least it will give me something to ponder while I ride the fickle, passionate branch of the legislature to work.

Poor imitation of retired Entertainment Weekly item

One of my favorite things in the paper version of Entertainment Weekly used to be The Shaw Report by Jessica Shaw, a.k.a. the "In/5 Minutes Ago/Out" chart. Every week there were 3 columns and 3 rows of pithy, insightful, clever brilliance. Recently they've shrunk this to 3 rows, 1 column, and it's just not the same. Thus, here's my homage/cheap knock-off, sans rows and columns because charts are not Blogger's bag:

In: Warrantless wiretapping
5 minutes ago: Three-way call ambush
Out: Quietly picking up the phone in the kitchen

In: Britney as maternal ideal
5 minutes ago: Britney as Child Protective Services case
Out: Britney and Madonna

In: Lime
5 minutes ago: Celadon
Out: Moss

Why does anyone reach the top of big law firms?

It takes the New York Times 5 pages to answer the question Why Do So Few Women Reach the Top of Big Law Firms?, but I could do it in 5 words: because big law firms suck.

Is it really any shock that anyone decides to leave a job that makes them work 60-100 hours a week whilst punching the clock like a waitresses (worse, really, because waitresses don't have to punch out when they go pee)? Let me tell you a little anecdote: when I got sworn into the DC Bar, the judge who performed the ceremony gave us 3 pieces of advice: 1. Don't commingle your client's funds with your own; 2. If you find that you are very depressed or abusing drugs or alcohol, you have an ethical obligation to take a break from practicing until you fix the problem; and 3. If you don't spend any time with your family, your children will hate you. Welcome to the practice of law!

The real shocker is that anyone decides to stay in big law firm jobs. I would suggest that the reason more men than women do so is because more men than women feel pressure from society, their families, their own overachieving selves, whatever, to climb whatever Accomplishment Mountain they find in front of them, despite the fact that they'd rather work less so they can spend time with their children, or just so they could leave work while it's still light out.

With that, I think I'd best stop spending time with the computer on Sunday, and go eat brunch.

Claude Allen, refund fraud, and a friend of mine

The most trashtastic news of the day didn't involve TomKat or Paris & Nicole, but Claude Allen, one of the lesser-knowns in President Bush's collection of uber-conservative black advisors. Allen, an evangelical zealot domestic policy advisor and nominee to the 4th Circuit, was previously best known as the Jesse Helms aide who got into a wee spot of trouble for saying Helms' 1984 Senate opponent was vulnerable because of his links "to the queers."

It seems that in the midst of his busy schedule of sitting next to Laura at the State of the Union, having his wife home-school their children, and promoting abstinence education as the best way to deal with AIDS, Allen managed to fit in a regime of stealing thousands of dollars of merchandise from Target via "refund fraud." If that isn't fabulous enough for you, there is an evil twin angle.

Now, if you're like me, reading the phrase "refund fraud" might have made you feel a bit panicked, perhaps even enough to distract you from the awesome evil twin possibilities. I mean, panicked on behalf of a friend. Like, maybe you have this friend who, for instance, maybe once returned a comforter that she'd used for 88 days on the 89th day when there was a 90-day return policy, or maybe once returned a pair of jeans to J. Crew under their old "return anything at any time for any reason" policy, which, why did they ever get rid of that?, after she fell down and tore a hole in the knee and then returned the new pair because they seemed too baggy after her Brazilian friend convinced me that my pants should be tighter. Her, I mean her pants could be tighter. Hypothetically, would that make your friend some kind of criminal?

Allow me to ease your mind: I have read all about Claude Allen, and sir, you are no Claude Allen. It seems that Allen-esque "refund fraud" is less conscientious receipt-saver, more Winona Ryder. It worked like this: he'd buy a stereo or something, bring it out to his car, bring the receipt back into the store, get another stereo from the shelves, and then return it with the receipt. He did this lots of times, netting maybe $5,000. Including once with a pair of shades that cost $15 each.

So carry on with your return-happy ways, dear readers! I hear zappos.com will let you send back shoes for a year after purchase and will pay for your return shipping. You can thank me with your comments.

claude allen

Oscar Recall

Liveblogging is so 5 minutes ago. Here are my thoughts on the Oscars, aged for 48 hours:

Michelle Williams and Heath Ledger are intruiging because they're attractive, but not blindingly hot, and they seem happy but somewhat unsure of themselves. They have some things in common with Brad & Jen and other things in common with Reese & Ryan, but if forced to pick I'd have to say they're more like the new Kirsten & Jake. Also, I like her dress, but he's balding and needs to shave.
Nicole Kidman, why art thou blonde? She was a lovely redhead, but now her hair blends right into her forehead, elongating it into kind of a fivehead. (Fivehead! Haha! Ahh, that never gets old.) On the topic of her fivehead (haha!), it seems she eased up on the Botox enough to let one of her eyebrows move for the occasion, and that's progress, but the upper part of her face still looks strangely bat-like.

[Please note that it was at this point in my blogging endeavor that Blogger got all sassy, like, "You think you free web-based blogging software is going to let you post pictures whenever you want, eh? Is that right? Well, you are going to have to learn that life is sometimes not fair, missy!" So you will have to use your imagination about the visuals.]

Samuel L. Jackson's big retro moustache and little rectangular eyeglasses really worked at cross-purposes. He looked like a beatnik cowboy, or a porn star philosophy major, and not in a good way.

You can say what you want about Dolly Parton's UFO boobs and loud discussion of how her jewelry was worth $2M, but it is indisputable that she was the only musical performer who put her foot down about the interpretive dancers acting out scenes from the movie like stoned understudies. Props, Dolly.

Crash winning Best Pictureseems to me like how, if the high school play was a normal play with 5 or 10 actors, it could be the most inspired piece of theater since, I mean, I don't really watch theater so I can't think of a good comparison, but my point is not that many people would come. But if the play had some huge ensemble cast, like Grease or even Our Town, all the shows would sell out. I'm not saying Crash wasn't good, but I think it benefitted from having every actor since Ronald Reagan in it.

Jon Stewart, my shadow husband, you did a great job. Of course I mean it. No, I think it was really funny. No, it wasn't at all questionable of you to repeatedly make fun of the Three 6 Mafia like you didn't think a rap group should win an Oscar. Yes, dear, I'm sure they'll invite you back next year.

Ashley Parker Angel is a Genius

During my unplanned blogging hiatus of the last week and a half, I've missed so much titillating news: Lindsay Lohan's boobie falling out of her dress! Chief Justice Roberts commenting on how Anna Nicole Smith's Supreme Court case involves "a substantial amount of assets!" Prisons often shackle pregnant inmates in labor! (OK, maybe that last one not so much.)

But the one tidbit that drew me away from my strenuous regime of watching the commentary track(s) to Wedding Crashers was something I heard whilst taking a break by watching MTV. It was the beginning of "There and Back," the reality-show comeback vehicle for Ashley Parker Angel, which, coming back from what you might well ask? He'll tell you himself if you click here.

Anyhoo, on the show, in the midst of a discussion with his wife about chores, Ashley explained:

"I mean, washing dishes every day? That's just not the kind of life I want."

It takes an idiot or a genius to put into words such a fundamental truth. May your comeback vehicle take you far, Ashley Parker Angel.

Death threat, over-accessorized

Anthony Pellicano, a "celebrity private eye," was recently indicted on a smorgasborg of charges, including racketeering, unauthorized computer access, interception of wire communications and possession of a wiretapping device. By itself, this would not really trip my my carefully calibrated celebrity "news" trigger. However, the article contains this gem:

Pellicano's troubles began in 2002 when, prosecutors claim, he hired Alexander Proctor to threaten Anita Busch, then a reporter for the Los Angeles Times, who was working on a story about actor Steven Seagal and possible links to the Mafia. Proctor allegedly placed a dead fish with a rose in its mouth on Busch's car and made a bullet-sized hole in the windshield. He also left a sign with the word "stop," court documents show.

Picture the scene: Proctor, eager to please on his first job as a death-threat maker to the stars, has located the reporter's car and placed, let's say, a dead fish on it. Classic! The reference to the "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes" scene in The Godfather is unmistakable, and especially appropriate since the whole point here is that the reporter shouldn't mess with the mob.

But then doubt starts to creep in. What if, he thinks to himself, she thinks someone just dropped a fish on her car by accident? I'd better make it clear that this was purposeful. I know! I'll shoot through her windshield!

Bullet hole accomplished, he surveys his work again. Now he starts to worry that the overall message has gotten jumbled. The whole "sleeps with the fishes" thing isn't actually accurate given that nobody's has been killed yet, and the bullet hole has a similar connotative problem. One way to address that, he decides, is to spell out what threatened individual is supposed to do--in this case, stop investigating Steven Segal's links to the Mafia. Proctor finds a scrap piece of paper in his back seat and starts to write this down, but his printing is too big, so he shortens it to "Stop."

OK, now there's a fish, a bullet hole, and a sign that says "Stop." Surely the threat is now complete? Proctor isn't sure. He wants his work-product to be just perfect, and he's afraid he's neglected the fact that the reporter in this case is female. Is it really appropriate to threaten a woman with all these harsh symbols? A touch of femininity could make the overall scene more personalized, more attractive, and thus ultimately more frightening. He runs down to the corner store, buys a single rose, returns to the car and carefully arranges it in the fish's mouth.

When Coco Chanel said that you should look in the mirror before you leave the house and take one thing off, she may have thought she was talking about jewelry, but it is now clear that she was making a plea across the ages to Alexander Proctor, the Mary-Kate Olsen of the celebrity death threat world. Please, darling, less is more!

Turin Hills 90210

The TV gods have finally answered our collective prayers that they fill the void in the trashy prime-time soap opera universe they created when they smote 90210 and Melrose Place from the earth lo those many years ago.

Working as they do in mysterious ways, they didn't do by improving season 2 of Desperate Housewives as you might have expected. Instead they turned the Olympics into a soap. Speed skating, previously a weird cross between the junior-high roller skating rink and NASCAR, has now become a juicy catfight worthy of Brenda Walsh in her prime.

Shani Davis was the first to bare a claw when he ditched the team pursuit event, thus dashing Mark Hendrick's chances at winning five gold medals, and declared he "could care less what other people say about me." Meow! When Davis won a gold medal in the 1000 meters, Hendrick was there in the stands, glaring into the distance the way an angry diva does on a daytime drama after her rival has left the room--you half-expected him to explain his plans for vengeance to the camera. Grrrrrr! Then Hendrick threw a tantrum when the press mentioned Davis, saying, "This Shani thing is really getting on my nerves right now because I'm the one with the gold medal." Hissssss!

I, for one, could not be more psyched about the Olympics' newfound bitchiness. I can barely wait for ice dancing.

Welcome back, Katie?

Gawker reports that Life & Style (a not-particularly-credible USWeekly wannabe) says TomKat is breaking up. They've denied it three ways from Sunday. The question is, if it's true, why are they (reportedly) trying to keep up appearances by pretending to be together until the baby's born? If Katie has realized that she doesn't really wanna be the fembot arm-candy of an insane Scientologist midget, why can't she see that the rest of us don't want that for her, either?

Wherein George Clooney loses, but quickly regains, my eternal love

It was just a normal Saturday afternoon--Mr. T&A watching the Olympics; me barely paying attention, wondering when Turin changed its name to Torino; whether luging is really all that hard, involving as it does mostly lying down; whether luging is a verb--when all of a sudden a Budweiser ad snapped me back from my reverie.

Whose oh-so-familiar voice was narrating? Deep but not too deep, gravelly but not too gravelly, sultry but not in a Fabio way--OMG, George Clooney, why have you bartered your soul to a peddler of pee masquerading as beer?

Mr. T&A foolishly thought I might be wrong about the identity of the narrator, but a quick Google revealed I was right.

However, before my shock could harden into disgust, Georgie started to work his magic charms to win me back. First, he distracted me by directing my ire elsewhere. The article about the Budweiser ad mentions that Russell Crowe has dissed George and other actors, including Harrison Ford and Robert DeNiro, for appearing in ads, saying they had broken their "social contract" with audiences. Oh yeah, Annoying Russell?, I thought. Au contraire, I think you had already broken that particular contract with the phone you used to hit a hotel clerk in the face. George then suavely completed the task of putting me back on his side by joining in my anti-Russell jeering:

Clooney hit back with a jibe at Crowe's band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts. "I'm glad he set us straight. Harrison, Bob and I were putting a band together called Grunting for 30 Feet, and that would also fall under the heading 'bad use of celebrity'. Thanks for the heads up," he said.

Ahh, George, you're so funny. And hot. Can somebody get me a Bud?

Kilts I have known and loved

In my senior year of high school, I wore a red kilt and a long red wool vest to the Homecoming dance. I bought it at the Limited, and I felt it was quite fetching and fashion-forward, and certainly a considerable improvement over my previous Homecoming ensembles, which included two shiny, frilly silk shirts; a black velvet choker; a pair of dyeable shoes; and one tight, forest-green suede skirt.

Perhaps that sense of progress, of challenges met, bad outfits bested, obstacles overcome, explains why I kept the entire outfit (minus the large brass safety pin that went on the kilt, which disappeared when some girl borrowed the kilt to wear as part of a schoolgirl costume in college, for which I still resent her somewhat) for 10 years. I packed it up and moved it, unworn, approximately 12 times in that period, each time thinking something along the lines of "Some day kilts and long red wool vests will be cool again."

It was only two years ago that my friend M. finally shattered this false fantasy by asking me to try the outfit on in front of other people. Soon after that incident, the kilt and its vesty partner were offered up at a garage sale, and then, after being snubbed by bargain-hunters, banished to the Salvation Army.

That might have been the end of that story, except for this:

That is my kilt. I mean, I don't think it's my actual kilt--I think mine was a smaller size--but you kind of never know with kilts, their expandability was part of the appeal. This picture appeared in this Washington Post article about how the ponytailed fellow tried to challenge his New Jersey school district's dress code, which bans shorts in the winter, on the grounds that it discriminated against boys, since girls are allowed to wear skirts in the winter. The ACLU helped come up with a compromise solution wherein he can wear a skirt too: hence the kilt.

The entire article is about what a bad fashion decision the kilt is, and you really can't argue with the analysis. But what does this mean for me and my erstwhile kilt outfit? Was it just random chance that it was this dude, and not me, profiled in the WaPo for our unfortunate high school fashion decisions? How can I chide DC for its pleated pants whilst some sequel to the kilt might be lurking in my closet even as we speak?

Sobering thoughts. Watch out, baby Goodwill donations box, momma's got a big, fat nightcrawler of fashion missteps for you.*

*This is a poorly executed reference to the Colbert Report.

Be still my heart: Brangelina buys in DC

Omigodomigodomigod, Brangelina has apparently bought a house in DC (link via Wonkette).

I wouldn't want to overstate the significance of this, but this is the biggest thing to happen to Washington since they paved over a swamp to create the seat of a new country. I envision a whole new District: No longer will our "celebrity" sightings have to include the caveat "famous for DC," and never will "Arlen Specter's hair has really grown back fast" have to pass for local gossip. DC's human beauty capital will increase approximately 4,000% (here is my evidence), sparking a dramatic increase in fashion self-awareness--an "and they saw that they were naked" kind of deal, except instead of resulting in fig-leaf loincloths and exile from paradise, this one would bring about a mass spontaneous rejection of pleated pants, navy blazers, braided belts, and low sensible heels. Finally, I wouldn't want to get ahead of myself, but once the eye of the world turns to DC, could voting rights be far behind?

God bless you, Jolie-Pitts, and welcome, Gorgeous New DC.*

*Yes, I'm listening to the State of the Union, but if the President can ignore a failed war and the total devastation of an American city, I can definitely ignore a crappy little speech.

brad pitt angelina jolie brangelina washington dc

Burrito-related chin injury

I ate a burrito for lunch, and the aluminum foil it was wrapped in scraped against my chin, causing some redness and irritation. The problem was that I felt if I unwrapped the foil more, the burrito might fall apart. Have you any suggestions for this conundrum, dear readers?

Proposed new celebrity feud: Scarlett and Soon-Yi

Apparently Scarlett Johansson and Lindsay Lohan are having a catfight, or perhaps we could call it a Bathroom Wall Scrawl Brawl. The evidence, as reported by Gakwer, is that someone says Lindsay wrote "Scarlett is a bloody cunt" on the bathroom wall in some bar. You can even see photographic evidence that, in fact, someone once wrote that on a wall-like structure someplace. (Go Gawker with the intrepid reporting! Perhaps they should have put you on that weapons of mass destruction dealie).

Defamer speculated on the reasons for this apparent animosity, and come up with two possibilities: jealousy over Jared Leto, whom both actresslets have dated in the past, and generalized "professional competition."

Which, um, LAME? Re: Jared Leto, please see the pictures in my last post. If Ugly New Jared is enough to spark a Sharpie battle, then Jen and Angelina would be justified in launching full scale nuclear war over Brad Pitt. And who wants the world to end over Brad, no matter how hot he looks in this picture? Mmmmmm, Brad.

And professional competition? Am I going to write "Wonkette is a filthy ho-bag" on bathroom walls because I'm jealous that I'm still a clock-punching lawyer while the erstwhile Article III Groupie has taken over my dream job? I mean, maybe I am, but that doesn't make it any less lame.

Anyway, I propose that we, as a society, move on from this stoopit beef and turn our attention to a new one: Scarlett vs. Soon-Yi Previn.

A bit obscure, you might say? And totally made up? Well, yes, but consider: Scarlett, age 21, is known mostly for her on-screen dalliances with much older men and her off-screen declarations about how awesome it is for older men to be with young women. (The 2003 interview in which she refered to menopausal women as being dead inside, stated that men need a "young, fertile, fruitful woman" to help them deal with aging, and professed that she "definitely believes in plastic surgery" because she doesn't want to be "an old hag" is still burned in my memory, and not in a pleasant Jared-Leto-in-the-mid-'90s way.)

Similarly, Soon-Yi is known for marrying her 1000-year-old quasi-father, Woody Allen. This shared, inexplicable proclivity for antediluvian fellas, by itself, would probably be reason enough for these two to dislike each other, because, you know, there are only so many zillion-year-old fish in the sea. But combine that with the fact that Scarlett just starred in Woody's movie, Match Point, as Le Incredibly Sexy Young Woman, and that she recently said Woody is the sexiest man in Hollywood, and you've got a juicy All About Eve-level bitchfest on your hands. Bring it on! (And let Lindsay go home and get some sleep.)

lindsay lohan scarlett johansson soon-yi previn

Goodnight, sweet Jordan Catalano

There are some things so painful that we shrink in terror from them, hoping that we can hide from the truth until TomKat annihilates the world and it won't matter anymore. But, dear readers, the only way to conquer these demons is to look them straight in the eye, to feel their hellfire singing our eyebrows and melting our eyeballs. And so:

This is Jordan Catalano, the beautiful, silent, unattainable boy Angela Chase yearned for and, in that one heartbreaking episode, kissed in the boiler room in My So-Called Life. He formed the basis for the romantic dreams of, one must assume, the majority of the girls and boys who came of age in the early 1990s. True, in recent years Jared Leto, the actor who portrayed Jordan, turned into kind of a lameazoid, acting very little and skanking around in an age-inappropriate manner with Scarlett Johansson and Lindsay Lohan. But Leto's indiscretions could do nothing to change the memories of Jordan, ah sweet Jordan Catalano.

Until now. Here is Jared Leto now. Defamer says he's gained the weight for a role, dedicated to his craft, Oscar bait blahblahblah, but the only thing that's impressing me here is how easy it was for all of our girlish visions of love to be crushed into a flabby little pile under the sole of a late-model Elvis impersonator who apparently ate Jordan Catalano for breakfast.

I know, there's an empty space where my heart used to be, too. But all is not lost: at least we still have Christian Slater in Heathers.

Golden gay agenda

So the gays totally cleaned up at the Golden Globes last night, with the cowboy-on-cowboy weeper Brokeback Mountain winning Best Picture and Philip Seymour Hoffman picking up a "Best Actor" prize for his portrayal of Truman Capote.

Transsexuals also brought home their slice of the pie, as Felicity Huffman nabbed the "Best Actress" globe for playing an MTF transsexual in TransAmerica.

In an ironic turn of events, lesbians got the short end of the stick and left emptyhanded.

The bisexuals couldn't agree on a consistent plan, so they too wound up frustrated. Luckily, we hear they met up with the lesbians at an afterparty, so everything turned out just fine.*

*Hehe. Um. When your agenda is accomplished and you stand in judgment of the world, homosexuals, please note that this is all in good fun.

Cat bathing and the trouble with optimism

Due to Mr. T&A's having developed some kind of late-breaking allergy to something or everything in our house, we spent portions of this weekend washing the T&A Kittens in an attempt to encourage him to start breathing again. (Please note that I am referring to actual kittens, well OK cats, but anyway not Satanic alien spawn with perhaps unreasonably adorable names, a la Katie Holmes' TomKitten.) The delightful essay "Cat Bathing as a Martial Art" provides a fairly accurate description of the operation. Here's an excerpt:

* Know that a cat has claws and will not hesitate to remove all the skin from your body. Your advantage here is that you are smart and know how to dress to protect yourself. I recommend canvas overalls tucked into high-top construction boots, a pair of steel-mesh gloves, an army helmet, a hockey face mask and a long-sleeve flak jacket.
. . .
* Use the element of surprise. Pick up your cat nonchalantly, as if to simply carry him to his supper dish. (Cats will not usually notice your strange attire. They have little or no interest in fashion as a rule. If he does notice your garb, calmly explain that you are taking part in a product- testing experiment for J.C. Penney.)
* Once you are inside the bathroom, speed is essential to survival. In a single liquid motion, shut the bathroom door, step into the tub enclosure, slide the glass door shut, dip the cat in the water and squirt him with shampoo. You have begun one of the wildest 45 seconds of your life. Cats have no handles.

He. He. Anyway, I was at first surprised to find that the first cat to be bathed, let's call him BoyCat, was much more sanguine about the experience than the second one, to whom I will refer as GirlCat.* BoyCat, you see, is generally a much more temperamental sort, given to hiding under furniture, eating shoelaces and the straps of tank tops (damn you, BoyKitty!), and generally acting like an unsocialized criminal.

GirlCat, on the other hand, and there's no delicate way to put this, is a huge whore. A maurading band of pirates clothed in the corpses of other housepets could pillage their way into our apartment and she would rub seductively against their legs, and then flop on the floor on her back to encourage them to scratch her belly.

But in the crucible that is the bathtub, BoyCat remained relatively calm, while GirlCat attempted to murder both me and Mr. T&A whilst screaming like Fay Wray in the original King Kong.

Later, while tending to my wounds, I contemplated the events of the day and concluded that GirlCat's aggression is really a by-product of her optimistic nature. BoyCat, you see, suspects the worst of everyone at all times, so when we started to (from his point of view) drown him, he thought to himself, "Just as I always expected" and didn't bother to struggle. GirlCat, though, had a Hamlet-pissed-about-his-father's-murder type reaction to the bath, and if her brain were larger than a walnut she might still be plotting to revenge the betrayal.

So the lesson for today is: avoid optimism! And perhaps bring your cats to a professional groomer.

*Of course, I would not reveal my kittens' true identity without their consent, and they have been cagey about giving it. For that reason, the photo above is also not of my actual cat, but of the poor feline soul whose Google Image self responds to the name of "Angry Wet Cat."