Happy New Year, Chumps!
You know, sometimes, it’s fun to watch VH1 Classic. Occasionally, they play that creepy Tom Petty video where he’s the Mad Hatter that scared the crap out of me on Friday Night Videos as a child.
But today it was no fun. Because I saw this:
Okay, my first question is: Stevie Nicks, what did I ever do to make you so angry? Why are you staring me down, like I’m the one what done you wrong?
My television’s horizontal hold actually went out in the middle of this video, like the TV was either nobly sparing me from seeing it or, alternately, just couldn’t take anymore and decided to pass out for a while.
Secondly: Why was there a time on earth when this kind of video was okay? I take no responsibility for the 80’s. See, I was merely a babe in swaddling clothes when Regan took office, so I had no control over the craziness that was the 1980’s. 90’s, sure, I’ll take the rap for some of that. “Rico Suave”? Yeah, I bought that single. But not Snow’s “Informer”. Never “Informer”.
So, people who had a choice to live and purchase music and be the force your generation in the 1980’s, what the hell were you guys thinking? Who kept encouraging Stevie Nicks to make these kinds of videos? And wear those kinds of skirts?
Also, who is responsible for Van Halen at this time? I need to speak with them immediately.
Okay, I can’t take credit for it. Especially since I didn’t buy this album until, you know, a year after it was popular. But holy damn, have you heard Robin Thicke’s “Lost Without U”? The substitution of “U” for “you” guarantees that he’s bringing the funk. But this might seriously be the sexiest song I’ve ever heard. I had to concentrate real hard to not swoon and drive off the road while I was listening to it in the car, and that was before I even knew what the guy looks like (a grade A certified fox, that’s what he looks like). LISTEN HERE. And then find yourself a cool drink. Or a man.
Speaking of men, today I’m going to share with you a very special list. A list that will go down in history as being the most pervy thing ever, except those ten pictures of people getting it on that Brynn Paulin put on her blog earlier this week. Today, I bring to you, the list of the top fourteen guys over fifty that I would totally get on. Yeah, I know it was supposed to be fifteen, but turns out Michael Stipe is actually 47. Who knew?
That’s it. You can use this handy list for just about anything. Especially Christmas and Birthday shopping. For me. And remember, nylon ropes cut off circulation, so only wrap my presents in organic fibers that have some give.
But not too much, because then they’ll get away.
And now, the story of the mystery chair:
As some of you know (and some don’t), the house I live in is the house I grew up in. After my mother and I moved out of it, onto our separate lives, the house stood empty. After six years, I purchased said home from my mother and my family and I moved in and promptly started taking down the ugly wallpaper and sponge painted borders that had tormented me through childhood (the faux-stone plastic paneling in the living room was particularly hideous).
Part of this remodel involved the basement, as I previously mentioned. And in this basement lies the Mystery Chair.
I don’t remember ever seeing the Mystery Chair in our home as I was growing up. My mother has no clear recollection of it, either. But, when we went into the house after it had stood empty for six years, we found the Mystery Chair sitting, alone and forlorn, in the basement.
The Mystery Chair is an arm chair that looks as though it originated in that “different colors of rough, waffle-woven, homespun yarn in pastel colors as upholstery is a glamorous idea for any living room furniture” phase of the nineties. The shape is squat and modern, the colors don’t match anything. It is too big to remove in one piece; it is wider than the only door to the basement.
I have three theories about this chair, and how it got into the basement without us knowing or having a hand in it:
- Someone broke into the vacant house, pulled up a section of floor, carefully lowered the chair down to the basement, then replaced the floorboards and relaid the carpet in such a way that their deed would not be noticed upon casual inspection of the floor, but would make a great impact when said hideous chair was found.
- The chair has always been there. Wrapped up in our own lives and every day drama, the chair stayed, neglected, unnoticed, until such a time as all of our crap was moved out and we were forced to confront the reality of the chair. Furthermore, the chair was placed in the basement prior to the construction of the house, which was built around the chair.
- Some point in our basement behaves in the same manner as the area around the event horizon of a black hole, and all the particles of the chair popped into our physical space when they disappeared from another location. For example, the chair may have been in our neighbor’s house before its particles winked out of our known dimension and rematerialized in an area with a greater attractive force, ie, our basement. This black hole theory would also explain the disappearance of my REM Monster Tour t-shirt with Michael Stipe looking romantically angsty and defeated on it that went suddenly missing in high school.
Any way you slice it, I don’t want to get rid of this chair. Is it ugly? Yes. Does its sudden appearance baffle me? Most certainly so. But it is the most comfortable chair ever to lovingly cradle my flat, white butt. Which opens up a world of paranoia all of its own:
- Is the chair’s comfort a plot to ensnare me, helpless, before the television to watch episode after episode of E! True Hollywood Story? Is it actually a sophisticated hologram beamed into my family room by the television networks to guarantee that I will be watching?
- Is the chair actually a demonic entity, lulling me into a false sense of security before one day successfully draining my soul and feasting up on it as I writhe in agony, tormented by visions of my misdeeds?
- Could the chair have been placed here by aliens as a calming amnesiac device to remove all memory of the horrible experiments they subject me to nightly?
All I know is, I don’t want to get rid of this chair. It is a part of me, as I am a part of creation, all of the earth and sky.
Thanks to Brynn Paulin‘s husband, bless his awesome, awesome soul, I found myself last night squashed into a packed theatre beside Cheryl Sterling, Bronwyn Green and Brynn, watching Sweeney Todd two weeks before it hits the big screen.
I must, at this point, explain that this will not be a fair and objective review. This review will be handled by rabid Sondheim and Sweeney fan Jennifer “Green Bitch And Critical Bird” Armintrout, and not by a normal, sane human being who saw a movie.
[insert fire truck noises and running around the room in an endless loop]. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. After all the horror I experienced reading about the production of the movie– rumors that ranged everywhere from “they’re cutting the ballad” to “that dude from Oingo Boingo that Tim Burton likes so much is completely redoing the orchestrations”– I could not be more relieved at the end product.
First of all, yes. They did cut the ballad. Or, more accurately, they cut the lyrics. The music is still very much there, interspersed throughout the movie. Some other cuts they made, that, if I had known of them before going to the movie would have enraged me, were most of the beggar woman’s “Alms” refrains, “Kiss Me,” and a huge chunk of the Wigmaker Sequence, which basically boiled down to Sweeney telling Anthony to go pretend to be a wigmaker, which he does. A few lines and lyrics were changed here and there, and strangely the harmony and melody to the choruses of “A Little Priest” is changed up, but it all WORKS. It makes no sense at all, but the leads are clearly non-singers, the cuts made should be considered heresy, and the blood is orangey and fake. BUT IT WORKS.
Please, if you’re avoiding seeing this because you love the play, please, go and see it anyway. It truly was a worthy adaptation.
Today, my friends, is an epic day. Today, I engage The Hoff in figurative combat. Today, is Jen vs. The Hoff. Today, we see how I, a mere mortal, stack up against that shining beacon with wings of tenderness, David Hasselhoff.
Let’s start at the beginning. A very good place to start. When you read, you begin with A B C. When you prepare for imaginary battle with El Hoff, you begin with
Jennifer Armintrout. Fits perfectly in place of the words “Jesus Christ, Superstar” in the song “Jesus Christ, Superstar.” Has eighteen letters.
David Hasselhoff. Fits in place of the words “Jesus Christ, Superstar” if you stretch the first syllable of “David” out a bit. Has fifteen letters.
Jen: JLA Also stands for Justice League Of America.
Hoff: DMH Stands for Hoffski.
Jen: Flabby I don’t like fruit.
Hoff: Terrifically sculpted/cuts a dashing figure in lifeguarding trunks But slightly hairy.
Jen: Has used “verisimilitude” in a sentence, successfully. No one knew what it meant.
Hoff: Coined the phrase “Hofftastic”. No one knows what it means, either.
Jen: Brooding, in graveyard Also, taken by Jill Welch, coolest photographer on the planet.
Hoff: Grinch-who-stole-Christmas-style-sneer-over-sunglasses pose Not taken by Jill Welch.
ADVANTAGE: Jill Welch
Jen: Little House On The Prairie style dress. Wore it in Kindergarten. Never got over it.
Hoff: Piano key scarf and light up jacket. Wore it in Germany to sing above the Berlin Wall. Germans went
Your mom A green Dodge Neon, actually.
Hoff: KITT Effeminate talking car.
Your Mom Hoff.
Jen: Usually around 400. Above or below, depending.
Hoff: 270. Not counting bibliography, discography, television resume and other assorted end materials.
Jen: Vampires getting killed in creative ways. In book four, Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies and Golems in a giant throw down.
Hoff: Transvestites chase him out of a New Zealand bar. I’m not joking, it’s in his book.
Jen: I’m okay. My book did pretty well there.
Hoff: is indispensable Prime Minister John Howard allegedly said “You’ve got to stay for the economy, the spirit and the soul of Australia.”
ADVANTAGE: Hoff. Also, Australia. Everyone wins!
Jen: Hasn’t checked her MySpace in weeks. Has also forgotten her Facebook password.
Hoff: King Of The Interet. See videos below.
World Records Held
Jen: Unofficial record. For most times accidentally poking one’s self in the eye.
Hoff: Official Guinness World Record. For most watched television show ever (Baywatch).
Well, there you have it. The Hoff is cooler than me to the tune of 7 to 3. Jill Welch made an impressive showing in her absence.
I’m off to nurse my wounds– and by that I mean “miraculously heal them with the power of Hoffski”– and get some work done whilst waiting for the Crow’s Nest to open so I can get me some breakfast.
Keep it real, y’all.
I realize that I failed in my mission to bring you All Hoff, All Week, but circumstances beyond my control (*cough* Amtrak *cough*) destroyed my dreams of a Wednesday Hoff post.
Enter now my nightmare.
Mr. Jen’s mother, hereby referred to as MIL, had taken the train to Texas for a wedding. Amtrak’s screwy schedule, however, planned to leave her stranded in Chicago for several hours before her connecting train. Mr. Jen would then have been forced to pick her up from the local station at 11pm. “Well,” thought Mr. Jen, with his usual stroke of genius, “Why not make a family day of it? We’ll take Jen Jr. out of school and head to Chitown. If we get there early enough, we’ll be able to take in the aquarium before picking mom up at Union Station. Her train comes in at 2:15, so we’ll be well out of the city before rush hour!”
Great idea, in theory. The reality of this plan was something altogether more horrific.
Driving to our destination went off relatively hitch-less. Except for the part that went something like this:
Mr. Jen: How many Great Lakes are there?
Mr. Jen: I thought there were only four.
Jen: No, there are five. HOMES, remember? Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, and Superior.
Mr. Jen: Where the heck is Huron?
Jen: I have no idea.
Mr. Jen: Look in the glove box. There’s bound to be a Michigan map in there somewhere, right?
Jen: Okay… [Screaming. Lots of screaming]
Mr. Jen: What?!
Jen: WHY IS THIS IN HERE?! [holds up hand to reveal finger, impaled through the tip by the biggest GD fishhook she’s ever seen in her life]
Other than the bizarre non-fishing related fishing hook accident, everything went pretty well. The aquarium was fun. I saw a Komodo Dragon. Until this year, I’d never actually seen one. Then, I see two in one year. Whatever. And I could watch the sharks all day.
At the aquarium, we get a call. “The train is delayed. It’ll be in at 3:45.” Great, more time at the aquarium!
We leave the aquarium, full of awe at nature’s creature and also hungry for sushi. I gaze wistfully at the art institute– this is the third time in a year that I have been in the city without visiting Un Dimanche Apres-Midi a Ille de La Grande Jatte– but my mission was clear. By now, MIL was chugging into the station. It is also, unfortunately, almost four o’clock and Union Station is teeming with people. We struggle to find a parking spot and haul rear for the Amtrak terminal. Once there, we found that the train was delayed again. Until 5:45.
Have you ever been to Chicago? Have you ever been to Union Station? You know that scene in that movie with the staircase and the shooting and the baby carriage? Yeah, that kind of exciting stuff doesn’t happen. It’s boring. Especially for a child. Especially for my child.
We ended up at a diner. We made that last until 5:45. We went back to Union Station . The train was delayed. You see the theme.
Long story short, the train came at 9. Seven hours later.
By then, full scale blizzard. We bunked down in Portage, Indiana, at the Days Inn that time forgot, where I prayed all night that we wouldn’t be killed by The Hills Have Eyes-esque mutants, and made it home the next day.
That is why there was no Hoff yesterday, or today. Tomorrow, Hofftacular Spectacular will resume, with much gusto.
Now, off to sleep, and never visit Chicago again.
I come to you today with two Hofftastic videos from the man himself. The first, a commercial for some internet company, in which Hoff declares himself King of The Internet. Bow, worthless plebes, your new master demands supplication! Bow! BOW!
Tune in tomorrow for an in-depth review of El Hoff’s autobiography, and don’t miss the rest of the Hofftacular Spectacular, all this week, right here.
Hear ye, Hear ye! Today, December 4, 2006, shall remain in history a holy day! A day of mystery and wonder, a day all shall look on in remembrance and awe! Today begins the five day Feast of The Hoff, the Hofftacular Spectacular.
It all began Thursday last when, whilst visiting an ailing friend’s bedside, I became possessed of a powerful urge to own David Hasselhoff’s staggering work of literary brilliance, “Don’t Hassel The Hoff.” I did then beseech my puking friend thusly: “Get up, bitch, we’re going to Barnes and Noble!”
With much protesting and great dramatics, my ill companion did roust herself and managed to cloth herself in some sweat pants that we might make the journey to yon B&N.
Oh, but my heart did race all throughout that thirty minute drive! My palms did sweat and I might have dropped an f-bomb or two at cars keeping a snail’s pace in traffic. Finally, finally, we reached our destination. I raced inside, my emetic companion lurching feverishly behind me.
“I need the David Hasselhoff book!” I sang out in anticipatory chorus as I approached the gleaming beacon of the information counter. “I need it real bad!”
The booksmith looked at me with something akin to admiration tinged with fear. “I’m afraid we’re sold out. But we do have the Chuck Norris autobiography, ‘The Secret Of Inner Strength,’ if that helps.”
“No!” I cried, the Hoff-hungry demon in my breast crying out for satiation, “I already have that one! I need the Hoff! How can you be sold out?”
“There are other silly people in the world, Jennifer,” a woman in the employ of the great B&N commented, and I reluctantly conceded that point.
Such an admission did not soothe my raging Hoff fever. Meanwhile, a fever of a different sort afflicted my companion. “Jen,” she begged, her eyes bright with sickness, her brow beaded with sweat from the exertion of not emptying her stomach onto my dashboard, “Take me home or I’ll kill you.”
“No!” I cried, gripping her shoulders and giving her a hearty shake. “I will not give up so close to the end of our quest!”
But she would not be swayed, and all the long journey back to her apartment I did employ my cell phone to contact other area bookstores, in vain. The Hoff’s popularity thwarted me at every turn, when each store on my speed dial informed me that all of their copies had flown from the shelves.
Finally, I reached the bottom of my alphabetical list. A Waldenbooks, in Portage, Michigan, had the cherished tome. “Donna!” I exclaimed in glee, “Save a copy for me!”
After leaving off my feverish friend, I once again took up my cell phone, to contact another of my most dearest and trusted allies. “Jill,” I shouted, my wonder and rapture emanating over the cellular waves as surely as raindrops disturbing gentle spring puddles, “Do you want to go on a wonderful adventure?”
I raced to her side, finding her as excited and ready for our quest as ever. Once again I made the interminable trek across town, wailing and gnashing my teeth at every delay. But soon enough we reached our destination. The Hoff was within my reach.
Every step I took across the parking lot brought me closer to my Mecca. My heart beat its self fearfully against my ribs. Closer and closer I came. Every second seemed infused with the holy importance of my task.
Donna, the smiling, helpful book peddler, seemingly unaware of my heightened state of agitation, rang my most radiant of purchases and slid the venerable tome into a plastic bag; the Hoff’s tan glowed through the white of the bag.
“Wow, you’ve really been looking for this, huh?” she observed, finally noticing my mania. “Who’s this for?”
Confusion! As if I would hand such a treasure over as a mere gift. This book was a thing to be cherished, perhaps willed to future generations after my passing, but it would not leave my hands! “It’s for me,” I stuttered, barely able to comprehend this world, where such a treasure would be callously given away.
“Oh.” Donna appeared perturbed at this, but it mattered not. I possessed the book of my desires! I had Don’t Hassel The Hoff!
My fingers itched to caress the pages. My mind worked like a hamster in an improperly weighted wheel as I drove to my destination. When I arrived, I pulled the book of Hoff from its plastic prison. Freed at last, the shocking blue and orange of the cover blazed with a godly light. The culmination of my efforts was upon me! A tear crept from my eye as I lifted the cover for the first time.
And my eyes landed on the word “Hofftastic.” And I realized that anything I really, really think I desperately need on a day when I’ve had only one hour of sleep the previous night is probably something silly that I could do without.
However, dear reader, you’re about to benefit from my insanity. Right here, all week long, it’s a Hofftacular Spectacular. A week-long celebration of the Hoff, from Monday to Friday. Every day, a new and Hofftastic post will bring you one step closer to a deeper understanding of El Hoff (for our Spanish speaking friends) or Hoffski (in Russian).
The week will include a review of the Hoff’s masterpiece of literature, Hoff quizzes, Hoff quotes and of course, plenty of Hoff eye candy. And, as if that weren’t enough, at the end of the week, tune in for “Jen vs. The Hoff,” which I can assure you will be a bloodbath.
Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell them, one and all, to come, come see the amazing, the astounding HOFFTACULAR SPECTACULAR!