Years ago we were happy to advance plenty of subscription money to Jane magazine, with the understanding that we'd accept the nifty rag into our home for several more years, even after Jane Pratt had turned it over to somebody who wasn't nearly as interesting. Then the Pratt-less Jane went away, and we started getting this piece of shit, because Condé Nast was, uh, kind enough to honor its obligations:
Fuck, what a shitty publication. I like looking at women's magazines. Media is media. But when I open this one, it feels like an endless sorority "friends" collage made by a batshit returning-adult student who still considers herself to be a hot, social co-ed. Except, y'know, it's not even interesting in an anthropological way. It's just batshit.
I think our Jane money is finally running out, though, because Condé Nast has been bombarding our mailbox with Glamour re-up offers. Fuck that.
Ditto for Maxim, which seems to be the replacement for Blender, another dead glossy that was absolutely the best in its small, increasingly irrelevant class -- and thus well worth the 10 bucks a year. I dunno how long Maxim is gonna keep showing up as a Blender proxy, but I keep thinking to myself: "This is slightly more useful than Glamour." And I probably think that way only because I'm a heterosexual dude. Still, though, shit is shit.
This twister was in Canada, but whatever. They're weird, too.
The rise of the pocket video camera means that every single fucking tornado that comes into contact with civilization is now probably preserved in pixels. I'm actually OK with this, because of all the shit that happens on a regular basis in the sky, tornadoes are the closest thing -- in disposition, if not constitution -- to angry extraterrestrial life forms descending on the landscape. In fact, I have a hypothesis that goes something like this: Give a Flip camera to every knucklehead in tornadoland, and large swaths of our nation's rich UFO-conspiracy heritage would start to dissolve. Because, really, look at that huge fucking tornado. Holy shit.
Wolfgang Puck is all like, "You didn't stay awake to see me judge the competition, and now you must eat all of this meat and stare at this weird lady."
Lately I've stopped watching each episode about 10 minutes before the winner is announced. I just kinda drift away or conk out. But I don't care that I miss the resolution of the drama. The fun -- if it can be called that -- is in the mental appropriation-of-concoction, not the vicarious triumph. Maybe I'm secretly a hippie. Last night I stopped watching the Middle-Aged White Guys Championship after the food was delivered to the feasting zombies. Who won that shit? I dunno. And Ep. 1 of The Tattoos, Sideburns, Piercings and Annoying Siblings Collective? Some chick made meat out of wheat gluten, right?
Show me the projected-path map for a hurricane, and my inner 12-year-old rushes to the surface: Where's it gonna hit? Hmm? Hmm? That kid is an asshole, though, because ever since Katrina, there's no reason to get excited about a huge fucking storm heading toward any coast. So then my inner old guy speaks up, and he tells the 12-year-old that he's an asshole, and the 12-year-old goes back to his room to do the private things that 12-year-olds do. I'm always catching that kid with his winky in his hands. The old guy? He wants you to look at the map, in case Bill is gonna fuck your shit up. That means you, Bermuda: