The 2006 Holiday Survival Guide For Slackers

My 2006 Holiday Survival Guide For Slackers appears in The Morning News today. A big thanks to everyone who sent in suggestions, especially:

  • umrain zero for the Rocket Fishingrod
  • Andre Torrez for The Beer Belly
  • Debra Duncan for Mullet Shampoo
  • knutmo for Polonium 210
  • My sister for Barbie With Pooping Dog
  • Robert for Giant Novelty Checks
  • Alan Taylor and Jon D. for the USB Humping Dog
  • Matt Waters for both Season Shot & Breath Capture
  • waterloo.bob for Neuticles

Zero thanks go to my “friend” Mark, who inflicted that godawful The “O Holy Night” mp3 upon me. A few days after I received it I stumbled across the same song on The Sneeze and, although I didn’t steal it from there, I would have, if it wasn’t already burned onto my PC’s hard drive and my psyche. So a hearty “zero thanks” to you too, Steve.

Update: Yes, I know the X-Wing Fighter never shot missiles. I originally wrote it as the Battlestar Galactica ship, but then changed it to X-Wing so I could make the “Great shot!” joke, figuring that no one would actually be nerdy enough to notice. THANKS FOR PROVING ME WRONG, ENTIRE INTERNET.


I’ve noticed that people have started writing “actual LOL” in emails and on message boards, to signify that they are not just using the term figuratively, but that something really caused them to laugh. Of course, it’s only a matter of time before this phrase is also acronyminized and becomes ubiquitous, forcing people to take their calcifications to the whole next level.

Man, I feel sorry for the IM’ers of the future, who will have no choice but to type “Actual AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALOL!” and “O RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY RLY??!” They will look back on the era of three-letter acronyms with the kind of heartwarming nostalgia we feel when we reminisce about the Atari 2600 and polio.

Movies: Stranger Than Fiction

A friend of mine was fond of calling ColdplayRadiohead for stupid people.”

I wouldn’t go so far as to call Stranger Than Fiction “Charlie Kaufman for stupid people,” but it would be fair to label the film “Adaptation for the strip-mall cineplex.”

(And like all Kaufman and Kaufman-esque movies, the film is best if you go in knowing nothing about it. So stop reading now if you have any intention of seeing it.)

Kaufman, you’ll recall, is the screenwriter of such brilliantly recursive films as Being John Malcovich and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind; Adaptation was his 2002 picture, which jumped back and forth between a struggling author and the characters he was writing. So similar is the premise of Stranger Than Fiction that comparisons to Adaptation are inevitable, though the two films tackle the subject matter from opposite angles: the focus in Adaptation is on the screenwriter, while Stranger Than Fiction adopts the protagonist of the in-movie story as its own.

Harold Crick is a thoroughly uninteresting man, one who brushes his teeth a set number of seconds every morning, and squanders his days as an auditor for the IRS. He is also, as he soon realizes, the main character of a work-in-progress being written by Kay Eiffel, a novelist with a penchants for snuffing her protagonists in the end. When Crick discovers that he (somehow) occupies the same world as his creator, he sets off to confront Eiffel, hoping to procure a “happy ending” for himself.

If Stranger Than Fiction were a Kaufman film, all of this would be explained: why Crick suddenly starts hearing Eiffel’s “narration” in his head, how the two can inhabit the same universe, the extent of Crick’s free-will, and so forth. Kaufman’s great strength is his ability to create complex, meticulous, and extraordinarily well thought-out worlds; unfortunately, this can also be his weakness, and his films sometimes sag under the tonnage of clever.

Fiction, meanwhile, uses its high-concept conceit as little more than a framing device for a straight-forward romantic comedy. To that end, it wastes little time justifying the more bizarre aspects of its premise. On the one hand, that’s a good thing, as torturous explanation as to how things “work” would certainly bog the film down; on the other, Fiction’s failure to establish any ground rules for what is and isn’t possible puts the movie in the realm of the Bugs Bunny cartoon, where anvils fall from the sky and characters routinely bounce back from death.

Will Ferrel is a good fit for Crick. As with Steve Martin before him, Ferrel has mastered the role of hilarious straightman, who elicits laughter via deadpan delivery and blinking befuddlement. Maggie Gyllenhaal is cute as a button as Ana Pascal, Crick’s eventual lover, but their romance is the most unbelievable aspect of a film packed full of plot-twists that strain credibility. He works for the government, she’s an anarchist, and they get together … why? Crick doesn’t even woo Pascal — he just pines for her until she obligingly signs up as his girlfriend.

(Actually, I take that back. The most unbelievable aspect of the movie is the idea that Kay Eiffel, Harold Crick’s author, is one of the finest writers alive. Throughout the film we hear prose from Eiffel’s novel as voiceover, and, man, it sounds like nothing so much as a Hollywood screenwriter trying to impersonate “the finest writer alive.” Seriously, couldn’t they have cut a check to Marilynne Robinson and asked her to anonymously rewrite those passages?)

I like Coldplay, though I prefer Radiohead. And I enjoyed Stranger Than Fiction, even while recognizing it as, essentially, one broken story (the romance) packed inside another (the protagonist – author relationship). There’s no real need to see this one in the theater, but it would be a worthy DVD rental on an evening when you want something that manages to be both slightly unusual and thoroughly conventional.

It Never Rains …

Good news: five days after a devastating Seattle windstorm, the lights are back on at my house, the kitties are warm, and all is again good in the world. Best of all, I can resume posting to defective yeti.

And not a moment too soon, as I have some hilarious observations about parking meters to share with you. Hah hah — oh man, you’re going to love these.

You see, the other day I was driving around in my H3, and I happened to notice–

Oops, Mount St. Helens is erupting. Gotta go.


Aerial shot of my neighborhood:

Hey! I think I can not see my house from here!

defective yeti will resume when I again have electricity, phone service, Internet connectivity, and my cats are no longer trying to burrow into my torso for warmth.

Intestinal Fortitude

Bush has moved his decision on the Iraq war to January, saying that he needs to digest all the information he has received on the subject.

Yes, this is the typical Bush M.O.: Ingest a bunch of reasonable suggestions from thoughtful and knowledgeable advisers, hunker down with Cheney and the rest of the inner circle for a week or two, and return with the end product of the digestion process.

Insufficiently Shy

The Queen, after reading yesterday’s post:

Q: You’re playing raquetball? What is this, the eighties?

M: Lots of people still play racquetball. It’s one of the most popular activities at my gym. It’s a great cardiovascular workout, exercises all major muscle, and is a lot of fun.

Q: Sorry, wasn’t listening. I had a Kajagoogoo song stuck in my head.


I was listening to the Adam Corolla show on my way to the gym this morning, and they were listing off the “Top Fantasies of Men” according to some meticulously unscientific poll or another. Number four, it turns out, is “to be totally dominated by a woman.”

And, half an hour later, some 87 pound young lady handed me my ass in racquetball, 15-1. It’s rare that the elapsed time between learning that I have a particular fantasy, and the fulfillment of said fantasy, is so brief.

I recently joined the racquetball ladder, and am currently dwelling on a rung about a third of the way up. Down here, you encounter three types of players: (a) people who have never played racquetball before and joined the ladder on a lark, (b) people who have been on the ladder for a while but aren’t good enough to progress, and (c) people who are accomplished players but, like everyone else, had to start at the bottom and work their way to the top. On my initial serve this morning my opponent bungled her return, leaving me to instantly classify her as either (a) or (b). Swaggering with my near insurmountable 1-0 lead, I followed-up with a easy serve — you know, the kind that even a girl could hit. And that was pretty much the end of that.

Here’s how she scored one of her many points. She positioned herself in the center of the court and prepared to return the ball I had just hit off the front wall; I, meanwhile, stood about five feet directly behind her. She drew back her racquet to strike the approaching ball. Then, at the last moment, she apparently decided that she would rather field the ball off the back wall instead, and abruptly withdrew her racquet.

Fun fact: #9 on the list of Top Male fantasies was “To be hit in the groin by a high-velocity projectile in the presence of an attractive woman.” YES! TODAY WAS A TWO-FER!!