Bridging the gap between womb users and womb dodgers
Movies in which John Cusack’s Character Loses His Virginity:
Better Off Dead, to Beth
“For God’s sake Lane, will you relax? It’s just our virginity.”
Say Anything, to Diane Court
“Lloyd, we shared the most intimate thing two people can share.”
Movie in which John Cusack’s Character is not a Virgin but Gets Mistaken for One Anyway:
The Sure Thing, to “The Sure Thing”
“You told her I was a virgin?”
“Women like a challenge.”
Aw, our first Point-Counterpoint discussion! And what a surprise, it revolves around 80s movie stars.
To address your points, in the order given:
1. Steff is nasty. Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Except he would try to weasel out of using a condom. Now Lane Myer, while excellent boyfriend material, would say, “You know that thing I put on me? It broke.” I would call it a draw except Lane does get the edge for outskiing that big-nostrilled Stalin fellow, on one ski, with *something* following them.
2. Since I haven’t seen Big Love yet, I can’t really comment on Bill Paxton’s unfathomable metamorphosis from “turd” to “stud.” Also, I get him confused with Bill “Lone Star” Pullman.
3. Blaine’s hair in the prom scene is particularly awful. The link you put in there had someone saying that her dad made the wigs for that scene. That is no excuse, because can’t you feather and blowdry (and dippity-do) wig hair? In those modern times? Poor Blaine, he looked about 2 inches shorter and 10 years older at the prom.
4. Ah Badger. He picked up trashy women and gave his older brother an inadequacy complex at the same time. Ned isn’t exactly like that, but he is pretty awesome. (So….if Ned is Badger, does that make Monty Lane Myer? If so, then yes Buns, Lane Myer is my main weiner man.) Ned’s turning 21 next week. I hope he gets plowed. One thing about Ned, and Monty’s other siblings – I don’t understand how they find some things funny. The last time Monty and I visited his family, Monty’s little sister BusyBee told this Dane Cook joke over and over again, doing the devil voice from the Speak and Spell and cracking up. I asked BB if she knew what a Speak and Spell was, and she shook her head and told the joke again. Then I asked Ned, who is a big Dane Cook fan, “Well, do you know what a Speak and Spell is?” NO, HE DIDN’T. But he thought that joke was funny anyway. How can someone find a joke funny if he has no idea what it refers to? Can you explain this to me, Buns?
E-X-P-L-A-I-N I-T, B-U-N-N-Y.
5. Having my own kid – actually, that point is for my next post…..
Well I just have all sorts of reactions to Penelope’s Clearing the Air post.
1. Nasty. Steff is just nasty, Pen! And you’re wrong. If you got with him one unfortunate night, he would totally tell everyone. And in a really slimy, nonchalant way. Frankly, Penelope, this confession concerns me. Does Monty know? I always thought you carried a torch for Lane Myer. I thought he was your main weiner man. At least Lane could ski the K12.
2. Despite my disapproval of your 80s crush, Penelope, I accept your apology. And since you already outed me, I’ll come clean with my own skanky crush. While you have been busy humoring your inner masochist, I’ve been nursing an emerging affinity for a man who was once turned into a giant pile of shit. Yeah, I think Bill Paxton (as Bill Henrickson in Big Love) is totally hot in an aw shucks way. The same Bill Paxton who, as militant older brother Chet in Weird Science, was transformed into a load of crap by Lisa for being such a wanker. Strangely, though, the shit don’t bother me none. After all these years, it’s like a clean slate or something. Why yes, Bill, I would love a nice greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ashtray. Damn, that polygamist is sexy!
3. But back to Pretty in Pink, what is UP with Blaine’s hair in that final prom scene? Has anyone else noticed this? It’s bothered me since I was prepubescent. Blaine’s hair looks feathered and fine in every other scene of the movie, but then all dark and matted down for prom. I know he’s supposed to be forlorn and stuff because he stomped all over Andie’s thrift store heart, but come on. It’s the 80s… can we get a little Dippity-do?
4. Have you told Monty who his brother Ned’s 80s movie counterpart is? Ned has always reminded me of someone; a few weeks ago, while Pen and I were jawing on the phone, it finally came to me. He’s Badger from Better off Dead. You know, Badger, Lane’s kid brother, the one who’s always in his room studying up on pyrotechnics and learning how to pick up slutty women. The little boy who likes big boy smut. Although Badger is only about eight years old and Ned is in his twenties, the resemblance is undeniable. My observation is completely complimentary; everyone knows Badger is a badass.
5. In spite of your questionable taste in 80s teenage-romantic-comedy villains, I still think you and Monty should have a kid. Wait, Monty doesn’t have any dubious 80s crushes, does he? As long as he’s not secretly pining after Large Marge or the Donger’s Sexy American Girlfriend, then you two should seriously think about producing offspring. Yes, I think you would be excellent parents and raise bright, healthy children. But the real reason I want you to breed is that Yolanda’s going to need a playmate if we are planning to be hanging out over the next fifteen years or so. The kids entertain each other while the parents practice benign neglect and drink cocktails and watch PeeWee’s Big Adventure on DVD. Life could be so perfect…
So I adore the Post’s Going Out Gurus discussion. Every Thursday, a group of benevolent hipsters answers the same set of questions from DC’s clueless workaholics: “Where can I get my jeans hemmed?” “What’s a good place for my best frenemy’s bachelorette party?” “My parents are visiting but they don’t like ‘ethnic’ food; where should I take them?” And each week, the ever-stoic Gurus manage to answer without obvious sarcasm or browbeating, even though I’m pretty sure they’re tempted.
I ‘ve asked a few questions, and the only Guru who ever answered them is David Malitz. He’s like the video store clerk on Seinfeld – the faceless sage that Elaine trusts for movie recommendations. David’s answers seem trustworthy. He would recommend Rochelle Rochelle over Sack Lunch and tell me to wait for the DVD release of Ponce de Leon.
Last November, I asked the Going Out Gurus the following question and Lo! David answered:
Pancake Mountain: Would I look like a perv if I went to a pancake mountain “dance party” taping since I don’t have kids?
David: I don’t know if perv is the word, but I think we can at least settle on sketchy. Still, as far as who can attend, the PM folks on their Web site say, “Anyone from 5 to 50 (actually older then 50 is fine, it just sounds cool to say it that way) as long as you plan on dancing,” so I guess technically you’d be OK. Don’t you have a niece or nephew or cousin or something?
Boo! No, I don’t. I don’t even have a friend with a child that age. My life is completely devoid of children to borrow for my selfish whims. And I want to go to a Pancake Mountain taping without feeling like the Chicken Lady in this video:
“You want me to give you a quarter so that you can masturbate in front of my child?”
While I’m beefing about Pancake Mountain, can I say that although it is very cool that they went to Bonnaroo and Rufus Leaking got to check out Wayne Coyne’s recreational scars up close and personal, why is this DC Public Access show never actually on DC Public Access television? It is a mystery.
Anyway Buns, I guess the point of this post is to say that I wished you lived here, so you and I could take Yoyo to Pancake Mountain Dance Party tapings and I wouldn’t look like a “sketchy” perv. And of course so I could be a part of that little sweet potato’s toddlerhood.
I would like to take this opportunity to extend an open apology to Barnaby, an acquaintance who always seems shocked at my casual swearing and base statements. I apologize because whenever he acts all shocked and offended, I then go out of my way to say something that’s even more crass. Just to watch him pull his collar and clutch his freakin’ pearls. That is a terrible pastime to have at someone else’s expense.
Barnaby Flapster
I would also like to apologize to you, Bunny, for three things:
First, for just now using the phrase “Barnaby Flapster” without giving you the proper credit for coining it. (Years ago, over a pitcher of beer, Bunny tried in vain to think of the descriptive phrase “foppish dandy” and blurted out “Barnaby Flapster” instead. If BF ever makes it into the vernacular, you heard it first – it was Buns who came up with it.)
Second, to Bunny and our one MNM reader: sorry for taking such a long time between postings. I have flagellated myself for it, kind of like the way old timey Catholics used to do.
Third, to Bunny: I apologize for not getting the Chet thing. When you first told me you had a strange, newfound fascination with Chet-cum-BigLove-polygamist Bill Paxton, I didn’t understand it. But I saw Pretty in Pink last week and was suddenly reminded of my own movie character crush that nobody understands.
You see, every woman of our certain age carried a little torch for one of John Hughes’ 80s high school boy archetypes. For some (Bunny), it’s Jake Ryan, of the panty-retrieving, unattainable, Porsche-driving variety. For others (our friend Kitty), it’s Lloyd Dobler, the intense, earnest, trenchcoat-wearing rock nerd. (For even others, shyness may be their El Guapo.) And for my masochistic, perverted little heart, it’s Steff from Pretty in Pink.
I know, gross. But there’s something about his old man hunchback and shuffle, his ridiculous white suits, the way he smoked, leaning on the school radiator like he was doing it a favor … I kept asking Andie: “Why not?” Just overlook his complete sliminess for one night. One delicious, filthy night – he’ll never tell.
Between Blaine and the mannish girlfriend “Benny”, Steff probably had other things on his mind anyway.
Please excuse my extended absence from MNM. Yoyo and I spent a few weeks in South Florida visiting my wacky relatives (No, some of them really are crazy. You know what I’m talking about, Pen.) South Florida is where I used to live and where I never want to live again. South Florida is where the women all have French manicured toenails and the men pee sitting down. South Florida is where people drive everywhere because things are so spread out and nobody walks or bikes or takes public transportation. Okay, so these are gross generalizations, I admit, but that’s what it feels like to me when I’m there.
Long story short, Yo’s schedule got seriously effed up. We spent so much time driving around Dade and Broward counties visiting people that little Yo couldn’t help but fall asleep in her car seat several times a day. Nights were rough because of all the extra catnaps. Or, more accurately, rougher. (Nights were already pretty bad pre-Florida). I’m not going to bore all of you nonexistent readers with an account of our baby sleep woes. They SUCK is all you really need to know.
I will, however, publicly apologize right here and now to my faithful and wise husband, Jimbo, for disregarding a suggestion he made many months ago. Jimbo came home from a poker game and said that one of his poker buddies had recommended a sleep book by a guy named Ferber.
Jimbo: He said we should try the Ferber method.
Me: Ferber… no way.
Jimbo: Why not?
Me: Because, Ferber is cry-it-out and I don’t believe in that.
Jimbo: What’s cry-it-out?
Me: It’s when you let your baby cry for hours until he falls asleep. It’s cruel and wrong and I don’t want to do that with Yolanda.
Jimbo: Ok then.
Fast forward through months of frustration, crying (me and Yoyo—but mostly me), zombieness, and supreme grumptitude. Fast forward through me totally sucking because I’m so tired. Fast forward through Jimbo’s patience, through his river of calm.
Florida signaled the end of my rope. We finally read the Ferber book. It’s totally working. And she hasn’t even cried that much.
Here is baby sleeping peacefully in her own crib all night long. Here are mommy and daddy not waking up several times a night and cursing at the dog. Here’s some crow that I’m eating. Here is Jimbo laughing at me.
Okay, Penelope. Now you publicly apologize to someone. It feels good, cleansing. Like fasting or going to confession or finally throwing up when you’re wasted. But not the throwing up part, which feels gross; just the afterward part.
