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01/24/01
The Golden Globes and sweaty gym etiquette...

This is absolutely brilliant. Last time, I was talking about the art of arch and I made some huge sweeping generalizations (as a joke, of course), about British and Latino comedy. Glark wrote and had just been watching the Mexican bee guy on The Simpsons, and out of boredom, created this:

Isn't that perfect? I will forevermore use that when I make such insensitive generalizations.

Like this one: What the Hell did somebody slip into Hollywood's drinks Sunday night? Damn! I watched most of the Golden Globes and, aside from George Clooney, who could probably be charming if he was being held prisoner by a gang of crazed monkeys with human brains, everybody was either:

1. Drunk. (Robert Downey Jr., the cast of Sex and the City, possibly Haley Joel Osment.)
2. High. (Again, Robert Downey Jr., possibly Al Pacino, the entire Hollywood Foreign Press for giving Best Dramatic Film to Gladiator.)
3. Emaciated or excessively and grossly tanned. (Lara Flynn Boyle, Calista Flockhart, Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes, Kim Catrall)
4. Elizabeth Taylor.

I've always liked the Golden Globes because they are to the Oscars what the Bad News Bears were to all the normal little league teams. They're like the underdog of awards shows and they try really hard to make interesting nominations and to be a little loose and vulgar and bawdy. And they've given Jim Carrey some awards when the Oscars have blatantly ignored him.

So, yay Golden Globes. But this year, I was bored watching the awards for the first time. There was no real drama except for Liz Taylor's impression of John Stockdale at the end of the show. And Hollywood, which has produced real hotties and very respected individuals working in their crafts, suddenly appeared to be full of a bunch of idiots. Phil Collins made the single worst joke in the history of telling jokes (with the possible exception of, "What smell, that?" back in 3923 B.C.). Martin Sheen gave a less-than-inspiring speech. Al Pacino rambled when he should have just been a bad-ass and said, "Thanks to those who wish me well. The rest of you can go to Hell."

The Golden Globes totally earned my respect this year for nominating Björk and Ellen Burstyn, but they lost it by giving awards to Kelsey Grammar (is his show still on the air?). Even Jennifer Ho-pez, as people on the snarky Fametracker forums calls her, was demure. She should have totally shown some cleavage to get the show going. Come on, Jennifer! Take one for the team!

If this was a dress rehearsal for the Oscars, the Oscars are going to be as boring as dinner with Warren Beatty.

A word on the Blackadder thing I mentioned last time:

Claire writes in:

If the Blackadder special you're referring to is "Blackadder: Back and Forth," it's going to be appearing on PBS stations around the country during March as a pledge special. If your readers want to see it, they should call their local PBS station and ask if it will be airing. Right now, most stations should be finishing up their March schedules, and if they're debating about whether to include it, a couple of viewer requests might make a difference. Remember to pledge!

Cool. Now you have no excuse not to see it.

A really good friend of mine I work with just accepted a really great job to do something that I and a lot of people I know have always dreamed about doing — doing writing for a huge entertainment company.

I can't say much more than that, but it's a huge deal and people at work are really surprised (and I bet more than a little envious). It's a big huge adventure, and the sad part is that she has to move away.

She started working here about two years after I did and is leaving, which again makes me wonder if I haven't stayed way too long at my current job. Three and a half years doesn't seem that long, but considering I'm 25, it's starting to feel like maybe I've crested past "the time to move on" and am now in stuck-tire mode. I like it here. I like it a lot. And I'm doing really well. But this was never really the dream and I can't help wondering whether I'm losing days that could have been used following the course I originally set out for.

Went to the gym last night. (Hey, don't laugh. I go to the gym.)

I didn't go for a very long time in December when we were rehearsing for our New Year's Eve show. It was a very handy excuse not to hit the gym, and the cold weather didn't help either.

So the last week and a half, I've gone three times, usually right after work.

Last night, there's this really big guy. Not that his being big has anything to do with this story, but I just want to give you a visual. Big guy. Beard. Sweatsuit.

I usually start downstairs and do some stretching and some sit-ups to loosen up. Last night it was really crowded, so I was waiting for a Gym Dude to finish up with some of the floor mats he was using. The Gym Dude is already on the padded sit-up machine and he's using two pads on top of that. What is he, the Princess and the Pea? So I wait. I stand, doing some stretches.

Princess Gym Dude finally gets up, and here comes Sweatsuit Guy Meant to Give You a Visual and grabs one of the pads before I can even react.

Then, he gingerly grabs the last of the sit-up roller machines I usually use that's right in front of me and starts laying out, lying in the only space left on the floor.

I wait. And wait some more.

I could feel moments of my life passing. I could feel my abs loosening and turning to fat. (Uh, moreso)

Nasty Sweatsuit Guy is just pumpin' away at those abs, and I'm standing around looking as if I'm stalking somebody in the aerobics class. So I go off and do other stuff, and for the rest of the hour, it seems like every time I want to use a machine, he's there.

Vertical bench press. There. Butt-cruncher machine. There. I was afraid to finish my workout because I'd go to my car and he'd be driving it.

Look, I'm not expert on gym etiquette, but geez. You usually look around and make sure nobody's using the machine, and if it looks like they might be, if you're a guy, you make that wordless gesture where you point the machine and cock your head a little and if the guy's cool, he'll give a quick nod and grunt, "go 'head," to let you know that he's between reps. Then, if you're really polite, you say, "Thanks." Then maybe he pats your ass. I don't know. I've never seen it get to that point.

I finally made it upstairs and to the treadmills, and finally had some satisfaction. I got the last machine available and as I jogged, Sweatsuit Guy came in, sweatily, looking for a treadmill machine. He saw me on my machine and looked puzzled, as if some law of the universe had just been inexplicably broken. He didn't know what to do. He looked around, dazed.

My machine, sucka. You best step off.

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