Anne Rice, the hailing literary queen of darkness, is turning to Jesus?
http://edition.cnn.com/2008/SHOWBIZ/books/10/31/books.anne.rice.ap/index.html?iref=nextin
10.31.2008
10.29.2008
"guilty pleasures"
I've been accused numerous times of being elitist and stuck up when it comes to my taste in music, films, books, etc. But let me clarify- I don't only love "high-brow" things like going to the museum and sipping on tea with my pinky in the air... I also need my weekly dose of contrived reality television (e.g. "The Hills," "Top Model") and I find myself only able to jog to Top 40's pop music. And it's so irritating when I feel the need to justify myself to others for watching such shows or listening to such music. Like I have to acknowledge how bad it is before I indulge with a little disclaimer: "This stuff is below me. But I'll watch it anyway."
Also, I don't like things for the sake of their obscurity or not like things for the sake of their "mainstream-ness." Though I still do believe that J.K. Rowling & (ESPECIALLY)Stephenie Meyer are more lucky than talented. It's just easier to like things that are less popular because the expectations are lower in contrast to something that is pre-hyped.
This all reminded me of an article by Chuck Klosterman:
Guilty Pleasures
The curious etymology of a phrase gone wrong
In and of itself, the phrase "guilty pleasure" seems like a reasonable way to describe certain activities. For example, it is pleasurable to snort cocaine in public restrooms, and it always makes you feel guilty; as such, lavatory cocaine fits perfectly into this category. Drinking more than five glasses of gin before (or during) work generally qualifies as a guilty pleasure. So does having sex with people you barely know, having sex with people you actively hate, and/or having sex with people you barely know but whom your girlfriend used to live with during college (and will now consequently hate). These are all guilty pleasures in a technical sense. However, almost no one who uses the term "guilty pleasure" is referring to activities like these. People who use this term are usually talking about why they like Joan of Arcadia, or the music of Nelly, or Patrick Swayze's Road House. This troubles me for two reasons: Labeling things like Patrick Swayze movies a guilty pleasure implies that a) people should feel bad for liking things they sincerely enjoy, and b) if these same people were not somehow coerced into watching Road House every time it's on TBS, they'd probably be reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
Both of these assumptions are wrong.
I suspect that Entertainment Weekly semiaccidentally started all this way back in the twentieth century with its "Guilty Pleasures" issue. Initially, this was a charming idea. It allowed the magazine to cover things that would normally be nonsensical to write about, and it dovetailed nicely with the primary cultural obsession of all people born between 1968 and 1980 (i.e., profound nostalgia for the extremely recent past). EW still publishes this annual feature, although now it just picks crazy shit to confuse soccer moms in Omaha. (I question whether any contemporary person derives pleasure from—or feels guilty about—Mr. Rogers's puppet-saturated Neighborhood of Make-Believe, which EW inexplicably included in its 2004 installment.)
What's more troubling is the forthcoming Encyclopedia of Guilty Pleasures: 1,001 Things You Hate to Love (Quirk Books). Ostensibly a reference guide for those who want to feel embarrassed about being engaged with life, The EGP is a compilation of everything that's been popular over the past fifty years, augmented by short essays about why we can't help but adore these terrible, terrible things. These are things like Michael Jackson's Thriller, an album that 1) was produced by Quincy Jones, 2) features guitar playing by Eddie Van Halen, 3) includes at least three singles that are undeniably awesome, and 4) has the single-best bass line from the entire 1980s (the opening of "Billie Jean"). It is a guilty pleasure, presumably, because forty-five million people liked it, and because Jackson is quite possibly a pedophile, and because two dancers had a really unfair knife fight* in the "Beat It" video. This is akin to considering Thomas Jefferson a guilty pleasure because he briefly owned two pet bears. I mean, he still wrote the fucking Declaration of Independence, you know?
The failure of The EGP is its never-explained premise, which is that there are certain things we're just supposed to inherently feel shame about. For example, I have no idea why anyone would be embarrassed to like Evel Knievel (page 144); he serves as a metaphor for what a lot of people valued in 1975. He also broke thirty-five bones, went to jail for beating a man with a baseball bat, and consciously named himself Evel. He's not cool in a guilty context; he's cool in every context. The EGP also suggests there should be guilt associated with the appreciation of prison films (page 216). This makes no sense whatsoever. I feel ashamed when Cool Hand Luke is on television and I don't watch it. And why are gumball machines indicted on page 114? It's not just that I don't harbor guilty feelings about gumball machines; I have no opinion at all about gumball machines (unless I want a gumball; then I'm briefly "pro—gumball machine," I suppose).
What the authors of The Encyclopedia of Guilty Pleasures (and everyone else who uses this term) fail to realize is that the only people who believe in some kind of universal taste—a consensual demarcation between what's artistically good and what's artistically bad—are insecure, uncreative elitists who need to use somebody else's art to validate their own limited worldview. It never matters what you like; what matters is why you like it.
Take, for example, Road House. This is a movie I love. But I don't love it because it's bad; I love it because it's interesting. Outside the genre of sci-fi, I can't think of any film less plausible than Road House. Every element of the story is wholly preposterous: the idea of Swayze being a nationally famous bouncer (with a degree in philosophy), the concept of such a superviolent bar having such an attractive clientele, the likelihood of a tiny Kansas town having such a sophisticated hospital, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Every single scene includes at least one detail that could never happen in real life. So does that make Road House bad? No. It makes Road House perfect. Because Road House exists in a parallel reality that is more fanciful (and more watchable) than The Lord of the Rings. The characters in Road House live within the mythology of rural legend while grappling with exaggerated moral dilemmas and neoclassical archetypes. I don't feel guilty for liking any of that. Road House also includes a monster truck. I don't feel guilty for liking that, either.
But let's say I did.
Let's assume that I was somehow humiliated by the fact that I watched The Ashlee Simpson Show, which is something I did almost every week for two months. I think it's a fascinating illustration of what's wrong with young people, how the music industry operates, and how modern celebrities aspire to view themselves. But let's pretend this wasn't the case. Let's say I considered this program a guilty pleasure, and let's say my desire to watch Ashlee explain how her boyfriend ruined Valentine's Day was something I needed to apologize for. Wouldn't this imply that The Ashlee Simpson Show was my conscious alternative to something better? Wouldn't this suggest that—were I not watching The Ashlee Simpson Show—I would be working on logarithms, or studying the lin- er notes of out-of-print jazz records, or searching for factual errors in The Economist? Because these are not things I do, and I don't think many of the other 2.9 million people watching Ashlee Simpson every Wednesday do these things, either. We're not losing the battle against cancer because of Ashlee Simpson. If we weren't watching her pretend to be sexy, we'd probably just be going to the bar earlier.
I think it was Voltaire (possibly) who once argued that every man is guilty of all the good he didn't do, and I suppose he had a point. If I spent as much time analyzing Al Qaeda as I've spent deconstructing Toby Keith's video for "Whiskey Girl," we probably would have won the war on terror last April. However, this is nothing to celebrate or bemoan; it's kind of my own fault, and it's kind of no one's fault. These things that give us pleasure, they are guilty of nothing. And neither are we."
Also, I don't like things for the sake of their obscurity or not like things for the sake of their "mainstream-ness." Though I still do believe that J.K. Rowling & (ESPECIALLY)Stephenie Meyer are more lucky than talented. It's just easier to like things that are less popular because the expectations are lower in contrast to something that is pre-hyped.
This all reminded me of an article by Chuck Klosterman:
Guilty Pleasures
The curious etymology of a phrase gone wrong
In and of itself, the phrase "guilty pleasure" seems like a reasonable way to describe certain activities. For example, it is pleasurable to snort cocaine in public restrooms, and it always makes you feel guilty; as such, lavatory cocaine fits perfectly into this category. Drinking more than five glasses of gin before (or during) work generally qualifies as a guilty pleasure. So does having sex with people you barely know, having sex with people you actively hate, and/or having sex with people you barely know but whom your girlfriend used to live with during college (and will now consequently hate). These are all guilty pleasures in a technical sense. However, almost no one who uses the term "guilty pleasure" is referring to activities like these. People who use this term are usually talking about why they like Joan of Arcadia, or the music of Nelly, or Patrick Swayze's Road House. This troubles me for two reasons: Labeling things like Patrick Swayze movies a guilty pleasure implies that a) people should feel bad for liking things they sincerely enjoy, and b) if these same people were not somehow coerced into watching Road House every time it's on TBS, they'd probably be reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
Both of these assumptions are wrong.
I suspect that Entertainment Weekly semiaccidentally started all this way back in the twentieth century with its "Guilty Pleasures" issue. Initially, this was a charming idea. It allowed the magazine to cover things that would normally be nonsensical to write about, and it dovetailed nicely with the primary cultural obsession of all people born between 1968 and 1980 (i.e., profound nostalgia for the extremely recent past). EW still publishes this annual feature, although now it just picks crazy shit to confuse soccer moms in Omaha. (I question whether any contemporary person derives pleasure from—or feels guilty about—Mr. Rogers's puppet-saturated Neighborhood of Make-Believe, which EW inexplicably included in its 2004 installment.)
What's more troubling is the forthcoming Encyclopedia of Guilty Pleasures: 1,001 Things You Hate to Love (Quirk Books). Ostensibly a reference guide for those who want to feel embarrassed about being engaged with life, The EGP is a compilation of everything that's been popular over the past fifty years, augmented by short essays about why we can't help but adore these terrible, terrible things. These are things like Michael Jackson's Thriller, an album that 1) was produced by Quincy Jones, 2) features guitar playing by Eddie Van Halen, 3) includes at least three singles that are undeniably awesome, and 4) has the single-best bass line from the entire 1980s (the opening of "Billie Jean"). It is a guilty pleasure, presumably, because forty-five million people liked it, and because Jackson is quite possibly a pedophile, and because two dancers had a really unfair knife fight* in the "Beat It" video. This is akin to considering Thomas Jefferson a guilty pleasure because he briefly owned two pet bears. I mean, he still wrote the fucking Declaration of Independence, you know?
The failure of The EGP is its never-explained premise, which is that there are certain things we're just supposed to inherently feel shame about. For example, I have no idea why anyone would be embarrassed to like Evel Knievel (page 144); he serves as a metaphor for what a lot of people valued in 1975. He also broke thirty-five bones, went to jail for beating a man with a baseball bat, and consciously named himself Evel. He's not cool in a guilty context; he's cool in every context. The EGP also suggests there should be guilt associated with the appreciation of prison films (page 216). This makes no sense whatsoever. I feel ashamed when Cool Hand Luke is on television and I don't watch it. And why are gumball machines indicted on page 114? It's not just that I don't harbor guilty feelings about gumball machines; I have no opinion at all about gumball machines (unless I want a gumball; then I'm briefly "pro—gumball machine," I suppose).
What the authors of The Encyclopedia of Guilty Pleasures (and everyone else who uses this term) fail to realize is that the only people who believe in some kind of universal taste—a consensual demarcation between what's artistically good and what's artistically bad—are insecure, uncreative elitists who need to use somebody else's art to validate their own limited worldview. It never matters what you like; what matters is why you like it.
Take, for example, Road House. This is a movie I love. But I don't love it because it's bad; I love it because it's interesting. Outside the genre of sci-fi, I can't think of any film less plausible than Road House. Every element of the story is wholly preposterous: the idea of Swayze being a nationally famous bouncer (with a degree in philosophy), the concept of such a superviolent bar having such an attractive clientele, the likelihood of a tiny Kansas town having such a sophisticated hospital, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Every single scene includes at least one detail that could never happen in real life. So does that make Road House bad? No. It makes Road House perfect. Because Road House exists in a parallel reality that is more fanciful (and more watchable) than The Lord of the Rings. The characters in Road House live within the mythology of rural legend while grappling with exaggerated moral dilemmas and neoclassical archetypes. I don't feel guilty for liking any of that. Road House also includes a monster truck. I don't feel guilty for liking that, either.
But let's say I did.
Let's assume that I was somehow humiliated by the fact that I watched The Ashlee Simpson Show, which is something I did almost every week for two months. I think it's a fascinating illustration of what's wrong with young people, how the music industry operates, and how modern celebrities aspire to view themselves. But let's pretend this wasn't the case. Let's say I considered this program a guilty pleasure, and let's say my desire to watch Ashlee explain how her boyfriend ruined Valentine's Day was something I needed to apologize for. Wouldn't this imply that The Ashlee Simpson Show was my conscious alternative to something better? Wouldn't this suggest that—were I not watching The Ashlee Simpson Show—I would be working on logarithms, or studying the lin- er notes of out-of-print jazz records, or searching for factual errors in The Economist? Because these are not things I do, and I don't think many of the other 2.9 million people watching Ashlee Simpson every Wednesday do these things, either. We're not losing the battle against cancer because of Ashlee Simpson. If we weren't watching her pretend to be sexy, we'd probably just be going to the bar earlier.
I think it was Voltaire (possibly) who once argued that every man is guilty of all the good he didn't do, and I suppose he had a point. If I spent as much time analyzing Al Qaeda as I've spent deconstructing Toby Keith's video for "Whiskey Girl," we probably would have won the war on terror last April. However, this is nothing to celebrate or bemoan; it's kind of my own fault, and it's kind of no one's fault. These things that give us pleasure, they are guilty of nothing. And neither are we."
10.24.2008
boys
There are basically three categories of guys for me (or I guess I should say most girls… though I am reluctant to be the spokesperson for all the women out there):
1. the maybe babies
These are the wide (or maybe not so wide) spectrum of guys that you would possibly date if they liked you and tried to pursue you, but sadly you wouldn’t really go out of your way if they didn’t show initial interest. So you’d either have to be somewhat convinced, wooed, or tree-chopped (in the most extreme situation) to liking this person.
"However, Jeremy does have one outstanding quality. He likes her. And this quality in a person makes them infinitely interesting to the person being liked."- Shopgirl
Most… or I guess pretty much all the guys I’ve dated can be categorized as a “Jeremy.”
2. the “heeeell no” guys
Guys you would definitely not date under any circumstances. Doesn’t matter if they have a million dollars. Doesn’t matter if you two are the last living people on this earth. These people can try to chop as much as they want, but that tree ain’t fallin’ over. Okay maybe that’s a little harsh. But these are the guys that if you knew they liked you, you would not be flattered, but a bit repelled (well, unless you’re one of those attention-deprived girls that will welcome any sort of affection from anyone). These guys are “deal breakers” in themselves (I’m such a b*tch). There are far too many of these.
3. Felicity’s Ben
So as you may already know, I love the show “Felicity.” And though Ben wouldn’t be the ideal guy of my dreams, I’m referring more to Felicity’s adoration for him rather than the dude himself. These are the guys that you would like regardless of their feelings for you. You would be willing to be shameless (e.g. moving across the country to attend the same college) for. For me, these “Ben’s” are far and few between. So when I find one, it’s like discovering a hidden treasure. Okay that was really cheesy, but I’m not really sure what else to compare it to. I’ve told a friend of mine I wonder what it would feel like to really confess your feelings to a person (in Korean this would be “go-behk”)… I’ve never really done that before without having 100% security of their feelings first (yes, I’m a big pansy). How frightening yet refreshing it would be though…
this scene made my heart hurt.
1. the maybe babies
These are the wide (or maybe not so wide) spectrum of guys that you would possibly date if they liked you and tried to pursue you, but sadly you wouldn’t really go out of your way if they didn’t show initial interest. So you’d either have to be somewhat convinced, wooed, or tree-chopped (in the most extreme situation) to liking this person.
"However, Jeremy does have one outstanding quality. He likes her. And this quality in a person makes them infinitely interesting to the person being liked."- Shopgirl
Most… or I guess pretty much all the guys I’ve dated can be categorized as a “Jeremy.”
2. the “heeeell no” guys
Guys you would definitely not date under any circumstances. Doesn’t matter if they have a million dollars. Doesn’t matter if you two are the last living people on this earth. These people can try to chop as much as they want, but that tree ain’t fallin’ over. Okay maybe that’s a little harsh. But these are the guys that if you knew they liked you, you would not be flattered, but a bit repelled (well, unless you’re one of those attention-deprived girls that will welcome any sort of affection from anyone). These guys are “deal breakers” in themselves (I’m such a b*tch). There are far too many of these.
3. Felicity’s Ben
So as you may already know, I love the show “Felicity.” And though Ben wouldn’t be the ideal guy of my dreams, I’m referring more to Felicity’s adoration for him rather than the dude himself. These are the guys that you would like regardless of their feelings for you. You would be willing to be shameless (e.g. moving across the country to attend the same college) for. For me, these “Ben’s” are far and few between. So when I find one, it’s like discovering a hidden treasure. Okay that was really cheesy, but I’m not really sure what else to compare it to. I’ve told a friend of mine I wonder what it would feel like to really confess your feelings to a person (in Korean this would be “go-behk”)… I’ve never really done that before without having 100% security of their feelings first (yes, I’m a big pansy). How frightening yet refreshing it would be though…
this scene made my heart hurt.
10.22.2008
nocturnal cravings
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with these intense, inexplicable cravings.
This one night last week, I woke up really wanting to eat cheese pizza. No toppings, just plain cheese. I NEVER crave cheese pizza. I think it's a sorry excuse for a pizza. But that night, I was almost tempted to call Pizza Hut at 3 in the morning. I ended up having pizza the next day, but it had toppings so I had to take them all off (wasn't quite the same).
Just last night, I woke up at 4am really itching to hear that song on that new ipod nano commercial (damn Mac and their smart advertising gimmicks!), which I later found out was Chairlift- "Bruises." At 4:00am, I got my laptop and downloaded it on limewire. I couldn't find the headphones with the lights off, so I turned the volume down to the lowest notch possible (so I wouldn't wake up Ana), put my ear to the speaker and satisfied my craving.
I've been listening to the tune all morning.
This all made me think of the Murakami story I read recently:
http://ctina.com/bakeryattack.html
Reading this made me really want a McDonald's Big Mac.
This one night last week, I woke up really wanting to eat cheese pizza. No toppings, just plain cheese. I NEVER crave cheese pizza. I think it's a sorry excuse for a pizza. But that night, I was almost tempted to call Pizza Hut at 3 in the morning. I ended up having pizza the next day, but it had toppings so I had to take them all off (wasn't quite the same).
Just last night, I woke up at 4am really itching to hear that song on that new ipod nano commercial (damn Mac and their smart advertising gimmicks!), which I later found out was Chairlift- "Bruises." At 4:00am, I got my laptop and downloaded it on limewire. I couldn't find the headphones with the lights off, so I turned the volume down to the lowest notch possible (so I wouldn't wake up Ana), put my ear to the speaker and satisfied my craving.
I've been listening to the tune all morning.
This all made me think of the Murakami story I read recently:
http://ctina.com/bakeryattack.html
Reading this made me really want a McDonald's Big Mac.
10.15.2008
Poetry vs. Prose
I've always been inclined
to pick Poetry over Prose-
It has always been my design
For encapsulating passion or the morose.
Only with poems you can get by
With corny compliments or a kudos
Like "Your eyes are more beautiful than the sky"
or "Your scent is sweeter than a rose."
You can make fun little phrases for kicks
Like the common "Bros over hoes"
or my favorite- "Chicks over dicks"
Little mantras with a twist I suppose.
Everything sounds better in brevity
Who wants to read a long-winded piece
when poems can also carry longevity
With well-worded caprice?
Quality over quantity I say!
Isn't that the motto of our beloved fast-food joint?
I could go for a double-double or a milk shake
But that is straying away from the point.
Poetry- I will always show you favor
Though the neglected brother of prose
You will always be my favorite flavor
For writing my deepest thoughts- as it clearly shows.
to pick Poetry over Prose-
It has always been my design
For encapsulating passion or the morose.
Only with poems you can get by
With corny compliments or a kudos
Like "Your eyes are more beautiful than the sky"
or "Your scent is sweeter than a rose."
You can make fun little phrases for kicks
Like the common "Bros over hoes"
or my favorite- "Chicks over dicks"
Little mantras with a twist I suppose.
Everything sounds better in brevity
Who wants to read a long-winded piece
when poems can also carry longevity
With well-worded caprice?
Quality over quantity I say!
Isn't that the motto of our beloved fast-food joint?
I could go for a double-double or a milk shake
But that is straying away from the point.
Poetry- I will always show you favor
Though the neglected brother of prose
You will always be my favorite flavor
For writing my deepest thoughts- as it clearly shows.
10.07.2008
23 going on 24
When I turned the old, harried age of 23, I was in a state of disbelief. When and, more importantly, how did this happen? 23 always sounded like one of those imaginary years... those years you see on your older cousins with coffee breath and collared dress shirts from J-Crew. 19- you're still a baby, 20 is the end of your teens, 21 is the year of liberation, 22 is symmetrical so I could forgive it. But 23? It's an age of futility. People consoled me by saying "It's a magical year... it's your 'Jordan' Year!" I didn't really find comfort in that since I'm not a huge fan of basketball, but hey- I tried to make the best of it.
When I was younger, back in my careless grade school days, I could hardly even imagine being this old (I'm the kind of person who doesn't see too far in the future). And even if I tried, I would imagine myself to be a completely different person- a true "grown up" adult... you know the kind who engages in weighty conversations about politics and finances, the kind that is at least a head taller with a full head of sleek, Pantene Pro-V hair, perfectly articulate speech, and a certain aged grace. In my head, I pictured myself to be like a Waverly from the Joy Luck Club, except probably not as pretty.
Though I pay the monthly bills and try my best to keep up with current events (my ever-growing pile of unread subscriptions of the LA Times and the New Yorker), I feel like a kid playing "grown-up." And the sad thing is, it's as transparent as if I were a 7-year-old walking around, wearing my mom's lipstick and high heels. Sometimes, when I'm bored and sifting through my wallet, I stare at my checkbook in awe and think "wow, I'm all growed up." I know nobody really carries checkbooks these days, but I remember when I was younger, I would always see my mom writing checks and thought how fun it would be when I was old enough to fill out my own checks. Though now, it's not really all that fun- more of a nuisance than anything.
Also when I was a kid, I remember one of my favorite board games being "The Game of LIFE." There was something so sequential and fulfilling about going through the various stages of life (e.g. getting a car, picking your career, buying a house, planning your retirement). I loved picking my little candy-colored automobile, putting my little pink figurine inside the vehicle (along with my blue husband) and strolling along while mapping out my life. But oh Milton Bradley, how you've deceived me~ this little simulated game is far from life as I know it. Or as I'm currently experiencing it. There is no clear path that is lit up for me, no distinct landmarks/time table of when I should be doing what I'm doing.
And here I am- 23 years old (though two people yesterday told me I don't look a day older than 18... oddly, I don't think I'm old enough to take that as a compliment) and still uncertain about pretty much every area of my life (career, love, spiritual, etc.) Maybe if I stopped drinking juice cartons and wearing Hello Kitty, I'll miraculously grow into a "real adult"... Who knows... Maybe in my Kobe year.
When I was younger, back in my careless grade school days, I could hardly even imagine being this old (I'm the kind of person who doesn't see too far in the future). And even if I tried, I would imagine myself to be a completely different person- a true "grown up" adult... you know the kind who engages in weighty conversations about politics and finances, the kind that is at least a head taller with a full head of sleek, Pantene Pro-V hair, perfectly articulate speech, and a certain aged grace. In my head, I pictured myself to be like a Waverly from the Joy Luck Club, except probably not as pretty.
Though I pay the monthly bills and try my best to keep up with current events (my ever-growing pile of unread subscriptions of the LA Times and the New Yorker), I feel like a kid playing "grown-up." And the sad thing is, it's as transparent as if I were a 7-year-old walking around, wearing my mom's lipstick and high heels. Sometimes, when I'm bored and sifting through my wallet, I stare at my checkbook in awe and think "wow, I'm all growed up." I know nobody really carries checkbooks these days, but I remember when I was younger, I would always see my mom writing checks and thought how fun it would be when I was old enough to fill out my own checks. Though now, it's not really all that fun- more of a nuisance than anything.
Also when I was a kid, I remember one of my favorite board games being "The Game of LIFE." There was something so sequential and fulfilling about going through the various stages of life (e.g. getting a car, picking your career, buying a house, planning your retirement). I loved picking my little candy-colored automobile, putting my little pink figurine inside the vehicle (along with my blue husband) and strolling along while mapping out my life. But oh Milton Bradley, how you've deceived me~ this little simulated game is far from life as I know it. Or as I'm currently experiencing it. There is no clear path that is lit up for me, no distinct landmarks/time table of when I should be doing what I'm doing.
And here I am- 23 years old (though two people yesterday told me I don't look a day older than 18... oddly, I don't think I'm old enough to take that as a compliment) and still uncertain about pretty much every area of my life (career, love, spiritual, etc.) Maybe if I stopped drinking juice cartons and wearing Hello Kitty, I'll miraculously grow into a "real adult"... Who knows... Maybe in my Kobe year.
10.03.2008
homerisms
Homer: Wait a minute, Skinner. How do we know some principal over in France isn't pulling the same scam you are?
Skinner: Well, for one thing, you wouldn't be getting a French boy. You would be getting an Albanian.
Homer: You mean all white with pink eyes?
Marge: I’m afraid we’re going to need a bigger place.
Homer: No, we won’t. I’ve got it all figured out. The baby can have Bart’s crib and Bart’ll sleep with us until he’s 21.
Marge: Won’t that warp him?
Homer: My cousin Frank did it.
Marge: You don’t have a cousin Frank.
Homer: He became Francine back in ’76. Then he joined that cult. I think his name is Mother Shabubu now.
“Here are your messages: ‘You have thirty minutes to move your car.’ ‘You have ten minutes to move your car.’ ‘Your car has been impounded.’ ‘Your car has been crushed into a cube.’ ‘You have thirty minutes to move your cube.’”
“Now, son, you don’t want to drink beer. That’s for daddys, and kids with fake I.D.s.”
“Oh my god! Space Aliens! Don’t eat me, I have a wife and kids! Eat them!”
“Marge, don’t discourage the boy. Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It’s what separates us from the animals … except the weasel.”
Homer: Hello, my name is Mr Burns, you have a letter for me....
Postoffice: Okay. What's your first name, Mr Burns?
Homer: I ... Uh ... Don't know ...
"Homer Simpson is not the kind of man that apologizes, I'm sorry that's just the way I am."
Homer: "No beer and no TV make Homer something something"
Marge: "Go crazy?"
Homer: "Don't mind if I do!"
Lisa: Dad! You can't just leave us by ourselves, we need a babysitter!
Homer: Lisa, haven't you seen Home Alone? If some burglars come it'll be a hilarious situation...
"Bart, with $10,000, we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things like ... love!"
"I like my beer cold, my TV loud, and my homosexuals flaaaming."
Homer: But we love Bart and Lisa!
Judge: And Margaret?
Homer: Margaret? Lady you got the wrong file ...
Marge [Whispering]: She means Maggie.
Homer: Oh yeah, I don't have anything against her.
Maybe, just once, someone will call me 'Sir' without adding, 'You're making a scene.'
Lisa, if you don't like your job you don't strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American way.
Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.
Lisa, if the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls sports, such as hot oil wrestling and foxy boxing and such and such.
Lisa, Vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos.
I'm in no condition to drive...wait! I shouldn't listen to myself, I'm drunk!
Scully: Homer, we're going to ask you a few simple yes or no questions. Do you understand?
Homer: Yes. (lie dectector blows up)
Homer: Marge? Since I'm not talking to Lisa, would you please ask her to pass me the syrup?
Marge: Dear, please pass your father the syrup, Lisa.
Lisa: Bart, tell Dad I will only pass the syrup if it won't be used on any meat product.
Bart: You dunkin' your sausages in that syrup homeboy?
Homer: Marge, tell Bart I just want to drink a nice glass of syrup like I do every morning.
Marge: Tell him yourself, you're ignoring Lisa, not Bart.
Homer: Bart, thank your mother for pointing that out.
Marge: Homer, you're not not-talking to me and secondly I heard what you said.
Homer: Lisa, tell your mother to get off my case.
Bart: Uhhh, dad, Lisa's the one you're not talking to.
Homer: Bart, go to your room
Homer: Lisa, would you like a donut?
Lisa: No thanks. Do you have any fruit?
Homer: This has purple in it. Purple is a fruit.
Billy Corgan: "Billy Corgan, 'Smashing Pumpkins'."
Homer Simpson: "Homer Simpson, smiling politely."
Lisa: Do we have any food that wasn't brutally slaughtered?
Homer: Well, I think the veal died of loneliness.
Homer: Fame was like a drug, but what was even more like a drug were the drugs.
Marge: This is the worst thing you've ever done.
Homer: You say that so often that it lost its meaning.
Homer: Are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Ham?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Pork chops?
Lisa: Dad, those all come from the same animal.
Homer: Heh heh heh. Ooh, yeah, right, Lisa. A wonderful, magical animal.
Homer: [drunk] Look, the thing about my family is there's five of us. Marge, Bart, Girl Bart, the one who doesn't talk, and the fat guy. How I loathe him.
Homer: Hey boy! Wanna play catch?
Bart: No thanks dad.
Homer: When a son doesn't want to play catch with his father something is definitely wrong.
Grandpa Simpson: I'll play catch with you!
Homer: Go home.
Skinner: Well, for one thing, you wouldn't be getting a French boy. You would be getting an Albanian.
Homer: You mean all white with pink eyes?
Marge: I’m afraid we’re going to need a bigger place.
Homer: No, we won’t. I’ve got it all figured out. The baby can have Bart’s crib and Bart’ll sleep with us until he’s 21.
Marge: Won’t that warp him?
Homer: My cousin Frank did it.
Marge: You don’t have a cousin Frank.
Homer: He became Francine back in ’76. Then he joined that cult. I think his name is Mother Shabubu now.
“Here are your messages: ‘You have thirty minutes to move your car.’ ‘You have ten minutes to move your car.’ ‘Your car has been impounded.’ ‘Your car has been crushed into a cube.’ ‘You have thirty minutes to move your cube.’”
“Now, son, you don’t want to drink beer. That’s for daddys, and kids with fake I.D.s.”
“Oh my god! Space Aliens! Don’t eat me, I have a wife and kids! Eat them!”
“Marge, don’t discourage the boy. Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It’s what separates us from the animals … except the weasel.”
Homer: Hello, my name is Mr Burns, you have a letter for me....
Postoffice: Okay. What's your first name, Mr Burns?
Homer: I ... Uh ... Don't know ...
"Homer Simpson is not the kind of man that apologizes, I'm sorry that's just the way I am."
Homer: "No beer and no TV make Homer something something"
Marge: "Go crazy?"
Homer: "Don't mind if I do!"
Lisa: Dad! You can't just leave us by ourselves, we need a babysitter!
Homer: Lisa, haven't you seen Home Alone? If some burglars come it'll be a hilarious situation...
"Bart, with $10,000, we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things like ... love!"
"I like my beer cold, my TV loud, and my homosexuals flaaaming."
Homer: But we love Bart and Lisa!
Judge: And Margaret?
Homer: Margaret? Lady you got the wrong file ...
Marge [Whispering]: She means Maggie.
Homer: Oh yeah, I don't have anything against her.
Maybe, just once, someone will call me 'Sir' without adding, 'You're making a scene.'
Lisa, if you don't like your job you don't strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American way.
Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.
Lisa, if the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls sports, such as hot oil wrestling and foxy boxing and such and such.
Lisa, Vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos.
I'm in no condition to drive...wait! I shouldn't listen to myself, I'm drunk!
Scully: Homer, we're going to ask you a few simple yes or no questions. Do you understand?
Homer: Yes. (lie dectector blows up)
Homer: Marge? Since I'm not talking to Lisa, would you please ask her to pass me the syrup?
Marge: Dear, please pass your father the syrup, Lisa.
Lisa: Bart, tell Dad I will only pass the syrup if it won't be used on any meat product.
Bart: You dunkin' your sausages in that syrup homeboy?
Homer: Marge, tell Bart I just want to drink a nice glass of syrup like I do every morning.
Marge: Tell him yourself, you're ignoring Lisa, not Bart.
Homer: Bart, thank your mother for pointing that out.
Marge: Homer, you're not not-talking to me and secondly I heard what you said.
Homer: Lisa, tell your mother to get off my case.
Bart: Uhhh, dad, Lisa's the one you're not talking to.
Homer: Bart, go to your room
Homer: Lisa, would you like a donut?
Lisa: No thanks. Do you have any fruit?
Homer: This has purple in it. Purple is a fruit.
Billy Corgan: "Billy Corgan, 'Smashing Pumpkins'."
Homer Simpson: "Homer Simpson, smiling politely."
Lisa: Do we have any food that wasn't brutally slaughtered?
Homer: Well, I think the veal died of loneliness.
Homer: Fame was like a drug, but what was even more like a drug were the drugs.
Marge: This is the worst thing you've ever done.
Homer: You say that so often that it lost its meaning.
Homer: Are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Ham?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Pork chops?
Lisa: Dad, those all come from the same animal.
Homer: Heh heh heh. Ooh, yeah, right, Lisa. A wonderful, magical animal.
Homer: [drunk] Look, the thing about my family is there's five of us. Marge, Bart, Girl Bart, the one who doesn't talk, and the fat guy. How I loathe him.
Homer: Hey boy! Wanna play catch?
Bart: No thanks dad.
Homer: When a son doesn't want to play catch with his father something is definitely wrong.
Grandpa Simpson: I'll play catch with you!
Homer: Go home.
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