Hard to believe I'm revisiting this subject.
My sincere thanks to Jason Hare from Popdose, who steered me to this article from Billboard magazine entitled "Oates, Mustache Make Cartoon Crime-Fighting Team." That's right, as in John Oates:
Left: With mustache, pushing Daryl Hall out of the picture.
Right: Without mustache, but somehow less Oatey.
But this cartoon might change all that! It's not clear from the description as to whether the mustache itself acts on behalf of Oates, or if there's an alterna-Oates that wears the mustache and does all the crime fighting. I guess I'll have to wait and see.
In the meantime, I'd like your answer to this question: what other celebrity body parts merit stories of their own? (Or, in the alternative, whose mullet most deserves screen time?)
For example, I should think that an entire theatrical release could be devoted to Mick Jagger's lips. But the subsequent TV series adaptation would have to use Steven Tyler's lips, just because they're more affordable at that stage of production.
(Author's Note: I've been slow to add keywords to Brevity, but this post has prompted me to add facial hair. Now I'll go back and find every reference of facial hair I've ever made, especially "beards" of the fake marital variety.)
Las Vegas culture, such as it is, creates an events checklist for the semi-ambitious resident.
Cirque du Soleil show? Check. (Mystere, O, and Zumanity.)
Speedway racing? Check. (NASCAR, still driving around in circles.)
Dinner-based production? Check. (Tony and Tina's Italian Wedding.)
Brush with D-list celebrity? Check. (Stupid Carrot Top.)
Hoops? Check. (UNLV vs. San Diego State, Minnesota, and 'Zona.)
Stage musical? Check. (Mamma Mia! and Avenue Q.)
Impersonator? Check. (Danny Gans and Trent Carlini.)
Red carpet movie premiere? Check. (88 Minutes earlier this year.)
Magic show? Check. (Lance Burton, Rick Thomas, and Brett Daniels.)
TV taping? Check. (NBC's America's Got Talent, just last week.)
Until Friday night, I'd never attended a boxing event. The sweet science has a long and storied history with the city of Las Vegas, but while fights aren't the high-priced attraction they used to be, there's still a place here for men determined to beat each other senseless.
The site was Cox Pavilion, just off UNLV's campus. Scheduled were a series of matches that were part of ESPN's Friday Night Fights. The undercard bouts were filled with comparatively young and hungry fighters, but the main event was the arrival of former heavyweight champion Chris Byrd, who slimmed down 2 weight classes over the past six months (from 211 to 175 pounds) to fight as a light heavyweight before he retires next year. I knew nothing about his opponent, Shaun George, but noticed that he looked a lot younger. (George is 30; Byrd 37.)
Opportunity appeared in the form of floor seats on the 4th row, just spitting distance from ringside. (Fortunately, no one on the canvas spit in our direction to prove this point.) We were in good company, surrounded by Byrd's friends and family members. Also present and seated two rows in front of us was ultimate fighter Randy Couture, who I didn't recognize but was very gracious in providing autographs and photo ops to fans and gawkers. (He was there just to have a good time, which is all you can ask for in a celebrity. Also, while casually dressed, he wears couture.)
A view from my camera phone. While the arena was far from packed, it was remarkable how quiet the match was. There were a few vocal fans who offered their coaching opinions, but you could still hear the pugilists breathe up there. Before the match I thought of things to yell (like "Eye of the tiger, baby" and "Sweep the leg") but abandoned them for fear of being, well, heard. So I applauded politely, and saved my loudest cheers for the Round 4 girl.
Both men got their share of punches, but you could tell that George had more energy and was tallying up the points on the scorecard. Byrd showed some fire toward the end, but a series of devastating punches floored him. He got up, but George kept at it, and his last punch left Byrd on the ropes, facing us. We saw what the referee saw: the former champ's eyes rolling, unable to focus on the man in front of him. TKO. Here's the ESPN recap.
So, boxing? Check. And I wouldn't mind checking it again.
[Final note: if you plan on visiting Las Vegas and would like to know more about any of the shows, venues, or events described in this post, let me know. Generally, I don't review local attractions, but I'll try to give you an idea as to what to expect.]
For part of the Mother's Day festivities, we returned to the Planet Hollywood Hotel and Casino, this time to attend a taping of the NBC summer series America's Got Talent. At first we considered any combination of picnics, art walks, or community festivals to mark the day, but in the end we could not deny the sheer marquee power of host Jerry Springer and judges David Hasselhoff, Sharon Osbourne, and Piers Morgan.
We had good (free) seats in the auditorium right next to the main cameras, which was ideal: we were close enough for a great view, but still hidden under the cameras. (Many have the desire to be captured on television; I am not one of those people.)
Before anyone famous showed up, the production crew filmed the audience doing things like standing ovations, seated applause, concerted booing, and the ever-usable collective shock and anger. Presumably, they'll add these moments where appropriate during the editing process. But it confirmed what I've long believed about television: it's all fake.
[Dramatic aside: After all that phony audience interaction, I became nauseous. I looked right and left, searching for ANYTHING that seemed real. And there he was, God's gift to Germany: David Hasselhoff. Thank you, Herr Hair.]
The judges ran down the aisle to their seats amidst timely applause, and the show began. After a few opening remarks in which he reminds us that he's not talented, Jerry Springer tries to invoke an anything-can-happen atmosphere, and reports that last season's winner has a recurring gig at the Las Vegas Hilton. So it's appropriate that the showrunners (including exec producer Simon Cowell, who didn't appear) wanted the competition here.
We witnessed about 16 acts perform, and some were clearly there for the sake of television. We were coached by the warmup guy, a Lewis Black wannabe, to chant "Off! Off! Off!" when we desired a performer to stop. (To me, this is a poor word choice. We were already cheering on Mr. Knight Rider with "Hoff! Hoff! Hoff!" so anything similar just made things confusing.)
Frequently I felt the need to act upon my wiseass tendencies in this venue. For example, when a mother/daughter pair of whistlers (they performed "Climb Every Mountain") interacted with the judges, the daughter -- who said she was about 40 -- started getting sassy. She mentioned to David Hasselhoff that she used to keep a life-size poster of him on her bedroom wall. "So did he," I yelled as a reply. I doubt he heard that, and I'm sure the adjacent cameras cut out the ambient noise, but at least I entertained those around me.
I met my sarcasm Kryptonite when a U.S. Army serviceman came on stage wearing fatigues and a guitar, and mentioned that he'd spent the past 15 months in Iraq. As he chatted with the judges, each of his responses was met with applause. Which was fine, but then he started singing that dreadful Edwin McCain song "I'll Be." Whether or not he was good enough, I sure as heck wasn't going to say anything.
Overall, it was an okay experience; I can kind of see why shows like American Idol have such a young, Stepford-esque audience willing to behave like idiots on cue. I would like to think that a taping of something like The Daily Show would be more entertaining, though similarly filled with stops and starts.
Usually the advanced screening is a fairly muted affair: some cineplex cancels the 7:00 showing of one of its underperforming movies so that the screening room can be used to show local critics the latest studio offering. The critics, in turn, can write reviews that get published before the movie's release date. Meanwhile, a few hundred civilians (myself included) obtain passes to fill up the room. This is how I see a movie early.
Occasionally there's something called a world premiere. It's a red carpet affair where celebrities, studio people, and other VIPs congregate to sell the film as an event. This happens in Los Angeles and New York all the time, and does happen on occasion here in Las Vegas. The term "world premiere" is a misnomer; for many major studio films, a few test screenings or advanced screenings have already taken place. (I've seen quite a few films before their "world premiere.")
I attended my first world premiere last night when we won tickets to see 88 Minutes at the Planet Hollywood Hotel and Casino (formerly the Aladdin, if you haven't been here recently). For those so inclined, there's a chance to catch a glimpse of the movie's stars on their way in. In this case, that would include Al Pacino, Alicia Witt, Leelee Sobieski, and Benjamin McKenzie. (Amy Brenneman and Neal McDonough were scheduled to be there, but I don't think they were. Wire Image has posted pictures here.)
Not considering myself the starstruck type -- though I'm sure there are exceptions -- I was not so inclined. We went to our (assigned) seats in the mezzanine where I read a book and amused myself compiling a short list of
Things NOT to say when you first meet Al Pacino
1. "Whoo-ah!" (That's how the script spells it.)
2. "I loved you in Meet the Parents."
3. "Listen, I've got some ideas for The Godfather Part IV if you..."
4. "Could you ask Neal McDonough if NBC is bringing back Boomtown?"
5. "Hold on. I'm looking for the scar on your face."
Feel free to add on in the comments. Anyway, we ended up seeing a few of the stars anyway as they stood up during the movie intro. So I guess that was a bonus.
As for the movie itself? Yikes. Pacino plays a brilliant forensic psychiatrist (is there any other kind?) whose persuasive testimony drove a jury to convict McDonough's character. Fast forward to the day of execution, and events happen that suggest Pacino got the wrong man. Meanwhile, he gets a mysterious phone call: "You have 88 minutes to live." The rest of the movie takes place in real time as he tries to track down the culprit when everyone's a suspect, etc.
If making this movie can be considered a crime, then I would finger the script as the criminal. It runs the gamut from unspeakably bad to hilariously bad. The actors do their best, and there are some clever moments, but you can tell early on that you're in for an experience that's anything but thrilling.
I'd count the implausibilities, but those who post to the film's IMDb page have already begun compiling "88 stupid things in this movie." Pacino himself looks tired, which is part of his character but is more likely how he felt while filming.
For a better example of real drama in real time, check out Shakespeare 24.
According to People magazine, this guy is the latest puppet in their menagerie.
Matt Damon? Okay, People. If you say so.
But it was nice of them to include Grant Hill among the many people (celebrities and unknowns) who lip synch to their song "Rockstar." He appears here (at 1:49) and later at the 3:35 mark.
If you must, the video is here.
Wondering whatever happened to Kristy Swanson? My best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who's going with the girl who saw her win that reality show posing as a skating competition. Then she hooked up with her (married) skating partner, had his kid, played a character closely resembling Anna Nicole Smith on one of those Law & Order shows, and now faces some real law and order after a reported scuffle with her man's ex. I guess it's pretty serious.
I pray for this long national nightmare to be over. When her name is finally cleared, look for the all-important update here on Brevity entitled "No problem whatsoever!"
In the grand tradition of mashed-up nicknames for celebrity couples -- think Bennifer, Vaughniston, Brangelina, Tomkat, and Abhishwarya -- Stephen Colbert coined a great one to describe the dynamic duo of actors William H. Macy and Felicity Huffman: Filliam H. Muffman. That name will always be funny.
So how does one create such a dynamic duo? I'm told dating is involved. Unfamiliar with that topic, I consulted A Practical Handbook for the Boyfriend, a manual for men written by two women: Felicity Huffman and Patricia Wolff. After all, who better to explain it than the better half of Filliam H. Muffman?
While occasionally too surefooted or irreverent, I think the authors have the right approach.
In order to make relationships practical to women, target the men, who have no idea what they're doing anyway. Makes sense.
With more pulpy illustrations inside and chapters on everything from Internet dating to TV rituals to sex to breaking up, the authors cover the entire life of the relationship. Plus, it's sassy and informative; in a few short hours, I've become an expert on relationships, and am finally ready to get my own talk show.
I've waited 32 years, but now Time magazine has named me its Person of the Year. I'll admit I lost heart in recent years, as the less worthy were recognized, like Dubya (twice!) and Bono.
I may be biased, but this was the right choice. More importantly, it's the right time. Am I the only one who noticed that I receive this honor in Brevity's first full year? Of course not; the staff of Time noticed.
Even beyond Brevity, I made great strides this year. I did not lose an election. I never once went negative in a campaign commercial. I've made no anti-Semitic remarks. None of my foibles have been recorded on video and uploaded to the Internet. And I wore underwear when I was out in public.
As a final note, yes, I would have preferred that the magazine actually included my name instead of being vague about it. I'll be sure to e-mail the editors and request a correction.
Back in October I discussed the divination of Daria, in which the cheerleader and quarterback were named Britney and Kevin, perhaps anticipating America's favorite unclassy couple.
Lest you think that was a random coincidence, I found another when re-listening to Trisha Yearwood's 1991 song "She's in Love with the Boy" on the radio. Read the lyrics; who knew she'd be predicting TomKat?
55 Fiction Friday wonders if Mr. and Mrs. Holmes ever hear that song and just start to cry.“Once Phyllis found her flaxen hair had frizzed further than fathomable, she started to study global warming...
“No, I’m not saying that women learn things out of vanity. She became an expert, you see. Taught Al Gore and everything...
“Well, I liked the alliteration. And it wasn’t some circa 1950s beehive. Leave me alone, Mom.”
At a charity benefit Saturday night, I met Charlie Spoonhour, who retired from coaching men's college basketball after a long career at Southwest Missouri State, St. Louis, and UNLV. I introduced myself, told him I went to law school in St. Louis, and asked him if he still had the restaurant that bore his name there.
Clearly not expecting that question, he laughed and told me that he left it a long time ago. I was about to say something when he said, "Hold on, I want to talk to Pete" and left me behind.
So I looked over at the man seated by the nearest table, holding court. "Pete" was Pete Rose, so I guess that's okay.
The advanced screening gods were silent last week, but spoke in time for me to see The Break-Up Tuesday night. Like Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the film's main selling point is the public's curiosity in the on- and offscreen couple. Add to that the talents of director Peyton Reed, who dished out Bring It On and Down with Love, and here's a film that might be worth getting excited about.
If only. Let me say this: as a concept, the film works well. Vince Vaughn can be one of Hollywood's more interesting comic actors, working a natural flow that exudes charm and personality. This film, which he helped write and produce, is an extension of his personal style. The supporting cast appears handpicked -- I noticed that Jon Favreau, Joey Lauren Adams, Vincent d'Onofrio, Jason Bateman, and Justin Long have worked with him before -- and the dialogue feels ad libbed. Sometimes this works, and sometimes it doesn't.
For the legal readers out there, The Break-Up is about the life and death of a joint tenancy. Gary (Vaughn) and Brooke (Jennifer Aniston) co-own a condo in downtown Chicago. It's nice but not overly extravagant -- no unreal estate here. The couple also seems realistic: Brooke's problems with Gary are mundane, and in an effort to awake him from taking her contributions for granted, she suggests the title act.
But what of the condo? The film's trailer, which is way funnier than the movie itself, emphasizes the efforts of each to get the other to move out. Their realtor friend (Bateman) suggests selling the place and splitting the proceeds. A buyer is imminent, and we wonder if Gary and Brooke will get back together before a sale is made.
The movie itself gets so grounded in reality that it stops being funny and becomes an actorly meditation on relationships, though it's not as boring as I just described it. Leaving the outrageous buddy material to his co-stars, Vaughn stretches his acting abilities a bit to play a flawed, anti-heroic leading man. Aniston is pretty good here as well, though it seems like the ultimate intentions of her character were edited out.
The relationship resolved itself as I had hoped, but the ending was still a abrupt letdown. Half the audience let out an immediate and agitated sigh when the credits started rolling.
We here at Brevity were once praised as being above the fray when it came to measuring visitor traffic, so I apologize for the following descent: this blog is now serviced by Sitemeter.
Web counting is a learning experience. On the one hand, I've confirmed my suspicion that many more people visit this blog than the select few who comment. That pleases me. Also, most of those who do leave comments remain fiercely loyal visitors, which pleases me even more.
On the other hand, I was surprised at how some Internet surfers find me. Some look for "brevity" or "andre agassi las vegas" or "taylor hicks purple coat." That's fine. But the #1 way, by far, is the Google image search for "anorexic." What comes up is an Entertainment Weekly cover photo of Sarah Michelle Gellar. Interestingly, though, I never posted that picture; I only linked to it from a fan site. But Google skips the middlefan and brings the user directly here, where I imagine they'll be disappointed.
For the record, I'm against anorexia and other eating disorders. That's why I criticized Joss Whedon's use of malnourished girls as strong heroines, and spoke negatively about the bulimia-afflicted voices of Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff. For the life of me I'll never understand why society glorifies the likes of Mischa Barton or Nicole Richie. That most actresses and other female celebs are too skinny is bad enough. But some are beyond what can be considered borderline healthy.
There's no meaningful protest to make here. "Eat something," I guess, but encouraging a nation of gluttons makes obesity an even bigger health problem. And waiting for these emaciated offenders' bones to snap will take too long. My suggestion is to find the next guy who thinks the girl in the Cingular ad is "sooooo hot" and slap him around until he realizes the error of his ways.
We here at Brevity have our brushes with fame. Some are more believable than others. But until Monday night I'd never actually seen a Las Vegas celebrity.
Famous people do live here. Andre Agassi and Tony Curtis come to mind. Wayne Newton's estate is only minutes away. Don Rickles and Debbie Reynolds seem to be here a lot. And yet I've managed never to see them. (Celine Dion may have been within my field of vision at some point, but I would have seen right through her.)
But on Monday, as my father and I drove through the passenger pickup area of McCarran Airport, I saw a recognizable face waiting to use the crosswalk. He was talking to a shorter companion, and was standing a few feet away. Pulled back curly hair, sleeveless shirt, enormous biceps. Unmistakably him. Not slowing the car, I remarked, "Oh crap. Dad, that's Carrot Top." A few seconds passed, and his reply was "What? Who?" It was pointless to go back by then.
Why'd it have to be friggin' Carrot Top? He's just as ugly in person.
You never know who reads this website. Late Wednesday I got an e-mail from Avril Lavigne, who was appreciative of my mostly positive review for Over the Hedge. (She makes her acting debut, voicing Heather the opossum.) Judging from the picture below, she's left behind her skinny-tie, not-really-punk, skater girl phase.
Wanting to talk about her experience, she granted me a phone interview Thursday morning.Neel: First things first: congratulations on your new movie.
Avril: Your voice sounds familiar. Haven't I heard it recently?
Neel: I don't think so. In the movie, you and William Shatner play opossums who are father and daughter.
Avril: Right.
Neel: I guess the nice thing about working with him is that no one will accuse you of overacting.
Avril: Well, actually, we recorded our material on different days, so I wouldn't know.
Neel: I see. (Awkward pause)
Avril: Were you in Hollywood last week, by any chance?
Neel: No. So, how did you get the role?
Avril: Honestly? There were looking for a young pop star type, but have you heard their speaking voices lately? They sound like sandpaper.
Neel: Tell me about it. Lindsay Lohan, Hilary Duff...
Avril: Ugh, don't even mention Hilary. She and her sister act like they own Los Angeles. I have to dress incognito just to have a decent meal.
Neel: Oh, did you get into a fight with her or something?
Avril: Um, I'm not allowed to talk about it.
Neel: Okay.
Avril: Doing the movie was fun. I didn't get to see the rest of the cast until the premiere, but they're a talented group of people. I was happy to be invited.
Neel: Sounds great. Hey, what's that screeching noise behind you?
Avril: Some SUV, and it looks like... Crap! They found me! Crazy Duff sisters!
Hilary: There she is, Haylie! Step on it!
Haylie: My feet can't reach the pedal!
Neel: I'm so sorry! Run, Avril!
Avril: You! You're that journalist guy who encouraged us to fight!
Neel: Actually, I'm a lawyer...
(Click)I never got the chance to ask her about her impending nuptials, or the status of that movie musical based on "Sk8r Boi," or her role in Richard Linklater's Fast Food Nation. But I'm not worried.
She'll call back.
Last week, to catch a sneak preview of Mission: Impossible III but still keep my soul minty fresh, I promised to slash Tom Cruise's tires the next time I was in Los Angeles. I'm a man of my word.
Already in town for the Just My Luck premiere, I wanted to track down Tom Cruise's whereabouts. (Going to his mansion was a bad idea; he has an army of Hubbard-trained soldiers on guard around the clock.) I knew Anthony Pellicano was otherwise occupied, so my first call was to Matt Lauer. But he'd reprogrammed his GPS software to monitor Katie Couric, ever since she got the CBS deal. Then I tried Pat Kingsley, Tom's former publicist. She was busy downplaying a brawl between Avril Lavigne and the Duff sisters that started Thursday night when some interviewer encouraged the parties to taunt one another.
Then I hit paydirt: Brooke Shields. New baby and all, she still makes it a priority to know when Tom is around, mostly for her own protection. So I made my move Friday morning. A few fake roadblocks kept him out of the well-protected parking deck of the Church of Scientology, so he parked his convertible on the street. After that, it was easy. Eight razor blades do the trick; heck, that's less than a pair of Gillette Fusions. Caught up in his own rapture, Tom Cruise proceeded to put his car in drive and slash his own tires by the power of friction as I watched across the street. Like I said, easy. Phish said it best: the tires are the things on your car that make contact with the road.
55 Fiction Friday did the same thing later to Chris O'Donnell and Scott Wolf, for good measure.Danielle searched high and low for a noteworthy cause.
Seemed like all the good ones were claimed by other
celebrities. Eventually she buckled and lent her support
where it was most needed.
"So, Danielle. It says here that your charity is Colony
Calisthenics?"
"Yes, I've instituted fitness programs so that nudists
will look more appealing."
Karma is a funny thing. I won passes to an advance screening to Just My Luck, but decided to be unselfish and gave them away. I figured I'd spend Thursday night watching the season finale of My Name is Earl. Change of plans: in a serious upgrade, I attended a special Hollywood premiere. And, as luck would have it, I got to sit next to Hilary Duff -- the one person who'd best appreciate the fun of watching Lindsay Lohan's character suffer through a serious string of misfortune. It's already her favorite movie ever.
In lieu of a review, I offer some selected dialogue.Neel: I have to ask: is this whole rivalry between you and Lindsay still about Aaron Carter?
Hilary: No. It used to be, but then we realized that neither of us really cared for him all that much. The tabloids kept it going because the love triangle thing appeals to readers.
Neel: So you get along now?
Hilary: Hell no! We're both very competitive people, and she bugs the crap out of me. After Aaron, we fought over who was the bigger Disney teen queen. Then she got all "mature"...
Neel: Meaning she grew up.
Hilary: Or out.
Neel: Or whatever. Then what?
Hilary: She started making out with what's his name. That 70's guy.
Neel: Right. He gets around, for some reason.
Haylie: I know! Isn't it weird?
Neel: Oh, Haylie, I didn't see you there.
Haylie: I'm not that short.
Neel: Hilary, you were saying?
Hilary: So when I leave Disney, everyone talks about how I'm copying her. I mean, hello? It's like totally the other way around. I put out an album, then she does.
Neel: Yeah, but Chad Michael Murray did your movie after he did hers.
Hilary: Total coincidence! They needed a WB actor who didn't look 30.
Haylie: I almost married him.
Hilary: Me too.
Neel: Me too. Moving on: whose crappy follow-up album came out first?
Hilary: (coughing)
Haylie: Want an Ice Breakers?
Neel: Seriously, with the product placement? And what's with the bulimic voices? Who thought up that stupid idea: you or Lindsay?
Hilary: Well, I think we both saw how well Brittany Murphy was doing.
Neel: I see. What did you think of the movie?
Hilary: I liked the part where Lindsay got electrocuted.
Neel: Who didn't? I got into the physical comedy because I couldn't understand a thing she said with that scratchy throat.
Haylie: The guy was cute.
Hilary: He was.
Neel: I saw him as the love child of Jason Bateman and Justin Bartha.
Hilary: Who?
Haylie: The movie didn't seem to be about luck at all -- it was really about karma, and how Lindsay's character lost her streak of good luck not because of some magic, but because she didn't use her abilities to do good things.
Neel: Interesting. Keep talking.
Haylie: Really? Okay. That scene where things go haywire in the laundry room -- it's like she washes her sins and atones for being such a self-centered...
Avril: Hey, shut up back there!
Hilary: Man! Every single time we go out.
You know all those sneak previews I've been attending? Well, come Monday I get treated to a different kind of advance screening: I'm having a colonoscopy. About ten years ahead of schedule.
It's a family history thing; no need to be concerned. But look at it this way: I'll be the Katie Couric of bloggers.
55 Fiction Friday thinks this town needs an enema.
"Oh my God, y'all," Britney realized. "I forgot to feed the baby today."
Jamie-Lynn stood up. "I'll go."
"No, sis. Kev'll do it."
Once summoned, he wiped off his orange fingers, opened a jar of baby food, and shoved a spoon inside. He then placed it in front of his infant son.
"You got served!"
We've been antsy since we learned the news in October, but the nation can relax at last. Our collective sympathy pains came to an end Tuesday as the Chosen One was born. Congrats to Tom Cruise and the Vessel on the birth of their daughter.
I drove to Los Angeles, but was denied access to the soundproofed birthing center at the Church of Scientology. (I failed to convince the security guards that I was one of Kirstie Alley's alternate personalities.) Still, I have various thoughts:
1. According to this article, the spokesperson said "both mother and daughter are doing well." The father, presumably, darted out of the facility to destroy a nearby Sofa Express.
2. My inside source tells me that baby Suri was outfitted in a pink blanket and matching frilly hat. So that song title applies after all. Tom Cruise and other fans of musicals, rejoice!
3. I'd like to be the first person to suggest a "Free Suri!" campaign. Those who tried to save the mother -- who's at least old enough to make choices, just barely -- should speak on behalf of someone truly helpless. I think that baby is being held captive. Sure, they may call it a crib, but it's still a set of bars.
I look for patterns. This came in handy on high school math tests, when I was given a series of numbers and asked to determine the next number that belonged. This trait is also helpful for those online IQ quizzes, right up to the part where I'm asked to pay for the results. (Pay? How dumb do you think I am?)
Anyway, when deciphering patterns, the toughest challenge is a sample of one. This was the case in 2004 when self-proclaimed princess Gwyneth Paltrow and falsetto rocker Chris Martin had their first child, Apple. The general response was "Why would they do that to their child?" My response was a little different: "What are they trying to accomplish here?"
You can't solve a pattern with only one item as evidence. The best course is to develop theories, then eliminate them when other items come along. Here, without further information, Apple can represent so many things.
1. Fruits. Gwyneth did those pretentious Estee Lauder Pleasures ads, as if she's trying to be some sort of 21st century Earth Mother. So maybe her daughter's name carries the organic connotation. (You'd then wait to see if the next baby gets a moniker like Guava or Pomegranate. But not Banana -- too cruel.)
2. Computers. This would make more sense if Chris sang for Radiohead instead of Coldplay, but no matter. He could be making some sort of man vs. technology "Mr. Roboto" comment here anyway. (Look for future children to be named Dell or Compaq.)
3. Tortured female singer-songwriters. When I'm forced to think of Gwyneth, I attach a sort of WASPy aura to her, as if she's better than the rest of us. It's a youthful arrogance in the absence of genuine wisdom, like Fiona Apple. (To verify this theory, Apple Martin's sibling might be named Amos, or Morissette.)
I was wrong on all three counts. Last weekend, Gwyneth and Chris had a second child, who they named Moses. But of course! "She's working her way through the Old Testament," I explained to my sister. Mystery solved. I can relax now.
Come 2008, expect the couple to have a third child: Psalm.
Left: With mustache, pushing Daryl Hall out of the picture.
