Amazing

There is an animated gif, too, but I'm not going to post that here (Go here to see it for yourself).

You can thank my esteemed colleagues at Flavorpill for that one, as well as this royal comparison, which is interesting but not nearly as entertaining (or crude):

Note: I know, I know, you're sick of hearing about the Royal Wedding. But this is only the second time I've mentioned it (the first when I blogged about special RW barf bags), and I promise this will probably be the last time. Probably.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

Oh, the joys of moving.

I recently relocated the New York City, and, let me tell you, moving sucks. I’ve done it so much, you’d think I could pack and unpack in my sleep. Alas, that is not the case. I despise packing, and resent having to unpack just a day or two later. And don’t even get me started on the joy that can only be experienced while searching for people to live with. It’s like survival of the fittest, where the fastest to respond to a Craigslist ad wins, and all they can do is hope that the people their newfound roommates aren’t nuts.

I have to charming and completely random roomies, one of which took it upon himself to serenade me (and the other roomie) this morning the crack of 8:30 or so a.m. Yes, that’s right. He was playing guitar and singing. And, suffice to say, I’m pretty confident he was treating us to some original material that will never see the light of day, radio airplay, or even a sad open mic session at a neighborhood cafe. He’s lucky I have a sense of humor, and was already up.

Oh, the joys of moving, indeed.

One of the things I find most interesting about moving into a new place is discovering who your new neighbors are. I always hope they’re Mr. Quiet and Mrs. Minds-Her-Own-Business, not Mr. Noisy-Sex-All-Night, Dr. Drug-Dealer/Junkie, or Miss Musician-Who-Practices-Her-African-Drum-Routine-Before-Work-Every-Day.

I have no idea who my new neighbors are. I have yet to meet (or, thankfully, hear) a single one of them. However, I have seen their Wi-fi connections… and what Wi-fi connections they are!

When I opened my computer for the first time, I was greeted by a few dozen signals, and a few of them stood out:

• Why, hello, 5th Street Whorehouse! Sure glad I live on 6th!
• Bananapancakes?! Are you Jack Johnson fans? If so, you know it’s 2011, right?
• What’s that? You have Bieber Fever? Are you proud of your condition? You know, there’s a cure for that: It’s called “stop hanging out with seventh graders.” C’mon, guy. You might as well name your network “pizza face.”
• Ummmm... Assflag? Can someone please tell me what an assflag is? Because I’m confused, and I don’t feel like looking it up on UrbanDictionary.com.
• Look out! It’s Lil Monsta/Lil Monsta Guest! I’m fine with both, as long as they’re lil monstas, and not big monstas. Lil monstas I can deal with; big monstas are scary. (Same goes for obsessive Lady Gaga fans.)

… Now guess which one is my new roomies’ Wi-fi network. (They insist it was a former roomie who named it, but I’m not convinced.)

I [heart] the New Yorker

It’s no secret that I love the New Yorker. Heck, I’m lucky to call a handful of their cartoonists friends. Still, two things happened this week that solidified the publication’s strangle-hold of my heart:

#1: The finally — and, some might say, rather reluctantly — gave print subscribers full access to the web content AND the iPad app (which, up until this point, was only available if purchased on a week-to-week basis, for a whopping $5/week) at no extra charge. FINALLY. Welcome to the future of media, duh. Give people what they want how they want it! Don’t alienate (and lose) your audience! Don’t expect people to pay for the same thing twice! … the folks at the NY’er (and Condé Nast) are a smart bunch. I can’t understand why it took them this long to figure all of it out.

#2: This hilarious letter was sent to all NY’er subscribers, effectively reinstating my faith in the publication, and its leadership:

Dear Laughter Lovers, When Roger Ebert won Caption Contest #281, I mentioned that he had entered one hundred and seven contests, but that others had entered even more often. So here’s a shout-out to the ten most devoted entrants:

John Shields: 279; Dominic Ciafardini: 278; Preston Macdougal: 275; Sy Gaffin: 272; Rick Kaufman: 270; George Gopper: 269; Alice Gochman: 266; Jim Bertram: 264; Julian Wheeler: 263; William Keller: 262

Unfortunately, none of them have won. But I applaud their persistence. As I’ve pointed out, persistence in the face of failure is often the key to eventual success, except in skydiving. Persistence certainly paid off for Mr. Don Symons, who entered two hundred and thirty-one contests before winning. But Don and Roger might resent John Pignata, who won our most recent contest, #282, on his first try. To see what else could be gleaned from the data, I paid a visit the Bureau of Caption-Contest Statistics, in their climate-controlled aerie atop the Condé Nast Building. We looked at the winners of Caption Contests #250 through #282. Of the thirty-two winners, twenty-two are men and ten are women. Does this confirm that men are funnier than women? Not really. Many more men enter the contest than women, and many more men enter regularly. Of our top ten überenterers, only one is a woman. And when you look at the last thirty-two contests and factor in productivity, women come out on top. The twenty-two winning men entered an average of 70.22 contests, but the ten women averaged 6.4 entries—and four of them won on their first attempt. The only man to do so was the aforementioned John Pignata. Cheers, Bob Mankoff

… I had no idea so many people entered the caption contest so many times. Remember, there are just 52 weeks in a year, and 47 New Yorkers a year (there are a few double issues), so John Shields has entered every caption contest for nearly five years… without a single win. And still, he doesn’t show any signs of giving up. Talk about persistence! (Meanwhile, he is probably talking about conspiracy theories.) Same goes for Mr. Ciafardini, Mr. Macdougal, Mr. Gaffin, and the rest of the incredibly not-funny, yet persistent entrants.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming...

Forgive the interruption, folks. I've been on vacation for the past three weeks. During that time, I've toured through Portugal and Southern Spain, and had a taste of Morocco... and I've made a concentrated effort to not work or blog. But! I'm back, totally re-energized and am about to take over the world. Well, that's what it feels like, at least.

Apologies for my unannounced absence. And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming...

When Harry Bit Sally

It's When Harry Met Sally, the sequel. Leave it to FunnyOrDie to bring us this classic, with a modern twist for modern audiences. (Read: vampires, zombies... and Helen Mirren.) Cheers to Leah at Flavorpill.com for sharing this.

Over-Tweeting the ACMs (Oops)

I covered the Academy of Country Music Awards on Sunday, and the ACM Girls' Night Out: Superstar Women of Country extravaganza on Monday. I worked both for Us Weekly, meaning I didn't write a story, per se—I didn't even cover the red carpet or the press room; I was assigned to focus on interactions between the celebs during commercial breaks and at other opportune times when the cameras weren't looking.

Since I love, love, love country music, I enjoyed myself immensely, but since Monday night's show was being filmed for TV (it airs on CBS on April 22), there was a lot of downtime between takes. It didn't take long before I got bored. And what do I do when I'm bored? I tweet. Or, should I say, over-tweet.

Do I have any morning-after regret? Kind of. Thankfully, most of my followers on the east coast were already sleeping, so I don't think they cared or even noticed. On the west coast, however, I'm pretty sure I lost a few followers, and pissed even more of y'all off. And for that, I apologize. Still, I've decided to share some snapshots from last night's ACM-centric Twitter stream, since there's no way in hell that these observations will find their way to the glossy pages of Us. 

 

PS: I only had one drink that night. And no, smartypants, it wasn't a double.
 
PPS: I think I deserve a teeny tiny bit of credit for not making any quips about Taylor Swift's notable absence. Jokes about it being after her bedtime, etc. would've been too easy.

PPPS: If you don't already follow me on Twitter, you should. I don't just post stuff about country awards shows, really.

The Pacific = The New Lake Springfield?

Radioactive water continues to gush into the Pacific from Japan's damaged nuclear reactors, and no one really knows what's going to happen. The "experts" say there's little chance of "significant" health risks to seafood-eaters such as myself, but I don't buy it. (Or any Pacific seafood anymore.)

I wonder if the Pacific Ocean is being turned into a newer, larger version of Lake Springfield. (As in the river that runs past the nuclear plant in The Simpsons, helloooo!) Will we, like Bart, soon be seeing three-eyed fish? And if so, will we be seeing them at the dinner table? I can see it now: "Tonight's special, miso-glazed Blinky on a bed of sautéed, glow-in-the-dark kombu, nori and wakame..."

"Ken Buesseler of the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Woods Hole, Mass., said readings for radioactive iodine and cesium show a thousand-fold drop from the shore to monitors about 19 miles offshore," reports HuffPo. Nice of them to test 19 miles offshore. Show me safe readings sourced one mile away, and I'll feel a lot better.

The article continues: "He said radioactive doses in seafood may turn out to be detectable but probably won't be a significant health hazard. They'd probably be less of a concern than what people could get from land-based sources like drinking water or eating produce, he said..."

I like how he trumpets the quality of drinking water and pesticide-laden produce as the new gold standard. The real irony, however, is that HuffPo published a story about contaminated water today, too—and has a link to that story at the top of the everything-is-OK-the-ocean-is-safe story. The water safety story explains how officials have known about "worrisome levels of a suspected carcinogen" (chromium-6, the Erin Brokovich cancer-causer) in tap water in 31 major U.S. cities since 2004, yet no one raised any red flags. Awesome!

Don't you feel safe? I sure do!

Back to Japan, though, as HuffPo offers more reassurance:

"Igor Linkov, an adjunct professor of engineering and public policy at Carnegie Mellon University, also said he did not expect any major impact on ocean wildlife or people who eat seafood. He agreed that animals near the plant may be affected. It's not clear in what way, because the levels of radiation isn't well known, he said. In any case, fish would probably escape such an effect because unlike immobile species such as oysters, they move around and so would not get a continuous exposure..."

Still, radioactive water and nuclear waste finding its way into the ocean are nothing new. European countries have been using the ocean floor as a dumping ground for it's nuclear trash for years—the coast off Somalia is a particular favorite, apparently—and the Italian mafia doesn't bother going that far to dispose of entire ships full of nuclear junk, according to EcoDelMar.org.

Gross.

I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm willing to bet that all of this radioactive water and the impact on sea creatures is going to make for some interesting sea monster movies... possibly based on true stories.

AWOL Me = Busy Bee (Sorry!)

I've been noticeably quiet this week. Sorry, folks. I've been nuclear busy—meaning I've been in constant motion, not in borderline-meltdown mode.

CinemaCon is in town, which means a lot of celebs are in Vegas—and these celebs need to be interviewed. There's also the Academy of Country Music Awards this weekend, and the Michael Jordan Celebrity Invitational golf tournament. Translation: Lots and lots 'o late nights for Us Weekly and OK!, and I'm not complaining.

I'm about half way through it, and realize that the past week or so may be the most star-studded seven or so days of my life.

It started on Friday March 25, with Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas. Then Saturday was Kendra Wilkinson-Baskett (famous for dating Hugh Hefner and being Holly Madison's co-star and frequent nemesis on the E! reality show The Girls Next Door) and three Twilight actors (Tinsel Korey, Kiowa Gordon and Bronson Pelletier).

That was a soft appetizer of sorts; a warm-up round for what was yet to come.

Things heated up on Tuesday, with the opening of the Mob Experience at the Tropicana. It was pretty fun(ny) to walk around—wander aimlessly, actually—with the likes of Pam Anderson. ("What did she look like?" a friend asked yesterday. My reply: "Oh, she looked the same as always—like a whore.") Yesterday was the first official press day for CinemaCon, and I had a 1-on-1 with Cameron Diaz for Us Weekly. Then, later that night I got to chat with Curb Your Enthusiasm visionary Larry David (he said he liked my glasses. My life is officially complete), and watch a colorful rainbow of all-star athletes parade down the same red carpet: Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky (and Chris Chelios and Brett Hull), Jerome Bettis and more. 

Mike Piazza's wife wasn't wearing a bra, which prompted me to snap a pic and post the following to Twitter:

  Today is the main event: A round of musical chairs-style 1-on-1 interviews with Russell Brand (eeek! He terrifies me; he's far too smart for his own good), Ryan Reynolds, Blake Lively, Jason Momoa, Julianne Hough, Helen Mirren, Vin Diesel, and more. (As I'm sure you can tell, I'm, like, so excited for that last one.) Then, on Sunday, The ACMAs take hold, and country's megastars make my life miserable. (Thanks in advance, Taylor Swift.)

I actually love the ACMAs. Black Shelton is always good for a laugh, and I'm looking forward to meeting his beer drinkin', deer shootin', song singin' leadin' lady, Miranda Lambert. Reba, Carrie Underwood, Sara Underwood, Dierks Bentley, [my least favorite country singer of all time/frequent piece-of-shit human being] Toby Keith, Keith Urban, Alabama, the Zac Brown Band and James Taylor will be there, too. (And chances legends such as current Vegas headliner [and my #1 country man] Garth Brooks and last year's ACMA inductee George Strait will be there, too, among others.)

But it's not just country singers (or full-time country singers) who will be there: Reese Witherspoon, Twilight's Robert Patterson are among the presenters.

OK, all this name-dropping has made me tired. Back to work!

Keeping It In Vegas

Apparently everything that happens in Vegas can stay in Vegas, after all.

The Vegas Box is a new service that allows customers to keep their sins in Sin City. I first read about this in USA Today, but apparently it's been covered by Vegas Chatter, too.

Each 20"x17"x12" box holds about 70 lbs of remorse and embarrassment that you can't even think of taking back home with you. Unfortunately, it doesn't work for STDs (To quote The Hangover: "Remember what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Except for herpes. That shit'll come back with you.") or unwanted-yet-still-conceived children. Bebe mini-dresses that are four sizes too small and way too short to wear back home, and all those Ed Hardy knock-offs that you bought on Fremont Street, however, are more than welcome. As are unfinished bottles of booze (you paid $700 for that $35 bottle of vodka! You can't throw it out!).

The service is just $99 a year, which includes two pick-ups and drop-offs of your magic-filled box. (If you come to town more often, you can still access your box—they pick it up, and drop it off for you—for $20 a pop). The kind folks at The Vegas Box will also deliver your box 'o goodies elsewhere, in case you find yourself in Albuquerque and in desperate need of your beloved gambling supplies and/or stripper-oogling accessories.

Frequent Vegas visitors might actually find this service useful—and even economical.

"Keeping your items in Vegas means no more checked luggage! Just one round trip for two can add up to one full year of The Vegas Box. 1 checked bag (avg.) = $25 x 2 people = $50 x 2 (round trip) = $100," the company explains on its website.

Jenna's Lost Her Marbles

I realize I'm slow on the uptake on this one, but better late than never.

This chick from Rhode Island is hilarious. Basically, she's every guy's dream girl: Funny as shit, crazy as hell, and with a wicked body. Well boys, meet Jenna Marbles. She's a go-go dancer by night (seriously) and witty blogger/vlogger by day. Honestly, I don't know why FunnyOrDie, SNL or Comedy Central haven't enlisted her help for their online projects. Clearly, it's just a matter of time.

Her R.I. accent is kind of gritty and annoying, but that's OK; she gets a pass, because what she's saying is, for the most part, brilliant. 

Her break-out gem was a video blog entitled "How to Trick People Into Thinking You're Good Looking." She posted it in July of last year, but it somehow (and tragically) failed to register on my radar... until now. Again: Better late than never.

OK, so that one is old, but it's good right? And I just stumbled upon it this past weekend. Since making this discovery, I've watched a lot of her stuff. Not all of it is good, but there are more diamonds in the rough.

Take this—a parody on The Biggest Loser called "The Biggest Blogger" wherein she plays a blog-pushing version of TBL's mildly psychotic trainer, Jillian Michaels. It's better than half the sketches on SNL.

I also dug her procrastinator tutorial, "Things To Do Instead of Cleaning Your Room," and guys will love all the ass-flaunting in her video response to her employer's canceling of their trip to Mexico, entitled "What I Would've Done in Cancun."

If you want to see more, check out herYouTube channel (JennaMarbles), or visit her blog, Stoollala.com.