So I was watching coverage of the beer summit last night, and wondered what they were really talking about. They looked so uncomfortable — how can you drink beer in a suit? And from those stupid mugs? If you’re going to have a beer summit, at least loosen the ties and get out some real pilsner glasses. Did they have another round, after the photographers were shooed away? One after that? I recalled some of my icebreakers for that particular social situation.
I can recite from memory the “famous” statement from the Budweiser label. Here goes; I’ll let Professor Google vet my accuracy later:
This is the famous Budweiser beer. We know of no other beer produced by any other brewer which costs so much to brew and age. Our exclusive Beechwood aging produces a taste, a smoothness and a drinkability you will find in no other beer at any price.
(And…perfect. Although Anheuser-Busch spells it “Ageing.” And they use the serial comma after “smoothness.” Bah.)
Now, see, I’d do that. Then Henry Louis Gates, because he’s an academic, would stand and recite a poem. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” something like that. Sgt. Crowley, being a man of the people, would do the “show me the money” scene from “Jerry McGuire,” but only the Tom Cruise part, because if he tried to imitate Cuba Gooding Jr., that would be racist. Then I’d do my knock-the-matchbox-over-with-your-nose gag, if we could find a matchbox. And by then, we’d be singing “Midnight Train to Georgia” and peace would reign in the valley.
I wonder if they’ll ever figure out a way to show our brain hard drives in fragmented form, so we can really see how much space is occupied by stuff like the Budweiser label and the choreography to Gladys Knight & the Pips songs, while we forget key phone numbers and the date of our wedding anniversary.
What’s your best party gag? Please, those who have seen others in my repertoire? Hold your filthy tongues.
They screened the films from our part of the 48-hour challenge last night. It’s entirely possible our group — one of four — was aberrant, but if it wasn’t, I’d say we’re contenders. Having done it twice now, and knowing how difficult it is, I’m tempted to give everyone a pass just for showing up, but, well, hmm.
Technology is an amazing thing. For not very much money, you can own a fancy digital video camera, a computer and the software to put together a movie — a short, or even a feature — that looks a lot like the ones you see in theaters. The rest of it, however, is a different kettle of fish. Whatever else you can say about our story, at least it had a beginning, middle and end, at least it wasn’t acted by people who appeared to have been dragged in off the street, and at least it didn’t feature some hairy guy trimming his beard, dropping the clippings into a glass of water, and drinking the water. I don’t know what genre that was; maybe there was an Andy Warhol division I didn’t know about.
Next stop: The city awards, a week from Saturday. Fingers crossed.
So, a bit of bloggage? Let’s see what’s out there.
I was reading about Annie Leibovitz’s financial problems — good lord, how many houses does one woman need? — when I remembered a charming story an editor of my acquaintance told me: He saw the world’s most famous celebrity photographer in an airport, approached her, slobbered the usual praise, then handed her his cheap point-and-shoot digital and asked if she’d snap a picture of him. She was amused and said sure. Now he has an Annie Leibovitz picture of himself. Do you?
Michael Pollan on the rise of cooking as entertainment — for the viewer. I’ll be reading “Out of the Kitchen, Onto the Couch,” but not until this weekend. Because that’s when Sunday magazines should be read. On Sunday.
Journalists! I think I found the all-purpose four words that precede every bullshit trend story. Ready? For many, it seems… Click if you dare!
Something else I’ll be doing this weekend: Making mango margaritas. I found a local source for cheap, soft Mexican mangos, and I’ve been making mango agua fresca all week. Now that the weekend’s here, time to add a little tequila. Happy Hour starts at 7. See you there.