Whoa, but I owe you guys a lot, don’t I? Sorry. I’ve been distracted, and in the final analysis, hey: It’s summer. When someone asks me if I’d like to spend an evening drinking on a patio and listening to music, I’m not going to say, sorry, gotta blog. We’ve had a pretty excellent summer so far, and this is one where I’m keenly aware of its brevity.
But before I go any further, let me just say how grateful I am that you guys are willing to carry the freight when I’m off seeing “World War Z.” It helps.
So, speaking of which — “World War Z,” that is. I liked it! Maybe my expectations were too low, but I thought it was far better than the weak two stars most critics gave it. The opening scenes of the initial zombie attacks were fucking terrifying, impossible to watch without thinking of any other disaster that could get people running through the streets and looting grocery stores. The later stuff, in which Brad Pitt wanders the world in search of zombie patient zero, weren’t as good, but they were good enough. And may I just say? I appreciated the PG-13. I’m tired of watching limbs being lopped off with squirting arteries. I’m just as happy to have them lopped off out of the frame. I understand that lopping was done; I do not need a surgical tutorial.
All the way home from the theater, I snapped my jaws, zombie-style. Everyone else in the car got a little tired of it.
As for Hooters? It was fun. The waitresses were all adorable, very early-’60s Playmate wholesome. Lotsa smiles and friendliness to man and woman, child and adult, alike. Kate — in the middle of looking for her first paying job — said, “Should I work here?”
Alan said, “I don’t think they’re looking for Daria.” Although personally, I think that would be hilarious — a Daria Hooters waitress. (Link added for you non-MTV fans.)
As for the food? Eh. The unanimous verdict: “This is not the best chicken sandwich I’ve had in my life, but far from the worst.”
So. In addition to all the other crap going on this week, I was in Ann Arbor for a meeting Thursday morning, stepped into the ladies’, went to sit and heard a heart-clutching plunk — yep, after years of laughing at people whose phones land in the toilet, it finally happened to me. It slipped out of the back pocket of my pants. No, I don’t have a waterproof case. Yes, I’ve been meaning to get one. Yes, I immediately spun around and snatched it out — thank god I hadn’t peed yet. The prognosis is still iffy, but it’s looking good. A day in a bag of rice seems to have worked its magic, although all through the meeting, Siri was drunk on toilet water. It kept flashing her message screen, and saying things like, “Nancy, I’m sorry but I can’t find that location in Africa. Should I search again?” or “Nancy, there is no Wide Avenue in Ann Arbor.” Very distracting. But I think she’s sobered up. Cross all fingers.
So, some bloggage? Yep.
Remember Tom Nardone, who runs the Mower Gang, which everyone and his brother, including me, has written about? Now the full truth is revealed: How Tom actually makes his living when he isn’t mowing parks. HE SELLS SEX TOYS. ON THE INTERNET The walk through his warehouse was one of the highlights of that assignment; it reminded me that very early on in my residency here I almost answered an ad to write catalog copy for him, but the money was too low. Everyone who tours PriveCo is offered a gift from the clearance shelf, but I couldn’t accept, and besides, who wants a purple plastic dildo with a rheostat dial on the bottom? There’s a reason it’s on the clearance shelf.
I wonder what Anthony Bourdain was offered.
My entertainment came from watching the pickers in the warehouse, filling mail orders. There’s just something about watching a 300-pound man (named Tiny) plucking penis-shaped chip-and-dip trays off a shelf to mail to a bachelorette party in some distant state. It makes you happy you went into journalism.
Also, this: Stacy Keibler has the best stems in the world. I’d kill for legs like hers. How does she do it?
Have a great weekend, all.