Thursday, February 28, 2008
AN OPEN LETTER TO RANDY TURNER
Dear Mr. Turner:
Regarding your coverage of American Idol contestant Asia'h Epperson, and particularly your live-blogging, I have two words:
Dude. Stop.
Yeah, she's from Joplin. Yeah, we're all proud of her. She's an incredible talent with a powerful story. Because she went to the same school where you teach, you're doubly proud of her. And several of your students know her. All that's cool. I get that. But you live-blog this reality TV show with the same fervor you give campaign reports and presidential debates -- if not more. Dude! You never got this excited about vouchers or lobbyists.
C'mon, man. Nine entries in one day? And a week later, 13? And your posts aren't all about Epperson. In several of them, you get downright catty toward the other contestants. You sound like one of the old guys at the gay bar telling awkward stories about the real Andy Williams. Why don't you just insert the words "girl, please" after every one of your commas? Put it in your autotext.
Have you even read what you've written? If I ever wrote, "Asia'h is performing Eric Carmen's 'All By Myself,' which I have to admit I have never liked, and it does not appear to be her best performance and she has missed a couple of notes, but she is putting on a show at the end and getting the crowd back into it. And her arrangement of the song is different and powerful. What an ending! She nailed it!", you would crucify me on your blog. Not only is that the run-on of all run-ons, but it's just bizarre.
DUDE!
Maybe this letter is meant to be a needed dose of intervention for you, Randy. It's OK. I've done the same thing with T.R. Hanrahan using a DiVinyls song to make a creepy hed. We're OK with occasional Epperson updates, but we hope this trend of live-blogging the show stops like one of those cacophonic (yeah, I made that word up) Idol auditions during the first few episodes.
I'm one of many in the Southwest Missouri province of Blogistan who links to you for one reason or another. We come back for a variety of reasons. None of them include your performance critiques of wanna-be pop stars. It's fine to give us updates, it's fine to critique media coverage of her, because we are all rooting for her. But your live-blogged posts on Idol give us a queasy feeling, like that uncle who hugs us just a little bit too long. On behalf of your readers, please stop. You're hurting us.
Signed,
~joe
p.s. I kid because I care.
Post edited 3/1/08
Regarding your coverage of American Idol contestant Asia'h Epperson, and particularly your live-blogging, I have two words:
Dude. Stop.
Yeah, she's from Joplin. Yeah, we're all proud of her. She's an incredible talent with a powerful story. Because she went to the same school where you teach, you're doubly proud of her. And several of your students know her. All that's cool. I get that. But you live-blog this reality TV show with the same fervor you give campaign reports and presidential debates -- if not more. Dude! You never got this excited about vouchers or lobbyists.
C'mon, man. Nine entries in one day? And a week later, 13? And your posts aren't all about Epperson. In several of them, you get downright catty toward the other contestants. You sound like one of the old guys at the gay bar telling awkward stories about the real Andy Williams. Why don't you just insert the words "girl, please" after every one of your commas? Put it in your autotext.
Have you even read what you've written? If I ever wrote, "Asia'h is performing Eric Carmen's 'All By Myself,' which I have to admit I have never liked, and it does not appear to be her best performance and she has missed a couple of notes, but she is putting on a show at the end and getting the crowd back into it. And her arrangement of the song is different and powerful. What an ending! She nailed it!", you would crucify me on your blog. Not only is that the run-on of all run-ons, but it's just bizarre.
DUDE!
Maybe this letter is meant to be a needed dose of intervention for you, Randy. It's OK. I've done the same thing with T.R. Hanrahan using a DiVinyls song to make a creepy hed. We're OK with occasional Epperson updates, but we hope this trend of live-blogging the show stops like one of those cacophonic (yeah, I made that word up) Idol auditions during the first few episodes.
I'm one of many in the Southwest Missouri province of Blogistan who links to you for one reason or another. We come back for a variety of reasons. None of them include your performance critiques of wanna-be pop stars. It's fine to give us updates, it's fine to critique media coverage of her, because we are all rooting for her. But your live-blogged posts on Idol give us a queasy feeling, like that uncle who hugs us just a little bit too long. On behalf of your readers, please stop. You're hurting us.
Signed,
~joe
p.s. I kid because I care.
Post edited 3/1/08
Saturday, February 16, 2008
OFFICIAL MAILBOX LOST GRIPE #27
Thursday's episode, "The Economist," told us a few crucial details. Namely, that Sayid is one of the Oceanic Six, that Ben survives and makes it off the island (assuming that vet's office is not on the island) and that just because there's an "Oceanic Six" doesn't mean that everyone else either dies or is left behind.
We also find out that Miles is an asshat. How long are the survivors going to put up with his crap? The Mailbox is glad he's in the hands of John Locke and his wonderful collection of knives. Also, Hurley is a turdburger. How could he set up everyone like that?
Back to Sayid, the most recent episode taught us that maybe he's not from Iraq, but from Arkansas. When he's in the cafe meeting Elsa for the first time, he orders an "expresso."
What?
A world-traveled man in Europe orders an EXpresso? When did Sayid become Bubba? The waiter must have known that Sayid was an American idiot, because he brought back a drink resembling an espresso. EXpresso? EXPRESSO?! My aunt Mabel from Tardtown, Mississippi orders EXpressos. Y'know, them expensive drinks at the QT. Gets her pumped up for a day at the outlet malls and bingo in Tupelo. Jeez Louise, actor Naveen Andrews! You're British, for the love of Jacob! You should know better!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
OFFICIAL MAILBOX LOST GRIPE #26
ABC.com has a couple of interesting sneak peeks about the next episode of Lost. Apparently, Hurley gets left behind and Sayid finds something interesting on Naomi's body, which will soon be corpsified and gross. But I will gladly miss the next episode, cuz TLP and I have a Valentine's date! GRIN. We're going to see Voltaire at Ground Xero, because we're evil.ANYWAY... I just watched "Confirmed Dead" again. And two things stood out to me that made me want to pound my head on a can of Dharma creamed corn.
~ When Jack and Kate are grilling Daniel Faraday about his team, he stammers that saving the survivors isn't exactly their primary objective. Jack presses and asks what that objective is, but then Miles' blip shows up on the sat-phone. And Jack is content to let the physicist trot off. GAH! Grill that whiny scientist! Kate could kick his ass! But that's not the gripe...
~ The anthropologist, Charlotte Staples Lewis, is seen reading a French newspaper while in Tunisia. But she has to have someone translate the words from a French-speaking man. HUH? Actually, this makes sense, because I can read a little bit of French, but if someone spoke it to me, I'd be clueless. Never mind, the Jack thing above is the main gripe.
By the way: If Sawyer gave me a nickname, apparently it would be "Ferdinand."
Thursday, February 07, 2008
OFFICIAL MAILBOX LOST GRIPE #25
Season 4 is here. Huzzah! Only eight episodes. Boo.
No need for a recap, because there hasn't been a lot to recap. Only that six people made it off the island, and the survivors aren't getting rescued. Nothin' big.
Before getting to the gripe, let the Mailbox address something it wrote ages ago, in gripe No. 24. In the flash-forward, Jack tells a doctor to ask his dad upstairs if he's any more in control of his drinking. Before Season 4, the Mailbox thought it was a red herring. Since then, there's been the mysterious rabbit #15, Christian Sheppard appearing without Jack being around and Charlie appearing to Hurley in the future. Although the Casimir effect is referenced in the Orchid training video, I don't think time travel is going on. Dopplegangers, dude. Doppelgangers. All I'm sayin'.
As for the gripe, it goes for the season opener, "The Beginning of the End." Why does Jack not care about the message on Charlie's hand? That seems like something Jack would be slightly interested in, but NOOOOoooo. He lets Hurley have his speech and lets several leave the group with Locke... including Claire and Aaron. Jack gets his cojones back in "Confirmed Dead," tonight's episode. Second best quote of the night: "I don't know, Miles, how stupid are you?"
Best quote of the night: Locke talking about Walt. "It was Walt. Only taller."
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
INSOMNIA SUCKS
Having a chest cold just complicates an old problem.
It's one thing to lie in bed, eyes wide open, neurons firing like guerillas, wondering when I can finally get to sleep. It's another to have all that going on with my chest making noises like a flatulent, emo teenager. Seriously, my lungs are making sounds that make Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! sound tonal and organized. Take that with the coughing and hacking next to ma soleil, who is a light sleeper, and I just give up. So here I am. Blogging, listening to Power Windows by Rush. Thinking that the Barenaked Ladies are poignantly correct.
This ticks me off pretty badly. It's not like I'm writing my great American novel in these wide-awake hours, away from my girl. I'm watching Robot Chicken, practicing magic or reading. But those who know me know I am not a morning person. Sleeping pills? Forget it. Paula has a theory: I fight the effect that they create. I believe she's right. She usually is.
I wish I could get into bed before 11:30 or midnight, so tonight, I'm acting on a bold plan. I'm staying up all night, so that when midnight rolls around, I'll be beat and compelled to get my butt in bed. Here's hoping it works.
For those who are curious, this is my favorite Robot Chicken moment:
It's one thing to lie in bed, eyes wide open, neurons firing like guerillas, wondering when I can finally get to sleep. It's another to have all that going on with my chest making noises like a flatulent, emo teenager. Seriously, my lungs are making sounds that make Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! sound tonal and organized. Take that with the coughing and hacking next to ma soleil, who is a light sleeper, and I just give up. So here I am. Blogging, listening to Power Windows by Rush. Thinking that the Barenaked Ladies are poignantly correct.
This ticks me off pretty badly. It's not like I'm writing my great American novel in these wide-awake hours, away from my girl. I'm watching Robot Chicken, practicing magic or reading. But those who know me know I am not a morning person. Sleeping pills? Forget it. Paula has a theory: I fight the effect that they create. I believe she's right. She usually is.
I wish I could get into bed before 11:30 or midnight, so tonight, I'm acting on a bold plan. I'm staying up all night, so that when midnight rolls around, I'll be beat and compelled to get my butt in bed. Here's hoping it works.
For those who are curious, this is my favorite Robot Chicken moment:
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