Author Archives: Jody

Friday Morning Videos: All I Wanna Do Is Steal Sperm From You

Ready for an earworm? Ready? Go!

I love Heart. LOVE Heart. Crazy On You? Magical. Magic Man? Beyond magical. So WTF happened in the late 80s? Sure, they had some good songs, but then this song blasted out into every radio in 1990, and everyone knew every word, possibly against their will. You know the story.

It was a rainy night, when the hottest non-serial-killing hitchhiker got picked up by a younger, thinner version of Ann Wilson.

"Please, please, please don't have an STD."

“Please, please, please don’t have an STD.”

They chatted for a bit, and then fell in love, and then they found a hotel. It was a place she knew well. They don’t show this in the video, but there’s a scene where the clerk says, “Ovulating again?” and she’s all “Dude, icksnay on the ovulatingway.”

"Please, please, PLEASE don't have an STD."

“Please, please, PLEASE don’t have an STD.”

Then they have lots and lots of the sex, and he’s really, really good at it. And then she’s all sad the next morning, and leaves the worst Dear John note ever. For those of you who don’t remember all the words, it goes like this:

I am the flower; you are the seed. We walked in the garden. We planted a tree. Don’t try to find me; please don’t you dare. Just live in my memory. You’ll always be there.*

"Crap. Does this mean she has something growing down there? I hope it's not the clap."

“Crap. Does this mean she has something growing down there? I hope it’s not the clap.”

Then it happened one day, dontcha know, that they came round the same way. Which, by the way, seems to also be at a motel; maybe he bought the place because he had such fond memories? The good news for us is, he lost his contact lenses, and it turns out he’s even hotter in librarian glasses.

"Crap. It wasn't the clap."

“Crap. It wasn’t the clap.”

Unfortunately for the kid, that means he also has a 50% chance of having bad eyesight. But it’s OK. He’s growing up in the age of LASIK.

I find the wording in this part interesting: “I’m in love with another man, and what he couldn’t give me was the one little thing that you can.”

Judging by the look on Hot Hitch’s face, I think we’re all in agreement that this is so not a little thing. This is way bigger than a breadbox and fixing to keep getting bigger for the next 18 years or so. On the upside, she knows where the guy works, so when Little Hitch starts asking for a kid sister, she knows where to go.

One last thought for your weekend: WTF is Nancy Wilson making out with the guitar?

The safest sex there is!

The safest sex there is!

* Semicolons mine. This twit doesn’t know a semicolon from an em-dash.

Friday Morning Videos: Club Tropicana

SlumberPartyMovies recently had an opportunity to interview George Michael about his epic video, Club Tropicana, which has always puzzled me on a few counts.

SPM: Great to meet you, George! Long time-listener, first-time interviewer. Let’s jump right in: Why weren’t the credits in the Wham! The Hits VHS version?

ct_credits

GM: Look at two beautiful women in matching slouchy shirts clip-clop along a darkened path and forget your question.

ct_walking

SPM: Who the fuck is this guy?

ct_moustache1

GM: Look at me posing with a white wine spritzer and forget your question.

ct_drink

SPM: Where is the place where membership’s a smiling face, where strangers take you by the hand and welcome you to wonderland?

GM: Beneath the Panama.

SPM: Wait, like south of the Panama, or underground, or what?

GM: No, sorry. I meant they welcome you from beneath their panamas. Like hats.

SPM: Oh, so where is it? Acapulco? It must be Acapulco, right?

GM: Look into my eyes and forget your question.

ct_2eyes

SPM: Who the fuck is this guy?

ct_moustache2

A: Look at me showering and forget your question.

ct_shower

SPM: Why is it that all that’s missing is the sea, when you’re clearly sitting on the beach in this scene? And you talk about soft white sands and blue lagoons?

ct_beach

A: Look at me showering and forget your question.

ct_shower2

SPM: Why is Andrew Ridgeley wearing long jams, and you’re in a white speedo?

ct_speedo

GM: I am Greek and he is not.

SPM: That’s fair. But his hair is clearly better than yours.

ct_hair

GM: Look at these women’s crotches and forget you ever thought that.

ct_crotch

SPM: Who the fuck is this guy?

ct_moustache3

GM: Look at us me angry in a cowboy hat and forget your question.

ct_cowboyhat

SPM: Do the girls stop and pick you up or leave you stranded?

ct_girlscar

GM: Look at me shaving naked and forget your question.

ct_shaving

SPM: OK, so you’re pilots and they’re flight attendants? Why did you act like you didn’t know each other? Or were just surprised that they’re really hot in bikinis? Do you know each other or not? And are you on furlough or something, which is why you’re a pilot and permitted to drink all day and bake in the sun for a week? and honestly, I know it’s the 80s, but it’s a little sexist that you guys get to be pilots and they’re attendants.

ct_stewardess

GM: Look at Andrew showering and forget your question.

ct_andrewshower

SPM: Forget my question? That’s a weird thing to say! No!

GM: Then look deeply into my eyes and forget your question.

ct_showereyes

SPM: Where are you going on those donkeys?

ct_donkeys

GM: Look at us shirtless, playing the trumpet, and forget your question.

ct_trumpets

SPM: Forget my question? That’s a weird thing to say! No!

GM: Look at us in pilot uniforms and forget your question.

ct_pilots

SPM: Wow! Looks like that’s all the time we have for today. Thanks, George! You’re a true SlumberPartyMovie god.

GM: I know.

Friday Morning Videos: Push It

Seventh grade sucks. I would list all the adjectives that could the levels of its suckitude, but you’ve been through it. You understand it. There should be an “It Gets Better” series just for 12-year-olds, regardless of their sexuality.

It does get better, by the way.

saltnpepa2

Fortunately, at the end of the long, dark hallway that was seventh grade was a glorious escape that will surprise none of you Lerlines out there: theater. I auditioned for, and was awarded, the role of Mammy Yokum in our high school’s spring musical “Li’l Abner,” and I spent the last three months of that awful year in the company of seniors. Seniors! These were the elder statesmen, who’d been through junior high and come out the other side not just alive, but populareven. (My school was so small that seventh graders were cast in the high school musical, and even the popular kids did theater.)

That was my actual costume, down to the corncob pipe.

That was my actual costume, down to the corncob pipe.

I could talk about Marci (Daisy Mae) and Kenny (Li’l Abner), who were THE couple of the day, and how they wasted valuable I-love-you-no-I-love-you hours counseling me on the awfulness of frenemies. I could mention how wonderful it was to escape into sassy Mammy Yokum’s bonnet and boss around people a foot taller than me–I was still only 4’8″, having not hit my growth spurt that would rocket me up to 5’4″ inside of eight months–and how the applause, o, the applause! washed over me and officially made me an audience addict. How Earthquake McGoon thanked me for saving his ass when he forgot his lines, how the music cut out during “Rag Offin’ the Bush” (seriously) and we danced an entire number in silence, missing not one beat, and making our terrifying 70-year-old choreographer weep with pride.

I could go into far more detail about those things. But this is not just about those things. This post is about Salt’n’Pepa, and Johnny G.

saltnpepa

Johnny G. was a senior, too, and he was Marryin’ Sam. Not literally, of course, although my stage-managing sister Samantha’s favorite line was when he introduced himself, saying, “I’m Marryin’ Sam!” Marryin’ Sam was the preacher of Dogpatch, and had some swell songs and hilarious lines (“Girl, what you got left over’s more than what most folks starts out with.”).

Johnny wasn’t much of a singer, but he could belt, and he was very funny, unlike the fellow in this clip, he was really, really, really hot. So you do the math. Johnny’s the star of the show, really adorable and funny, and was kind enough to not blow off a hangdog, shrimpy 12-year-old who was clearly madly in love with him. He was my first crush, my first love; I’d be standing in JCPenney’s and think I heard his voice over my shoulder, and my heart would flutter, and I’d turn and see a dumpy security guard whose voice sounded nothing like my true love’s. Johnny listened to Motown with me, and agreed that Gladys Knight’s version of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” was totally better than Marvin Gaye’s.

One night, at a middle school dance, Johnny was there–not sure why, I think he was friends with the DJ–and Salt’n’Pepa’s Push It busted out. Along with “Pump Up the Volume,” it was THE dance song of 1987. I was hanging around Johnny’s side, as usual, when he started dancing–kind of a two-step hop to each side, then a little hop in a circle. I echoed it to him. He did another move. I danced it back. He burst out laughing–not at me, mind you, but in surprise.

And then Johnny and I had a full-on dance-off for the rest of the song.

Pretty sure this is what I looked like in that moment, only with choppy short hair and unplucked eyebrows.

Pretty sure this is what I looked like in that moment, only with choppy short hair and unplucked eyebrows.

Of course, my love for Johnny G. did not end in me being swept off to marry him in his full Marine dress blues; it ended with me crying behind sunglasses while my mom gently explained the reality of crushes.

A few years later, a Doogie Howser, MD episode featured a girl in love with Doogie, and he got a speech (I think from his mom) that he should be very nice to her, and I had a revelation that Johnny’s niceness was not just an illusion of my bedazzled puberty; that really was him. We all learn the hard lesson of falling in love with a superstar doesn’t usually work out, but a good guy will dull the pain.

I thought of Johnny last Saturday, when we headed over to my neighbor’s house for an impromptu outdoor dance party. Their 8-year-old was demonstrating some of her dance moves. I demonstrated the Roger Rabbit and  and running man (both featured in this video). She demanded I teach her.

The running man.

The running man.

In closing: show a kid a dance, they have fun for a second. Teach a kid to dance, they can boogie down for a lifetime. Additionally, all you fly brothers, get on down here and dance; and Spinderella: won’t you please cut it up, this one time?

I Love Sororities.

In the wake of “The Rape of Betty Childs” last week, and also due to an appointment with the dentist, I never got around to posting a Friday Morning Video. But I’m glad I waited, because this is so, so much better.

Why am I posting it here? Because, Lerlines, where would Betty Childs have been without the Pis? Where would Bluto be without topless pillow fights?

WordPress is being annoying, so you’ll have to click through the image to FunnyorDie.

funnyordie

Recently, one of the fine sisters of Delta Gamma (U Maryland) took her sisters to task for being a bit more loserly than she appreciated. I’m not sure what her role is in the house; I’m guessing she’s in charge of social events, or possibly rush; she’s most definitely not a freshman or sophomore, I know that. In any case, displeased with the public personas of her fellow DGs, she composed a brilliant diatribe on just how disappointed she is in her sisters, and how they’d pretty much better get into shape, lest she get really angry and, say, cunt-punt them.

People have read the letter and called it “insane” and “deranged”; I think it’s brilliant. Despite a stuck caps lock, her grammar is surprisingly good, and she’s a terrific monologue writer. (Tip: use this at your next audition. You won’t be sorry.) Michael Shannon brings it to a David Mametesque level, which usually, to me, means something like “Good god, shut the fuck up and stop repeating yourself,” but in the context of Glengarry Delta Gamma, is an eloquent pouring-forth of profanity bordering on true beauty. It’s a glistening waterfall of verbal daggers.

deltagamma_fuckingup

I’m in agreement with the rest of the internet that “cunt-punt” is most certainly the best phrase, and here’s why: it’s not just the rhyming, or the visual; it’s that it’s not using “cunt” as a derogatory term. Instead, it’s expressing a very specific act of violence AGAINST the cunt. It’s “kick him where it hurts,” only it’s her, and it rhymes.

Then there’s the part where she issues a number of invitations to her sisters, such as asking them to email her back and let her know of their level of mental retardation, and also punch themselves in the face so she doesn’t have to do it for them.

deltagamma_fuckingstupid

Here’s what I love the most about the letter, though: I KNOW HER. OK, well, I don’t know DG Rebecca. But there was a junior my freshman year, and we’ll call her Mary Jane, who so terrified me that I’m STILL afraid of her. Mary Jane is a wonderful person, by all accounts: she volunteered for Special Olympics as a hugger, for instance, and I loved most of my sisters well enough to know that if they loved her, that she must have  a sweet chocolatey center, unlike Rebecca, who may actually be as horrible as one imagines shrill sorority sisters to be. But Mary Jane suffered no fools. NONE. And man, did she have a mouth.

You see, the true secret of Greek life is this: no way will 60 women all like each other equally. It’s just not emotionally possible. After living with someone for a few years, you forge your close bonds, and your less-close bonds, and one or two, you might even just not get at all. For the record, no, I did not dislike any of my sorority sisters, but some of them–well, we just didn’t get each other.

Of course, not even Mary Jane ever threatened physical violence, but that was 15 years ago, before all those violent video games made everyone crazy.

deltagamma_assault

But when it comes down to it, you’re all in it together, you share the same rituals and handshake–yes! Rituals! Handshakes!– and I know that if I’d been at a party, and someone had done something untoward to me in Mary Jane’s presence, they’d have received a tongue-lashing that would have terrified even DG Rebecca into submission. Why? Because I was Mary Jane’s sister, goddamnit, and she’d fucking cunt-punt any boot-licking asswipe who’d ever disrespect me, even if I was some pledge whose name she couldn’t quite remember. It’s a family; the name “sister” is not an accident.

I hope nationals doesn’t come down too hard on DG Rebecca. Despite using extremely poor judgment in scribing an email (seriously, why couldn’t she scream at them in chapter?), being generally racist and unapologetically privileged, she probably has the group’s best interests at heart. Given a chance, she’ll be the fucking president of the goddamn national alumnae association someday, and do NOT fucking think she will accept that you assholes think you’re not going to donate. Delta Gamma gave you the four most fun years of your entire sorry existence, so fucking pay up and stop putting us off in your whiny little bitch voice.

Either that, or Rebecca: bone up on your screenwriting skills and go to Hollywood. You have a future there.

Suck on that, David Mamet.

** She also mentions Sigma Nu, specifically, and how the DGs would be unhappy if they invited Zeta over. Speaking as a Zeta (Bethany College, ’97) who regularly enjoyed the company of the Sigma Nus: thanks for the callout. It’s appreciated.

Changing the Conversation: The Rape of Betty Childs

You’ve likely noticed, Lerlines, that once in a great while we get all ticked off ’round here. Royally pissed off, even. So when I read that Pittsburgh bloggers are devoting April 16 to a day of blogging about sexual assault, I knew there’s only one thing worth talking about: Revenge of the Nerds. That’s right, folks. We’re changing the conversation, and it starts with the Tri-Lambs.

change-the-conversation-2

You know the story: using brains, wit and montage time travel, a group of nerds beat the jocks, get the girls, and even pledge into a fraternity of large, stern, sweater-wearing bodyguards who are accompanied, at all times, by a funky bass riff. We shall embrace our nerdiness, and we shall overcome.

By the way, on the path to glory, we’ll also be creepy stalkers and rape a girl.

Yes, it’s true, folks: Lewis, indefatigable king of the nerds, does not woo and seduce Betty Childs. He does not use his charm and devotion to make her see that love isn’t all about buff muscles and a handsome face, perhaps because he has neither charm nor devotion. He doesn’t realize after the first few failed attempts that Betty Childs is a shallow brat who isn’t worth his time, perhaps because he, too, is a shallow brat who isn’t worth her time. He doesn’t stop pursuing the beautiful, blonde Betty Childs when she and her boyfriend let pigs loose into his house, wrecking a perfectly fine pot party and making fun of another sorority in the meantime.

She's a cheerleader and in a sorority, which means stalking is legal.

She’s a cheerleader and in a sorority, which means stalking is legal.

Betty is not attracted to him. She doesn’t want him, and by all accounts, never will. And yet: Lewis will not give up.

No, instead of giving up–he’s got a heart as big as all get-out, I tellya!–he and his friends stage a panty raid on her sorority house. For the under-30 set reading this, a panty raid is an old-fashioned way for frat boys to invade the home of sorority girls, and steal their panties while they’re at it. In the grand scheme of things, it could be called home invasion, burglary and generally be creepy, but in the context of hormonal, likely drunk teenagers living away from parental guidance, well, as long as the panties are clean and stolen from drawers, not behinds, not much harm done.

Why on earth does she say no this to guy?

Why on earth does she say no this to guy?

Unless, of course, the panty raid is a cover for installing video cameras in the bathrooms and bedrooms of said sorority girls, in which case: Ew. Yuck. Creeptastic.

But it’s OK, of course, because Betty Childs is a big ol’bitchy bitch, and her sorority sisters are, too, so we’re allowed to do things like stalk them from a satellite. Then again, maybe they do deserve it, after all, since one would think they’d be intelligent enough to notice the giant black camera lens poking out of their white, white ceiling? Hmm. Nope. Even stupid people–stupid mean people–don’t deserve to be stalked.

Fast forward through a number of other hijinks, and we’re at the big Homecoming fair, with drunk tricycle races and gay javelins, and the Nerds have a second revenge on the jocks and Betty Childs: They sell whipped cream pies for charity! And the pie is actually a Pi, get it? Because if you lick away all the whipped cream, Betty Childs is all topless and cheesecake right there on the bottom of the pie tin!

Not only have you been watching Betty Childs pee for the last month, but you also cropped out a picture of her and you’re now selling it. So add pornography sales!

But it’s for charity. And she’s a stupid meanie who just won’t stop saying no. I mean, WTFOMG.

This is where she tells him no. Again.

This is where she tells him no. Again.

Mere moments after this discovery, Lewis steals Betty’s boyfriend’s mask, and in another move that makes me wonder if maybe she didn’t forget to clean her contact lenses, she follows Lewis into the funhouse, leads him into the Moon room, and, Lewis still masked, they have lots of moon sex whilst a Martian watches.

After, she doesn’t mention his smaller hands or much thinner, shorter physique, but remarks on his incredible performance. And then he unmasks himself, revealing that Lewis, our hero, is a full-on rapist.

I’m sure he doesn’t think he’s a rapist. He just wants a chance to show Betty how good he really is, because sex and love aren’t about mutual attraction; no, love is about being forced to realize what you’ve been missing all this time. And she does, of course. She realizes and regrets all that great sex she’s been missing, and by the end of the evening, is even convinced she’s in love with the guy.

So what’s the lesson we learn from this, folks? How is the conversation changing? Well, on one hand we’ve got the big dumb jocks, who are big and dumb and vandalizers and, by all accounts, major assholes. We don’t ever see it happen, but I think we can assume one or two of them have coerced a girl into having sex, perhaps even forcibly. They’re Olympians among men, and therefore they get to go all Zeus on whatever girl happens to walk by. They’re your garden-variety date-raping frat boys.

On the other hand, we have the hero of our movie, a far more insidious kind of rapist. This is the guy who believes he deserves a conventionally beautiful woman, but by virtue of genetics and social skill deficiency, can’t seem to get one. And it’s not his fault, no way. He’s smart and his friends think he’s funny. If she just got to know him better, she’d see. Really, she would. And the fact that she’s mean, well, sure that’s embittering, since he’s entitled to so much more. Entitled to as much as any other Greek god, really.

So, really, what’s the fucking problem, Betty Childs? Why are you such a bitch, you shallow cheerleader? Why can’t you be my trophy wife, instead of his? I love you because you’re beautiful and you don’t love me because I’m not, which makes you a bitch and me persecuted. So what’s wrong with transforming into a swan to get a little something-something? And see: you liked it. You said you wouldn’t like it and you DID, so I win.

What I really want to know is: where’s Gilbert in all of this? That guy’s actually decent, and self-aware, and has a very sweet girlfriend whom he respects; how is Gilbert at all OK with the stalking and the nonconsensual porn and the rape? Spiral of silence, boys: if ever it crosses your mind “Should they really be doing this?” then the answer is no. In fact, if it involves a woman who doesn’t even know she’s involved in your “should,” then the answer is “Fuck no.” Wait, make that: “Fuck no, call 911.”

Don't disappoint me, Gilbert.

Judy will be so disappointed in you, Gilbert.

“All nerds think about is sex,” Lewis says, and judging by the library of videotapes of your bare ass, Betty, you can bet he’s not kidding. I just wonder how you’ll react when he takes you back to the Lambda house and all his brothers start remarking on that mole you have. But it’s OK: even if you dump Lewis, he knows the right way to treat a girl. Stalking and raping works!

Crap. Now I’m depressed. But I don’t have to be. Because I donated to the Change the Conversation fundraiser, which is raising money for the Pittsburgh Action Against Rape (PAAR), which provides support for survivors of sexual violence and sexual assault. You can donate, too.  Because sexual relationships should start with adorable computer hacking, not with panty raids, stalking and rape.

Why isn't this on a t-shirt yet?

Why isn’t this on a t-shirt yet?

Friday Morning Videos: “Mind Over Matter”…. And a tribute to Roger Ebert.

It’s not Friday. I don’t care.

I checked into Facebook an hour or so ago and saw that one of my friends had changed his cover photo to an adorable picture of Siskel, Ebert, Telly the Monster and Oscar the Grouch. I laughed. Then I scrolled down and saw why he posted it: after many years of an epic battle, cancer finally proved, again, that it sucks the most of all the things that suck. It took Roger Ebert. Come on, cancer. We all agree you’re the Suckiest of the Suck. Just stop.

My dad, sister and I watched Siskel and Ebert religiously. Our local movie theater, a converted opera house, had its own balcony, and it was always closed because of the extreme rat infestation up there, but we always fantasized that we’d sneak up there, just like they did, and get to Talk Movies. In college, my pledge name was “Siskel,” presumably for all the VHS videos I had in my room, and I remember grumbling to a friend that I was SO more Ebert than Siskel.

In the last few years I’ve been reading Ebert’s blog regularly, checking into it every few weeks, and realized some things I hadn’t known about him. He’s a brilliant writer, first of all. He’s a compassionate person. He’s a devoted husband, crazy about his wife in a way that most of us can dream about, and she’s the most extraordinary person: beautiful, strong, and fiercely caring for him. Of course, those descriptions all came from him, and I can’t imagine that he’d ever see her as anything but a warrior angel.

It breaks my heart to re-read those sentences and realize I inadvertently used present tense, and that I should’ve said “was.” He WAS those things. Cancer. Suck.

After wiping the tears from my keyboard, I knew I’d have to post a SlumberPartyMovies tribute to him. To what I’m sure would’ve been his horror, I first thought of “Summer School”–a movie I saw in a drive-in double feature, paired with “Lost Boys.” (BTW: How radical am I? Except that was the first time I’d worn my contact lenses, and one fell out during “Cry Little Sister.”)

My sister and I loved this movie. Like, LOVED it. Like, one summer, when we were totally bored, I helped Samantha write down every word of the movie in the computer so we could print it out and have the whole script. Kids, this is what your elders did before the internet.

Thumbs way up!

Thumbs way up!

I tried finding a scene from the movie when Chainsaw and Dave give one of their Siskel and Ebert reviews–like after the roller coaster, when they give a thumbs-up/thumbs-down, and then confirm it’s a thumbs-up when a classmate barfs into the garbage can. But I couldn’t find it. What I did find was this gem.

The song, “Mind Over Matter,” rocks on every level, and we had it on our version of repeat, which is to say, we recorded it over and over on a whole tape and let it play continuously. The song plays when the students are taking their Big Test and going into labor, and–miracle of miracles–is sung by “Better Off Dead” singer EG Daily. (How did I not know that?)

Watch this video. You won’t regret it. Especially not the part at about 2:10 when motherfucking Carl Reiner dances in a linen suit.  I can’t say for certain, but I’m reasonably sure this is the only appearance he ever made in a music video. What else? Strobe lights, aerobic thongs, and the cast performs onstage, something you won’t see happen again until Rockula.

What did Mr. Ebert think of Summer School? I’d tell you, except the SunTimes server crashed under the weight of millions of internet mourners moments after the news broke. I can tell you what the excerpt on Google says: “Summer School is a movie like that, a comedy so listless, leisurely and unspirited that it was an act of the will for me to care about it, even …”

My guess is, the rest of the review don’t go so good.

But Mr. Ebert, I still choose to pay tribute to you with “Mind Over Matter” anyway. And this might sound as hokey as a principal letting a teacher get tenure even though 80% of his class fails summer school, but you, sir, are the greatest example of mind over matter I’ve ever known. You fought cancer. You lost half your damned face, for Christ’s sake. And still, you wrote to us, and spoke to us, and we developed with you the kind of one-sided personal bond that one can only get by being a blogger, and allowing comments, and sharing your story with the world.

We’ll see you at the movies.

10 Slumber Party Movie Characters Who Inspire Me

Dottie and Alix over at ModernKiddo.com always have terrific blog ideas, and since I have no inspiration this week for a Friday Morning Video, I’m going to steal spin-off their 15 Characters That Inspired Me idea, Slumber Party Movies-style. This is by no means a complete list.

1. Stef from The Goonies

God put that rock there for a purpose, Brand.

God put that rock there for a purpose, Brand.

Stef wore glasses, had short choppy blonde hair, and her BFF was the prettiest girl in school. She managed to mostly keep her cool, even after losing her glasses–I had nightmares about losing my glasses, literally–and in the end, got the funny guy in the Purple Rain t-shirt. Who wouldn’t call that a win?

2.  Julie from American Anthem

No, I will not dance to Swiss-style lederhosen music.

No, I will not dance to Swiss-style lederhosen music.

She was a gymnast who broke the mold and danced to her crippled friend’s synthesized symphony, and then had gymnastic sex with Mitch fucking Gaylord.  I took acrobatics because of her. Until I hyperextended my elbow mid back-limber and said screw this, I’m done. What do you want? We can’t all be Becky Cameron.

3. Sara from Labyrinth

Jareth said WHAT?

Jareth said WHAT?

She’s a bratty teenager who sees her parents as abusive because they ask her to babysit when she doesn’t have other plans. But she also lives in a fantasy world where she’s a warrior princess, rescuing said baby brother from an overfamiliar Goblin King with a crush on her. It’s no secret: part of the reason I had children was so that I could pretend, again, that I’m also a warrior princess.

4. Jan Brady

How DOES she do her tendrils?

How DOES she do her tendrils?

I was a middle child who imagined myself to be far more persecuted than I actually was. Plus, I had short hair and was desperate for long hair. That’s pretty much it.

5. Blair from The Facts of Life

Blair, before she found Jesus.

Blair, before she found Jesus.

Yeah, I know. We’re all supposed to like Jo best, because Blair was a rich bitch with too many clothes and too much hair, and she’s also kind of mean. But she had a lot of clothes, and a lot of hair, and she was also kind of mean.

6. Louise from Teen Witch

She likes boys.

She likes boys.

By the time 1989 rolled around, I was 14 and feeling the impact of being the nerdy one in school. Then along comes Louise, who, it turns out, comes from a long line of witches, and can wish herself into being popular AND getting Dan Gauthier, plus she magicks her spunky BFF into SPM rap history.

Which brings me to Inspiration #6.5: the BFF. Look at how funky she is.

7. Jordan from Real Genius

Meet me, if I were an even bigger geek.

Meet me, if I were an even bigger geek.

Nearly every time I’ve watched this movie with someone, they’ve stopped midway through Jordan’s introduction, looked at me, and said, “She is SO you.” Well, sure she is. Except she’s twice as brilliant as I am (and that’s saying something), much better at building things, and can knit. Like, really, really well.

8. Lisa from Weird Science

She'll kick your ass, Al.

She’ll kick your ass, Al.

I’m not even justifying this with an explanation. But here’s one, in case you require one.

9. Lynn from Girls Just Want To Have Fun

Don't bother her when she's watching DTV.

Don’t bother her when she’s watching DTV.

Best BFF ever. Cute, funny, sassy, and she has a reversible fuzzy Velcroed Catholic schoolgirl kilt. And a grasshopper hat. And dinosaur barrettes. Will someone bring back dinosaur barrettes, please?

10.  Billie Jean from The Legend of Billie Jean

Say it with me: Fair is fair!

Say it with me: Fair is fair!

Billie Jean kidnaps adorable geeks, defends her brother, denies an overgrown slug sexual advances, and inspires a nationwide movement to stand up for yourself. We could use some Billie Jeans these days.

That’s the start of my list. Add yours in the comments.

The name’s Gil. As in Gil-ty.

Yesterday was my youngest daughter’s birthday–the little peanut’s two!–and so today I wanted to share a birthday scene. I could’ve gone with “Sixteen Candles,” or any number of other teen party scenes, but this was the first thing that came to mind: Cowboy Gil from Parenthood (the 1989 version, not the Gilmore Girls version).

cowboygil

It has a number of things going for it:

  • Steve Martin in bathmat chaps.
  • Steve Martin describing slipping in a dead cowboy’s guts to seven-year-olds.
  • Steve Martin.

Really, though, the best part of this scene is that, to me, it perfectly demonstrates how feeling silly is its own parental reward.

I couldn’t find the whole clip ANYWHERE on YouTube, so I have to send you over to a site called AnyClip. They won’t let me embed the clip, and it doesn’t show all the balloon animals, or him riding away on a horse, leaping over the neighbor’s shrubbery. But next time this is on cable, catch the whole movie. It’s worth watching for this scene and to see Keanu Reeves ask Dianne Wiest if she knows what a boner is.

Steve Martin in bathmat chaps >>

Friday Morning Videos: Is There Something I Should Know?

I was in the mood for Duran Duran during bathtime last night, Arena-style (the greatest live album ever; if you don’t agree with me, you’ve never listened to the transition between “The Chauffeur” and “The Seventh Stranger”), and as we all know, it kicks off with this perfect concert opener. Duran Duran is begging you: please, please: do you love them? How much?

The answer, of course, is a lot.

This is a gem of a video in a library of great videos–it’s Duran Duran, after all, and they did videos up right. I don’t need to mention the hair (swoopy) or the makeup (perfect) or John’s cheekbones (swoopily perfect), so let’s just skip to the part where Simon’s a flea, walking across a dog’s back, and wonder: what?

dd_flea

 A few highlights:

  • Neckties.
  • Lots of children and babies. I don’t remember them being in the video, but watching it now, I wonder: Why didn’t they give Simon a baby to hold? Were they worried he’d drop it during a dance move? Did it not fit the milieu of the video? Or did they know that Simon Le Bon  + Baby would instantaneously send thousands of viewers into spontaneous ovulation?
  • Derby hats.
  • Lumberjacks in derby hats.
  • Cheerleaders.
  • Giant steps.
  • Split screens.

I count five scenes from previous Duran Duran videos–how many can you find? Here’s a hint for one.

ddvideo

Lastly, and certainly not least: “You’re about as easy as a nuclear war.” Those of you who understand, understand. Those of you who don’t, perhaps never will, but can try. This moment is the secret handshake of SlumberPartyMovies.com; when I performed this song in karaoke 20 years post-video, I performed the secret handshake and watched as the other writers of this blog performed it, as well, thus guaranteeing that a decade later, though we live 1,500 miles apart, we’re still singing about Duran Duran together.

If you already know “You’re about as easy as a nuclear war,” you may continue reading SlumberPartyMovies.com. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you must buy “Decade” immediately, watch it five times this weekend, including all four versions of “New Moon on Monday,” whilst drinking Bartles & James and eating Likem Stix, and then write an essay of apology to me and the rest of us Lerlines here at SPM.

I’m not going to be easy on you.

Seth MacFarlane’s Sketch Comedy Show!

Now that Downton Abbey’s done for the season (I HATE you, Downton Abbey, BTW.), Sunday nights have returned to a doldrum of channel-surfing. We’re flipping through last night, and landed on this crazy concept comedy show–I thought it was SNL, but I was kind of surprised because it was on ABC, so maybe it wasn’t SNL, but some other new sketch comedy show. It ran a little long, but in that We’re-going-on-too-long-because-we-know-it’s-too-long way. And I don’t know how they managed to get like every star in Hollywood to cameo, but I guess Lorne Michaels does have a lot of power–I mean, he got Adele AND Shirley Bassey AND Barbra Streisand to perform. In sequins!

Anyway, it was basically a send-up of the Oscars, and how hilariously awful it would be if Seth “I Like Poop” MacFarlane hosted it. It even opened up with this totally meta sketch where Captain Kirk shows up and tells him not to host, because if he does he’ll be excoriated for it, and then shows him this musical number that will get everyone calling him a sexist.

I think Seth MacFarlane is the taller one in this picture.

I think Seth MacFarlane is the taller one in this picture.

Here’s the thing: he performs the musical number–like, the whole thing, without stopping. So in the process of Kirk demonstrating the sketch to show how it’ll fail, he shows the sketch and it fails! BRILLIANT! Just for context, it’s Seth MacFarlane doing a song-and-dance number ripping off my husband’s childhood hobby of naming all the women whose boobs he’s seen in movies. I mean, can you imagine if someone actually did that at the real Oscars? I kept picturing myself at an awards banquet for work, where I’m expecting to get promoted because I’m brilliant and I’ve done a bang-up job of working my ass off, and then having my boss’s opening joke be, “Hey, that Jody–she’s got great tits!”

So the whole show was about how he’d fail, and they open with warning him he’ll fail and then he DOES fail, but only in the warning–It’s like  FAIL-FAIL-FAIL. Super-meta, man. Meta.

Then he goes on to make Rihanna jokes, because part of the conceit of the show was that it’s 2007; then he compares the woman who engineered the death of Bin Laden to a nagging girlfriend. Being that I’m totally a feminist, I thought all the jokes were absolutely hilarious, because I’m pretty cool with the guys, and I know Seth MacFarlane isn’t really a sexist, because someone who’s really a sexist wouldn’t say those things because all sexists are afraid of seeming sexist. And it’s all good because it’s a comedy show, which means that you can totally act like you’re a sexist, because then everyone can laugh at the sexist laughing at sexist jokes, and you’re not really laughing with the sexist.

And, let’s face it: that Zero Dark Thirty woman was probably really annoying with her “100%” BS. Even though it wasn’t BS.

The really amazing thing was all the guest performers, which–brilliant!–were almost ALL women! So while he’s doing his I’m-not-a-sexist-just-telling-sexist-jokes bit, he’s positioned himself among women who apparently have more talent in one labia that he’s got in his entire body.  And then Michelle Obama shows up–no lie! Michelle Obama!–surrounded by the military, and it was getting pretty late so I didn’t quite catch all of it, but it was totally weird and totally, totally meta.

The only down spot was Daniel Day Lewis, who showed up late in the show (what the heck was HE doing in a sketch comedy show, anyway? They couldn’t get Alec Baldwin?). He was all “I’m a humble gentleman” and classy and self-effacing, which kind of ruined the concept of the whole night.

It kind of made me hope Seth MacFarlane would actually host the Oscars for real some day. I mean, if he knows it would be awful to make those jokes, then I know he wouldn’t actually  make those jokes, not for real. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.