Eyes Wide Open

I can't sleep. This will surprise no one who considers the fact that I bought The Ultimate Manilow last week, but it doesn't make it any easier for me. I've used the extra time to calculate what has kept me awake and concerned me the most, and I've come up with the following:

Eminem says that Moby is a "36-year-old, bald-headed fag."

Sure, we all know how vile it is to be bald and homosexual, but what's wrong with 36? You can't just toss that out there. Speaking as a 35-year-old bald-headed fag, I need to know if there's something unpleasant awaiting me come my next birthday.

I'm tempted to see 8 Mile just because I heard you get to see Eminem's ass.

How is it I'm able to spend whole lunch hours ranting about the pernicious influence of homophobes, then turn right around and consider ponying up $10 just to check out one who happens to have a milky white can you could bounce a quarter off? Bigots should be required to sport cabooses only a mother could love.

I want to be on Elimidate.

I cringe when I think how cheap I am, especially after realizing I just spent half an hour watching a show featuring abhorrent people sucking face. Elimidate, should you be otherwise engaged with BBC World News, gives some drunken, large-breasted whore or repellent, slobbering Neanderthal the chance to choose a date from four members of the opposite gender, each of whom competes for her/his affection by doing tequila body shots and answering questions that make The Dating Game sound like an evening with Noam Chomsky. Every time I stumble across this show, I think, "Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken us?" and five minutes later I'm rooting for Bambi to pick the spiky-haired blond guy with the big feet. It's completely repugnant; I have fantasies about it. I long to live in a world in which thick-skulled, unrepentant frat boys regularly pull down their pants and jump into hot tubs before discussing how much they respect my intellect.

Ben Affleck is People's Sexiest Man Alive.

Um, how did this happen? You bone Jennifer Lopez and suddenly you're the sexiest man alive? Please—if that were true, there would be literally dozens of titleholders in Pasadena alone. Let's face it—Ben Affleck is not sexy. Ben Affleck is the guy you wake up next to after a fifth Long Island iced tea, who proceeds to drink your orange juice right out of the carton and describe that great Dave Matthews concert he caught last week.

Why aren't I awake worrying about more important things?

I should be mulling over world hunger or the imminent destruction of the planet, but I'm not. This is when I know that there are evil forces at work, keeping me transfixed and horrified by pop detritus. Last week, one of my best friends was on the phone trying to describe her plans for her mother's funeral, and I couldn't quite focus because Tyne Daly was having an Emmy moment confronting a stalker on Judging Amy.

swiecking@seattleweekly.com

 
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