Wednesday, January 29, 2014

cawwww

I live in Seattle. Not born, but bred—I've lived here since I was nine—and I love my town. And we've arrived at one of those rare moments in history when the country is craning its neck up and to the left to see what the hell is going on over here. 

Normally we're invisible. We shuffle around shrouded in fog, the Nerds of the Nation, the honors students that the students on the other bumper stickers are going to be Serving Fries To™ one day, the ones getting beaten up in the other bumper sticker.

But! See these guys? 


Those are the guys a guy hired to beat up—I mean, play football against—the other guys, the guys of the cities who forgot about/hate our city! Those are our guys! They knocked those other guys down a LOT. And now we're goin' to the Superbowl!

Before I say anything else, you need to know that I love those guys. It's senseless, it's sentimental, but it's real. Like, I weep. I weep tears of pride about these boys. I'm like all of their mamas and girlfriends and wives and little sisters and big sisters rolled up into one. It's creepy, look, hey. Totally. I didn't pick just one thing to be, and now it's creepy but life is creepy so get over it. 

(((LIFE IS CREEPY LET'S CELEBRATE IT)))

And, for the football fans who are all I bet you only became a football fan a minute ago, put a dollar into your own tip jar! You're right. I only re-got into football last year when the Seahawks started doing well. I got into it a few years before, when the Seahawks were doing well, and then I was into it for a couple of weeks about thirty years ago, when the Seahawks were doing well and I watched them with my dad. I'm one of those what-you-call bandwagoners. Would you like to see my I-don't-care dance? You can't see it because you're not in my living room but I'm doing the Worm all the way across the floor and now I'm taking it up the wall. My love is perfectly good. If I walked it up to a Seahawk right now he'd take it and kiss me on the head. 

But I haven't just fallen in love with the team. I've developed feelings for the game itself. Like, I'll watch games that don't have any Seahawks in them, even. And for this I have to thank Sportsvision, the company that created the yellow 1st and 10 line we see on TV superimposed on the field. Before that yellow line was there, when I was but a maiden, I couldn't figure out how far the big men had to go for everybody to get all excited. They made the ball go...THERE. Yay? No, that's bad. Now they only made it go right there and everybody's losing their mind. What's happening?? I'm cranky. Change the channel. But the yellow line made it all so clear, and now I can re-route all the energy that went into feeling confused and channel it into YES YES RIGHT THERE BAM GOT IT.

What I'm saying is no, I'm not the best football fan who ever lived. But I just don't think that matters. Fuck it. This is a golden time for my little Seahawk-loving heart and the heart of my misunderstood and I frankly think underappreciated city (which I will sing odes to another day). We're losing our minds up here and it's beautiful. 

But I want to talk a little bit now about the Holy Trinity: Russell Wilson, Marshawn Lynch and my one true love, Richard Sherman. (We've been steady since he took it to Tom Brady last year.) Let's start with Russell Wilson. 


I'm not going to talk about what a good football player he is, mostly because that's the province of people who understand the game better than I do. I'm talking about the man himself. I watched an interview with him where he was talking about his dad, and how his dad always said to him, "Why not you?" and "Don't be afraid to be great." That's so simple, but it really got to me. Here's this guy who's been working like crazy to be the best, but in this sort of super-clean, humble way. The idea that it's not arrogant to go for greatness shot into me courtesy of Russell Wilson during that interview, and it came as news, and it set something in me free. I'm hanging it out here for you, you know? I don't want to be glib about this. I'm letting open a little window so you can see what I've projected on to our boys here, because that is such a powerful thing with sports, and with our heroes in general. They're out there carrying something personal for us, and that's why we love them. There were times in my young life when I purposely didn't try hard at this or that because I was afraid I'd be good at it and outshine somebody else and make people sad. For me, I adore how thoroughly Russell Wilson has gotten out of his own way in this life, and I'm taking a lesson. This little light of mine! I'm gonna let it shine! etc


Okay, next up. Beast Mode! Our beloved Marshawn Lynch. You know, he didn't catch my eye right away. He's quiet and so I didn't find a personality hook with him. No, with Marshawn, it's the sheer joy of the power of the human body and the will not to be stopped. He's like a natural wonder. He's like Yellowstone. I gawp at the force of him, as well as his pure balletic grace. A great bear ate a cheetah who ate Baryshnikov who had just absorbed a radioactive Weeble Wobble and so it was that Marshawn Lynch came to be among us. Also, his parents had sex. I like to think of Marshawn Lynch going through his day with five guys strapped to him all the time: trying to bring him down on the way to the toaster, trying not to let him get at the shower gel, forcing him away from the mailbox. Meanwhile he's just making toast and getting clean and opening bills and it's no biggie. Plus here comes the greatest quote ever from a press conference yesterday. Man doesn't like giving interviews. Here it is:  "I ain't seen no talkin' win me nothin'." Fu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-huck yes! And blackout. 

And lights back up because here we go.



My very own. The man. My boyfriend, Richard Sherman. You've heard enough about him in the last week, so I don't have to tell you about his skills or his volume or his background. All I'm saying is hell, yes, honey. Don't you dial anything down one bit. This is a man who doesn't give a fuck in all the right ways. He's got his eye on the prize and he's taking it, and he doesn't have to be loved every second on the way there. And beware that brain. He has your number, whatever you are. Obviously, since I love him the most—so hard, so much—he's carrying a Very Special Message just for me. I've been scrambling to be liked/not get killed for most of my life for whatever stupid reason, and Richard Sherman is how tired I am of doing that. Self-censorship for crowd approval can go fuck itself. And we're in the Super Bowl. What I'm saying—and I'm just going to go ahead and merge with him—is that Richard Sherman and I are the best corner in the game. Don't you ever talk about us. Crabtree. 

(Plus, come on. He's fine. I mean, we're fine. Have you seen us? Please.) 

There are so many others I didn't talk about: Golden Tate, Doug Baldwin, Kam Chancellor, Earl Thomas, the mysterious and fascinating Percy Harvin. Papa Pete Carroll. I hate leaving people out. I could write a little haiku for everydamnbody but it's late. 

So on Sunday I'm going to yell myself hoarse as the shattered parts of my own psyche, otherwise known as the best defense in the NFL, go up against our brand-new arch rivals, the Denver Broncos, who have the best offense and about whom I have no feelings and so I'm going to just call them The Banality of Evil. I'll be letting the Seahawks carry all my dreams and aspirations for a few hours, which makes no sense and feels so weird and horrible and great. I'm going to be a wreck, slightly drunk and splattered with guacamole and blue corn chip crumbs (team colors!) and so alive. 


Wednesday, January 15, 2014

all the golden ladies


BEEEP BEEEP BOOOP BOOOP

WEEEOOO WEEEOOO WEEEOOO

Hold on one second. That's just the blog alarm going off. Somebody's posting in here and that's not normal and so we just like to keep an eye on that and let me look at the security camera and okay that's just me. WEEEOOOO WEEEOOOO click. That ought to shut it WEEEOOO WEEEOOO click BAM. BAM.

Okay, hi. Let's not fuck around. We know why we're here. You know what just happened. You know what kind of carpet it was. Let's talk about it. No, let's YOU LISTEN and ME TALK ABOUT IT. Then you can talk about it. I can't stop you.




It's becoming a tradition to begin by talking about Giuliana Rancic and Kelly Osbourne, since they're the first dressed-up ladies on TV. There have been years that I put on the E! network hours before the Live! From! The! Red! Carpet! event even starts, but I don't do that any more because of mortality and self-respect. No, now I wait until about 2:30, giving myself a dignified mere half-hour with the pre-pre-show. But I tell you what: Giuliana Rancic is in the catbird seat, because I'm always so excited to see somebody in a gown that I'm like I LOVE IT before my eyes even focus and I can see what it is. And this year was no exception. I mean, it's fine. But I'm trained since kindergarten to automatically freak out if somebody's wearing a fancy, fluffy, red dress, so I flipped momentarily, and then after my eyes adjusted I was like "Oh."



God bless all of the photographs of Kelly Osbourne on the red carpet. She smiled a liiiiiiittle bit in one of them, but otherwise she is not here to make friends. I start even to wonder what the photographers were saying to her as they snapped her picture. "Kelly! Kelly! You'll never amount to anything! Hey! Did you just come from some kind of museum fundraiser? You're not quite dressed up enough! I mean I guess you are, a little! Is your dress from the Macy's evening gown department? Because it looks like that! Don't smile! Kelly! Don't smile!"

I also want to note that these two launched the hair trend of the evening, the Flat Dreary Pageboy. Hairdressers across Hollywood were like, "You know what? Fuck these bitches. All of them. It's payback time. Oh, I'll style it, all right. I'll style that for you. There. Yeah. You didn't see me coming." So much flat, greasy hair. Does everybody suddenly genuinely love that? I want to understand.




MISSED CONNECTION: You're a correspondent for the E! Network. But you're not Giuliana Rancic or Kelly Osbourne or that man who sits near Giuliana Rancic or the fat, happy, squeaky man. You're a lady, but you have no name. This would have been a great time for you to have a name because your dress was so pretty! And here we are at the Tomb of the Unknown Correspondent. It's so needless. Anyway, you wore white. It was all illusion-y around the collarbones, with white lace floating shoulder sleeve things. Sure, you had flat hair and corpse makeup (the other trend of the night) but your dress made me sigh and say "ohh" as though I'd wandered under a cherry tree in springtime that was gently snowing tiny white blossoms from its delicate branches while fairies wandered beneath drinking champagne. And now nobody will ever, ever know who you are. :(



Zooey Deschanel, I have got to hand it to you. I'm all - hell, we're ALL all - Zooey Deschanel'd out, I mean it's a chronic condition, Zooey fatigue, that we've all learned to live with. And you test us. You know you do. But I'm big enough to declare when I've been beat, and you beat me fair and square, ZD. Your hair and makeup are great, all vivid and feminine, just what your classy little hi-lo understated sparkle gown required. And you were you, all modern young grandmother, how you do, which normally chafes me. You and Sofia Coppola. All, oh, I'm not going to try to be sexy. I'm so alluring I can hide my allure. I have so much extra. Ah, well. Go in peace, Zooey Deschanel. I'm not going to say you have immunity for the next challenge but you're definitely safe. I'm in a good mood.



Until now! You know what? See how I'm not even showing your dress? Yeah. Hair. Hair. We're not even - your dress may as well not even exist. Man, who are you in cahoots with over there? You're not getting away with this. LOOK AT ME, HAYDEN PANETTIERE. You can't look at me, can you. You're scared to look at me. You know you're in trouble. That's why you're being so weird. This isn't funny, by the way. You know what, I'm not going to get anywhere with her. I can see that. Big greasy up-and-back pompapageboy. I don't even...forget it. She's clearly not going to take responsibility.

*I also just want to say, of course, that I didn't stick that "I'M NOT OBSESSED" thing up there, obviously. Because I don't even need to say that. Who thought I was? I'm not. Now it looks like I am.



Whereas you, Tatiana Maslany, whoever you are, you're going to go far with hair like that. I can see that you care about your future, unlike some people, and you're not afraid to do your best. I bet your parents are proud of you. I certainly am. If you ever need a letter of recommendation, don't hesitate to contact me.



Leslie Mann, Adorasexy Sophistikitten.



My mother-in-law, Larraine, and I were watching together, and we both caught a glimpse of this sparkly-backed salmon milkmaid wending her way through the crowd, and we both gasped, and a breeze blew simultaneously through our hair, and we were all WHO WAS THAT DELIGHTFUL FAIRY and WE MUST SEE MORE and WAS SHE REAL and then finally she spoke with Ryan Seacrest and she was real and her name was Sarah Hyland and Larraine didn't enjoy her eyebrows but I felt at peace with them and we both loved the braid over her head and agreed that this is the perfect age for such a braid, this youth age. Because there are windows for a braid like that. You can wear them when you're young, but then you have to stop, and then you can resume them whenever you're ready to be that lady in the poem "When I Am an Old Lady I Shall Wear Purple and Eat Sausages and Throw Shit and Do Whatever I Fucking Feel Like, Etc." I mean, hey. Do it now if you want. I'm just talkin' 'bout Society says you have to stop. I don't say that. I don't know. Let's all wear purple and be milkmaids and do what we want. Fuck it.



Oh my god. Oh my a thousand gods. Lupita Nyong'o. She has come to make everything good on this earth. Amen.



Speaking of red capes and greatness, you know what's nice about having a blog? No one can stop me from posting four pictures of Amy Adams in a row. I can talk about her all I want! I can do anything I want here. I can scribble and pee everywhere and throw glitter on everything, whatever. So I'm going to talk about Amy Adams to my heart's content which is sooo muuuch.



Look at her hair! Look at Amy Adams's cool hair.



It's like Amy Adams knows what I'm about to talk about here. Okay, so, when I saw her getting out of her limo in that cape looking so great, I rejoiced because I love her. And...I'll admit that when the cape came off, I was wondering to myself - quietly, respectfully - if the cut of her dress was 100% flattering. But I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. And then somebody, let's call this person a source, or sources, sources said that something new this year on the red carpet was a slightly droopy, natural breast. And yes. Yes. I can see that this is so. And I applaud it, in fact, for moral reasons, if not sartorial ones, even if I'm eternally jealous of all you no-bra wearing bitches. It's just not even fair. It looks so sexy, so rad, so free, even if everything isn't exactly perfect. Perfect is stupid anyway. But if I were to try to get away with that...well, I've been arrested once in my life already. I'd know how to handle that again. But still.



Yeah, you know, I didn't notice it because she just looks cool as fuck. Amy Adams. In conclusion, Amy Adams.



Andy Samberg and his fluffy bride stepped out of the limo with the sun making a halo behind them, and her dress was so poofy and sunlit that I was like what is happening and do i like this and this fluffy bride is making me think and then later I remembered that Andy Samberg is married to Joanna Newsom.

!

Now I see the rest of her dress and not just her sunlit sleeve clouds and I don't like it at all, no, no, no, but it's Joanna Newsom so what else was going to happen, you know? She's operating on a different level. She's just marching to her own little drummer, there. Clam, crab, cockle, cowrie.

Mr. & Mrs. Andy Samberg.



Elisabeth Moss, bang! The hairdressers got her, but otherwise she's just pure, slick, futuristic art deco wizardry. Fucking hairdressers. She could have had it ALL.



Does or does not Tina Fey look just like she's just strolled off the set of Peyton Place and now she's going to step briefly into a time machine and go have a date with William Shatner in 1969? Shh, she does. She was never not photographed with Amy Poehler, so I guess Amy Poehler's going on that date, too, but Shatner will parlay that into something memorable.



Kaley Cuoco, I don't want to pick a fight with you, but nude floral tattoo bustier dress. I believe I just did.



Oh, good lord. Is this like a starlet version of that Maori war dance to intimidate enemies? Let's say it worked. Take your yellow...with you, your...her...and just go. We're not doing this.



You know, I'm tired of being beaten down like a dog by Cate Blanchett's eternal impeccable-ness. I feel like I'm not even allowed to think for myself anymore. I see her and I'm instantly all YES, MASTER. Someday I'm going to rise up, you know? Someday I'm going to do it.



Business in the front, party in the back. Oh, it's good, Blanchett, but it's a mullet. I said it. (I'm just trying to separate from you a little, you know? Build my own identity.)



Here's Margot Robbie not at the Golden Globes because I was so bored by what she wore to the Golden Globes. She's at the "Fuck E.T." party on...Wolf Street.



Oh, now, well you may look smug here, Emma Watson, as I was just admiring your low, modern messy bun and deep side part. But don't look too smug.



Don't look too smug, Pants-Butt.



YOU GUYS, YOU GUYS. This is it. This is my favorite. More favorite, even, than Lupita Nyong'o. Julianna Margulies somehow takes the sketch of the thing that Kelly Osbourne was doing that made her so grumpy and wafts it full of opium and glamour and simple Moroccan-Spanish perfection. Did I eat a hash brownie? Because I'm high on this outfit. I'm high as a fucking kite and I don't know why and I don't care. The little gold threads in the fabric. The contrast between skin, dress and hair. This hit me like Anna Karenina in her black dress at the ball. Sophisticated woman in her prime radiating je ne sais quoi, but in Russian. Spanish. Moroccan. I'm going to eat another brownie. I don't care.



We're looking at Julianna Margulies three times because I'm the sheriff around here.



Her hair! I love the right kind of risk, and this is that. I don't even know if I think this is a total success but I'm so bewitched by her all-in-all that I'm pretty sure I love it. Who knew I had such a latent thing for Julianna Margulies? I'm slipping a twenty dollar bill in my own pocket for not calling her my spirit animal. I liked hearing that the first time but okay already. By the way, this is a photo from Julianna Margulies' little house on the red carpet. She has a magical little cottage there. That's her bowl for spells  on her table, next to her little black leather vagina that she can take out to fill with lipstick and mints. She can do anything! This way her hands are free.



Olivia Wilde is a sexy, Lord-of-the-Rings oil slick. And she's pregnant and looking sublime. I could have chosen a preggier picture, but none of them captured that dark, cool, petroleum thing under the sparkle. Finn loved her best. Fred, meanwhile, is partial to a clip of Lara Flynn Boyle in her pink tutu from fifteen years ago or whenever that was. Lara Ballerina and the Bjork Swan made me happy forever, too. Try stuff, everybody! You won't die. The worst that can happen is that a frumpy, obscure woman in yoga pants will feel empowered to speak into her laptop.



Before I say anything, I have to wonder aloud if the line of photographers was a particular jackass convention this year, what with the Kelly Osbourne situation and now this deal, because practically all of the Sandra Bullock photos were dripping with disdain, which she is not known for dripping with. But, sour countenance aside, Sandra Bullock snuck up on me in layers. First I saw her in a beautiful rosy pink gown, with that long, dreamy side pony. And I loved it. Like an early valentine.



And then I saw more of the dress and, to paraphrase Prince:

color you pink and black
color me taken aback
crucial
eye think eye wantcha




And then I saw the rest of the dress, and...well, I'd already been loving it this far, so I didn't really want to change my mind. But the blue, while it's cool and all, broke up my Valentine sex party I was having with it. It was like a mom walked in and threw on the lights and we had to stop doing everything and just watch Back to the Future for the rest of the night.



Drew Barrymore might be the very mom that did that. To her credit, she's assembled a dress from valentines her children have made her in the future, and she's just wearing it proudly, like a big, full-body macaroni necklace.



Maybe Jennifer Lawrence has a little niece or something who made her this butt-gathering ribbon, in that same vein. She's a good person. She'd do that. I'm calling it. A child gave it to her.



Julia Louis Dreyfus is the balls. Veep. The end. (I really enjoyed Enough Said but not even Meryl Streep could make me believe Julia Louis Dreyfus as a massage therapist. I can't think of one less relaxing thing than a massage with any character that Julia Louis Dreyfus has ever played. I'm getting tense just thinking about it!) But who cares? I'm not even here to talk about her dress. Her ponytail was bouncy and perfect. What's to say? The balls.



Rita Wilson looks forever like a super cool, friendly girl from the slightly distant past.



Okay, now, hey. Sure. I mean, yeah. We all see it. But here's what I like: she walked out the door. Paula Patton looked in the mirror, and where most of us would have turned back, she didn't. She was like damn the torpedoes and she walked forward proudly into an uncertain future.



"Goddamnit. What? That's tonight? Listen, I have a newspaper to run. This is The Daily Planet or something. I am a business lady, a newspaper lady, and I'm not leaving work, by god, until I've seen to it that all the business at my newspaper work is done right. Fine. Hand me my tote. There's a strapless dress in it. Let's put a good face on this thing."




And now it's late, and we all must go to bed. Here's your Helen Mirren dream vitamin. Everything bad in the day stops. No more bad. Mirren makes it go away. Pillow. It's safe to let go now. Mirren. Sleep.