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Fact: Rick Mercer Is Cool.

When I was 19 and lived on the twelfth floor of this building (NB: the blurb at the bottom is the most verbose alternate phrasing of "er... we ran out of space" I've yet to come across), I used to skip school to watch hour-upon-hours of CBC, which was carried on the university's cable system. I was quite partial to predecessor to CBC News: Today, because it had a charmingly hapless pair of hosts, one of whom was a dead-ringer for Darcy Pennell. In the evenings, chiefly as a means to quell my intense hatred for Cherie Bank (yes, it is acceptable to laugh at her wonky shoulder and car accident because she is just that awful), I would watch Montreal's Newswatch, bookended at 10PM with The National (which is just the most awesome news magazine: it pisses all over its American counterparts, because none of them have Peter Mansbridge). In between, there was one show that also raised its leg and hosed down the yankee pap that clogged up the rest of the schedule: the mighty This Hour Has 22 Minutes.

Drunken Epiphanies #72341

Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara are the Torvill & Dean of improv.

And, Yea, Let Us Offer a Guffaw...

...at the naked woman who bumped into a candle and set herself on fire and smashed through a window before suffering a heart attack.

*books choice table in Hell... again*

And, Lo, Let Us Also Gather Round...

...and snicker at the pisspoor forgery moneychanger. Doubly so, since it's a rare occasion that Wal-Mart comes off as the upstanding classy one.

Let Us Now Gather Round...

...and, lo, laugh at the godbothering virgins.

Silly Old Gray Lady...

...leave the whole hiphop/porn thing to the kids in the know.

Awww... It's Sorta Like a Puppy-Mill.

C'mon, it totally is: "'We are not home-schooling our kids just so they can read,' Mr. Farris said. 'The most common thing I hear is parents telling me they want their kids to be on the Supreme Court. And if we put enough kids in the farm system, some may get to the major leagues.'"

And just like pure-breds, these kids will eventually get gimpy hips and incontinence, churn out litter after litter for "the cause," and have to have life mashed up into a smooth, digestible consistency because they just don't have the chops.

My First Favorite Song of the Year...

...actually came out in 2002. Regardless, it's called "Get Some Sleep," by Bic Runga.

I often associate A-flat with a rose-peach color. However, it has a grey undertone, especially when it slips into F-flat minor. This song has both, and it compliments an overcast (in more ways than one) day like today. The first few lines of the chorus also remind me of the time of a lowest ebb, which is both a good and bad thing, with its light and dark memories.

Forget Helper Monkeys, I Want Some Robot-Pants

I totally want to hang out at a Japanese nursing home now.

A Pedant Writes:

Er, that would be "John Elway," not McEnroe, in that bit about alumni.

As for all this St. Joe's v. Stanford hoo-ha? I'd say SJ; whole thing seems a shade more earnest.

But, See, There's Already a Whole Line of Santorum Apparel.

Har-har (oh, wait, I mean *yawn*). Accordingly, get you a companion T-shirt.

"She is her brother in drag and to fancy her is just wrong."

In the mood for some shamelessly formulaic, cliched, and contrived entertainment this evening? Really? Well, turn off American Idol (it's a dull group anyway, apart from the Conan O'Brien look-a-like who should have been born in 1917 and total BFF in Vegas with Ol' Blue Eyes before dying peacefully at his Palm Springs home in 1998 with his third wife beside him and a nasty battle just waiting to be unleashed in probate court amongst his heirs... but I digress) and put on some School of Rock. The good folks at RobotFist concur: "It's refreshingly without pretence, multiple ridiculous plot twists, and any sign of Nicole Kidman."

Who Will Be Obliterated... Next?

I am returning to Austin in a few weeks. As per custom, the odds are high that a B-lister of questionable merit will kick the bucket worthy of an "Entertainment Tonight Retrospective" once I make myself known in the 512 area code. Last time it was John Ritter (Big Red and vodka all around, like!). This time I'd wager Bob Saget, but with an upped-ante of a Bob Crane-stylee demise. Only because I can totally picture that happening.