With warm(ish) temperatures arriving earlier this week, it feels like summer is near, or as I like to call it, the transition from bitching -about-the-cold to bitching-about- sweating. Seriously, I could have four people fanning me like I’m Cleopatra and I’d still sweat walking the 10 minutes to class. I really wish sweat was a vestigial trait like wisdom teeth, or an appendix you could just opt out of or have surgically removed. I’d give my life savings to pay for that procedure.
Movie from your childhood that kicks ass
“Honey, I Shrunk The Kids” (1989)—Before this film, never has swimming around in a bowl of Cheerios contained such palpable drama. I went through a phase as a kid where I got really into science fiction, reading “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” and watching Urkel do all kinds of zany experiments on “Family Matters,” so naturally this film was right in my wheelhouse. It made me want to go out there and invent all this cool shit until I realized there’s all this, you know, science involved. “You mean to tell me I have to figure out the terminal velocity of the square root of time divided by air temperature to create this flying car? HARDLY SEEMS WORTH IT.”
Small Victory that Salvages an otherwise shitty week
Growing up without a summer job until I was 17, my parents often asked me to help with maintenance work outside the house and in my yard. I typically complied begrudgingly, cursing under my breath the whole time before one day recognizing the perks of manual labor. No, it’s not the fact that you’re outside in the sunshine being active; it’s that you’re visible to all the passers-by, looking like this rugged woodsman-type. I lived on a pretty busy street—by my rural hometown’s standards, anyway—and I would carry myself like the Brawny man, posing dramatically to wipe sweat off my brow when cars would pass. I’d mow the lawn with my shirt off, certain all the teenage girls and soccer moms driving by would be impressed by my flabby abs. I’m sure it looked like a scene out of the “Stacy’s Mom” music video. That’s the sort of delusional thinking manual labor can lull you into, but it makes the work you’re doing a lot more glorified if you think people are watching.
First-World hate of the week
This week’s hate is reserved for CBS commentators’ incessant fawning over The Masters. The golf itself was quite excellent this year, but the unfailingly gushing statements about Augusta National (“Just another picturesque day at Augusta, gang!”)—not to mention completely glossing over the club’s history of racism and sexism—never ceases to be annoying. Watching The Masters is like watching a circlejerk between WASPs, with low-register piano music to offer you stilted melodrama throughout the production. If you needed more proof CBS deserved a spot on the definitive list of ‘the whitest things ever,’ look no further than its coverage of The Masters. I’d slot CBS somewhere between unpaid internships and buying fair trade coffee.
Song that Never Fails to fire me up
“Crazy Little Thing Called Love” (Queen, 1980)—With an arrangement that gives a nod to the late Elvis Presley, this rockabilly classic might not qualify as Queen’s best song, but it artfully demonstrates Freddie Mercury’s diversity as a vocalist. Mercury’s four-octave vocal range and unparalleled stage presence cemented him as one of the great frontmen of popular music, even though his horse teeth and creepy caterpillar mustache gave him the look of a molester more than a musician. He was also a hell of a quote. When describing himself as an artist in 1984, he famously told the interviewer, “I’m just a musical prostitute, my dear.” Indeed, Mr. Mercury, that’s a client list we’re all fortunate to be on.
Tell Adam about your least favorite CBS reporters by emailing awolf3@wisc.edu.
