Just so we’re clear, most Americans get their “news” from a “news” organization which is so threatened by Jon fucking Stewart that they are claiming that Jon Stewart (well, his writers, really since it’s not like Jon sits down every night and writes all the jokes himself) is racist. This is the hill they are choosing to die on. Whenever I try to understand it, another wire in my brain short-circuits.
I don’t think I can say enough about how disgusting Senator Kyl (R-Liar) is for claiming that 90% of what Planned Parenthood does is abortions. It’s not; abortions are about 3% of what Planned Parenthood does.
Senator Kyl (Asshole-Ariz.) is a liar, and how he should never ever be taken seriously again.
Gentle Readers, I would like you to take a walk with me down memory lane. No, you really don’t get a choice, so walk with me.
Spring is on its way. The weather here in MN is crisp and sunny. This time of year is always bittersweet for me because winter is my favorite season, and yet, I can’t deny that a day in the low fifties with the sun shining brightly and the birds singing sweetly is soothing to the soul. I open the windows, and the boys go nuts over all the new smells that they can’t reach. I love it when cats do that chirping/clicking sound thing to indicate, “You’re dead meat–if only I could get to you.”
Ah, spring. It’s when a young person’s fancy turns to love. And, since I’m in a wistful mood, I hearkened back to one of my past loves.
Do you remember that feeling of falling in love? The delicious tingle you felt in your stomach (and somewhere lower) every time you laid eyes on the person? Everything he* says is the funniest thing ever. You marvel at how you ever lived without him once he enters your life. You could listen to him for hours on end, not even caring what he had to say. And, did you see the way he smiled at you? There was more than a hint of mirth in those gorgeous baby blues of his as he talked, and I fell hard for him as he tossed off one witty quip after the other.
Then, things changed. Oh, he was still brilliant and searingly funny on occasion, but his shtick started wearing thin. It seemed as if he was beginning to believe his own hype, or he was getting jaded or tired or something.
But the truth is that I’m already on record as not really being interested in meeting the famous people I admire — I’m not talking about “running into,” I guess, but rather events like, oh, I don’t know: radio contests and meet-and-greets. If I won some contest that intentionally placed me square in a room with Jon Stewart? I would be in an instant misery of squirmy doubt and certain inadequacy. (I mean honestly: What would we talk about — how awesome I find him? That might get boring for him in a tick or two).
Anyhoo, this brings me to the following inconsistency in My Philosophy, Marty (remember kids! I-am-perfectly-capable-of-contradicting-myself-I-have-a-bicameral-mind!): Though I don’t officially want to try to schmooze with the people I admire from afar, I do maintain a running list for my Fantasy Seder (like fantasy football, but for weird, non-athletic Jews).
I’ve seen my fair share of celebrities. I’ve been living in LA for ten years, after all. When I spot a celeb, generally I make note of it, text a couple girlfriends — “Guess who I just saw!?” — and move on. I rarely get excited enough about seeing a particular celebrity that it warrants interrupting them as they attempt to go about their business, buying Tom’s of Maine toothpaste at Whole Foods. It just seems obnoxious. The only other time I’ve stopped a celeb and asked for a photo is when I saw Tyson Beckford at a pool party a few years ago. I approached him for a photo simply because he and I were the only two black people at the party, and so I figured he owed me. You know — to give back to the community n shit.
Anyway, I practically ran into him, pointed at him and said “you!” Then, I mumbled something about loving his work and something about being a blogger (who isn’t these days, MIRITE?), but managed to get it together enough to introduce myself and tell him to check out angryblacklady.com if he was ever so inclined. Then I asked some dude who was buying some sort of whatever if he would mind taking a picture for me. After the dude took the photo, Aasif was nice enough to stick around to make sure the photo was decent. Then I shook his hand and we parted ways. It was all I could do to not have a total fangirl attack right there next to the organic sunglasses.
And that, citizens, is the story of How Aasif Mandvi Made Angry Black Lady’s Day. Huzzah!