2003-02-22 - 4:05 p.m.
Granted, Memepool is soooo last millennium, but every so often it still delivers the goods. Hell, if it weren't for them, that spooky Screen Gems closing card might have lain at the bottom of my La Brea Tar Pit of repressed 1970s childhood memories forever. The logo itself wasn't all that scary, really, but that fucked-up synth music was like having a rusty dentist's drill jammed into your molar and out through your eardrum. Nothing like a little searing pain at the end of your favorite teevee show to give you a complex for the rest of your life. If my 7-year-old self was ever careless enough to fall asleep on the couch watching, I don't know, The Partridge Family or something, those synths would jar me awake and I'd end up sitting there with tremors and heart palpitations for at least 15 minutes afterward. Did anyone ever die from a teevee jingle? If that Entertainment Tonight lady's voice can trigger grand-mal seizures, why not?
On the other hand, that swanky ITC jingle was ultra-cool. It had ruthless-international-supervillain-making-his-grand-entrance embedded in every note. I want it as boot-up music on my computer now.
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If I were Sandy Koufax I'd have done the same thing--regardless of whether I was gay and proud, gay and closeted, straight and afraid of rumors, or straight and not giving a shit what anyone else thought. Imagine that I'm a former major-league pitcher in my twilight years who's spent all my adult life with the same sports organization--which now just happens to be owned by a certain boorish right-wing Aussie media baron who shall remain nameless. I'm approached by someone writing a book about me--to be published by a company that also just happens to be owned by said BRWAMBWSRN--but since I'm a painfully private man who loathes the spotlight, I decline to be interviewed. Then, however, I'm strongarmed into it by threats that the book will say that I'm gay. Since I know that the world of baseball is in fact gayer than a Judy Garland Fan Club convention, I realize that such a rumor--true or untrue--will bring exactly the sort of unwanted attention I'm trying to avoid, so prudence wins out and I agree to be interviewed for the book. Later, a gossip columnist with a history of rumormongering on the sexual orientation of sports figures--and who writes for a newspaper that, you guessed it, also just happens to be owned by the BRWAMBWSRN--publishes a blind item that could only refer to me. At that point I'd tell BRWAMBWSRN to fuck himself and the wombat he rode in, too.
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Saw Adaptation last night. Ow. It's a good ow, but still--ow. I haven't had my skull turned inside out and backwards like that since Memento.
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