22 August 2012

What’s Papular with Rosie Collingsworth


Welcome to my inaugural column, I'm Rosie Collingsworth.

I was brought on board to discuss current trends and newsmakers, to offer my gossips and insights into matters of taste and popular culture.  You may find what I have to say shocking, enlightening, or incredibly lame.  Then again some day Hell may host the Winter Olympics.  (And by the way, organizing committee: if you’re going to distinguish between ice skating and ice dancing, the dancers should not be wearing skates – hell-lo-o!)

When Michael Jackson got his third facelift I was shocked.  Wait, what was I talking about?  Let me start again. My name is Rosie Collingsworth, and I know: What’s Papular.

Let's start with X, did you hear the latest juice about Tipsy Boozer, the Hollywood starlet who can't keep her hands on the tracks and eyes on the wheel, or as the old song says:
She's trashin the house
She's a souse
Knocked off her center
She's a detox renter

A private word to my friend Tipsy: get off the sauce, hoss.

By the way:  Since all pop is pap, what is popular is ipso facto papular; ergo, life is a papularity contest.

Just got back from the Venice Film Festival, which oddly enough was held at Cannes this year.  The Pippin Twins' new release was a scalding sensation, it was everything that nobody thought it could be, the characters absolutely bursting with realism and the irony too thick to hack your way through with a hot buttered chainsaw.  The new Boney McJoyless flick on the other hand was a wretched disappointment, hard to fathom how the same minds who gave us The Sodomist's Rigmarole could in good conscience put their names on this phlegmatic piece of cinematic hoohah.

En literature dept.: Another sequel to The Spidermen?  Really, Steven King and Hollywood, that's the best you can come up with?  Shame on you. 

[Note to self: Do I sound too much like Jacky Harvey here?  Shame on me!]

And now to hear that Celebrity X was found naked with a hooker.  Why of all the indecent things to be caught with your pants down, red-handed, doing.  And dear me, does someone so good looking and obviously charismatic need to pay for it like that?  What is going on with these people, anyway?  One of these days fans are going to become sick and fed up with Hollywood and refuse to attend any films or click on any on-line news stories detailing the degenerate shenanigans of these debauched perverts.  Mark my words.

Gotta wrap this up on a lighter note.  Happy birthday to all the celebrities and other famous people, and happy equinox to Alex Baldwin, who will turn 53 one of these days if he hasn't already, and just seems like a really good guy, despite the whole shoe-bomber episode.

13 August 2012

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01 August 2012

Ants: A Provisional Pre-Post

Haven't been blogging about ants much lately but don't think that means I've forgotten about 'em.

Really fascinating creatures when you get right down to it, getting to know them as individuals, dating their daughters, undergoing initiation to the salacious rituals that underpin their really quite peculiar lifestyle.  Not that there's anything wrong with it of course, ants will be people and all that, but there's just something slightly sub-human about the whole thing, I don't know how they live like that but hey that's just me, I'm not here to judge anybody.

Right, ants.  Totally relentless and there's no reasoning with 'em.

They certainly have a right to exist, that is not something you will hear me denying in these pages.  I'm all too happy to see them going about their doings with apparent diligence -- though whether the ants themselves regard their toil as rewarding or as drudgery is not obvious, I think it could go either way sometimes. They're an important if not critical part of the eco-system and as such, I certainly welcome their presence in many contexts.

However.

When the ants repeatedly and in the face of constant pleas and warnings incur into my home, pile up on my half-finished tiramisu and I was planning to eat that later, and run their sticky-footed columns across my living room floor, at some point I must say No, enough is enough, this is not an important aspect of my domestic ecosystem but an invasion, an infestation that is no longer tolerable to the civilized person.

Action must be taken and since they just won't listen, since it's clear that only by killing them back to their home, only by decimating their ranks with the same relentlessly insistent persistence (yes I get paid by the word) that they showed in decimating that empty beer can, can we ever hope to dream of beginning to contain their onward march.

Sometimes when I'm killing them -- and I only kill ants by hand, I think it's only fair to stand there and face em as individuals, I'll get right down and try to look each little bugger in the eye, I give him a last warning and a chance to retreat -- as I deliver the final death blow I'll declare to my victim: Go, and tell them who killed you.  Saying this results in a tremendous rush of personal power and at the same time is unfailingly efficacious in convincing them not to return for at least seven generations, which unfortunately is not very long but it does give you a little break now and again.