Prince of Dweebs

Thanks to the previous post and some weird fluke of a Google algorithm, this blog is near the top of results when people search for info on the Krugman-O’Reilly debate. I only know this because several hundred people have come here after searching for info on the show. I guess staying at home on a Saturday night, watching third rate basic cable, and then blogging about it isn’t that common.

There was another Google-induced spike in traffic this week. My arch nemesis, Irish pop music sensation, Bryan McFadden, was involved in a car accident. If you’re curious, here are the details of this douchebag’s brush with death:

Former Westlife star Brian McFadden almost killed himself recently – when he smashed his Ferrari into a brick wall at 190 miles per hour.

I never thought I’d see my own name in such a ridiculous sentence. What’s really annoying is that it’s not even his real name. His was originally Bryan with a ‘y,’ but changed it to the normal spelling for a really stupid reason:

The Irish singer, who has changed the spelling of his name from Bryan in an attempt to distance himself from his former pop life, skidded on a wet country road after swerving to avoid an animal.

Now I have to deal with him, his pre-teen Irish fans, and even a professional lookalike. The surge in press combined with misspellings prior to the name change has resulted in Big Fat Whale no longer being the number one result for ‘Brian McFadden.’ I’d be fine with it if the asshole died, but he’s going to continue stealing my obscure thunder until the Great Shitty Music Purge of 2013.

Friday Night At Brian’s Pretentious Annex

I am rightly pegged as a ‘Fancy Pants Elitist.’ I have no problems with people calling me one. I believe the people in charge should be better than the masses. The masses watch According to Jim, and I’m fine with that. I just don’t think they have the cognitive capacity to write the tax code.

The only time the phrase bothers me is when it’s applied to groups of people I am obviously better than. No matter how much the Dixie Chicks and I agree politically, I will always find their music to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Anyone that sticks this stuffed shirt New England snob in the same group as those silly bitches has no idea what they’re talking about.

Since I have no populist street cred to destroy, I might as well announce that I’ve been a Woody Allen fan since I grew out of Mel Brooks’ movies, and like anyone who doesn’t crap their pants, that happened sometime around my fourteenth birthday. Don’t get me wrong, Mel has written some awesome jokes, but he was so eager to please, he has buried them all under a pile of countless turds.

Young Frankenstein is the one exception. That movie is awesome and you need to see it, especially if you think the Scary Movies are funny. They are only funny in the same way drawing penises on a passed out guy is funny. Sure they’re good for a belly laugh, but no one involved deserves an award for comedy writing.

I got kind of lost in that long-ass preamble. The point of this post is to recommend the Woody Allen film, Zelig. I was introduced to it by Boston’s second PBS station, WGBH 44 (We have two PBS stations here! That’s the mark of a region that values tote bags.), which shows movies on the weekends for friendless losers who wear leather patches on their elbows.

I admit I’m a gentile nebbish, if such a thing exists. Naturally, Woody Allen films appeal to me. But the only reason this post exists is because I never heard of Zelig before. I was never a devout Woody Allen fan, since I grew up in the age of the Coens and Wes Anderson, but I always thought I was familiar with his work. I stayed up late and watched Sleeper on HBO and Annie Hall is still the impossible archetype every woman I meet is held to, but I never went out of my way to see his films.

I was very surprised when this random afternoon movie turned out to be incredibly entertaining. It’s done in a mockumentary style and covers the early twentieth century. I love the early twentieth century, if only for the phrase, ’23-skiddoo.’ Allen made Zelig by seamlessly manipulating stock footage with original footage over the lifespan of the title character, a guy who is compelled to blend into whatever crowd he finds himself in. It wouldn’t be that impressive today, but it was done in 1983, when computers didn’t rule our lives.

There’s no real point to this post. I just thought it’s been a while since I alienated any normal people who might be reading this site on a regular basis.