THINGS I DO NOT NEED TO SEE

In the shortlived but brilliant HBO fake-reality show The Comeback, Lisa Kudrow is cast as an aging ’80s soap star who gets a new job as a jogging-suit mom on a teen sex comedy. In one scene, she spends like 20 minutes rehearsing her sole speaking line – “I didn’t need to SEE that!” – to be recited after walking in on some hot Cali teens dry humping. So she’s in her kitchen, cloaked in white bathrobe, refrigerator door open, drinking milk from the carton, camera’s shooting from above. For ten minutes, in method acting style, she chews on the line, stretches it out to find the right emphasis: “I didn’t need to see THAT!” “I didn’t NEED to see that!” For a whole summer after The Comeback came out on DVD Mo walked around rehashing the sentiment – “I didn’t need to SEE that!” – applicable to all that was seeable, unseeable, unforeseeable or just plain naz-tay. Lately the phrase has been resurrected and, accordingly, I’ve seen a lot of things I really, really did not need to.
THINGS I DIDN’T NEED TO SEE:
– Nelly Furtado’s directorial debut, if it involves Nelly Furtado dancing
– The flesh of Lindsay Lohan’s index finger being sizzled off by nitrogen in I Know Who Killed Me
– A close-up on the anus of the (otherwise magnificent) Dumbo Octopus on the Discovery Channel’s “Blue Planet: The Deep” (BONUS: IT’S AN OUTIE)
– Any and all full-force Louis Vuitton babies (toddlers included)
– Is it me or is there something slightly off about a dude wearing a Big Black “Songs About Fucking” t-shirt to a cardio pilates class?
I’m sure there are more. I’m sick (physically) and, unrelated, popping los drogas to fix mi cabeza, and today Jon tole me I seemed “muted” – which, to me, means I have spent three consecutive work days without running around the office yelling about the fucked nature of new media, and / or bitching that there’s a new fucking Freeway album in existence and I haven’t heard it yet, despite practically writing bol into my will, and/or offering up my firstborn, my womb, any consecutive egg /stem cell donations and my roommate’s cats (not really, Mo), not to mention my extensive collection of overpriced Japanese incense meant to evoke the scent of cosmopolitan cities (i.e. “Paris Cafe” – there is no Philly smell). But really, I mean what the fuck.
Pack it in,
Love,
Dr. and Mrs. Serenity Prayer
p.s. Have I told you how much I hate escalators? I despise escalators. Especially long, steep escalators, unless they are taking you to the tippy-top of a roller coaster.