As part of some weird advertising campaign to promote the 50th anniversary of Ken dolls, Mattel has been putting on a full blitz, including subway posters, web site banners, and, on Monday, photo-opportunities with Ken (well, good-looking, nearly-plastic men in suits and baby blue ties with Ken tags on their wrists).
Now, I’m not sure how this movie could possibly be bad when it has such talent as Jennifer Aniston (she of The Bounty Hunter, that one was terrific), Brooklyn Decker, Allan Covert (better known as the guy from Grandma’s Boy), and Sandler favorites Kevin Nealon and Dave Matthews.
The people of The Daily editorial team either haven’t seen The Social Network, or think you didn’t see it. Regardless, they think the fact that Goofy and Doofy Winklevoss still resent Mark Zuckerberg, and want more money, is news. A $65 million settlement (which is actually the lowest estimate that has been made about what the twins nabbed from Daddy Zuckbucks) isn’t enough for them. They deserve more.
That game we all loved to play in college—you know, the one with a long board or table, two ping-pong balls, ten red Solo cups at each end filled halfway with beer, and two water cups—it doesn’t matter whether you call it beirut or beer pong.
It’s the holiday season and you know what that means—starting with Thanksgiving, Home Alone has been on TV constantly. And it’s fucking awesome. Christmas/New Years’ time, especially when you’re still in school so you’re home on break, seems to be a period, for many of us, that involves lots of passive, half-asleep viewing of movies on TV.
But the real moment of epic hilarity was Nate Robinson’s attempt to celebrate with Pierce after #34’s big game-winner. Robinson takes flight, but Pierce is too busy doing his own airplane routine to notice. Nate hits the floor pretty hard. Check it out…
If you like Kanye, or hip-hop, or good music (also G.O.O.D. Music), or Christmas, you will like this. The song is bouncy and fun. It literally sounds like an actual Christmas tune that you might hear over the speakers in Michael’s arts and crafts store, as you wait in that goddamn line for twenty minutes to pay for an embarrassingly crappy plastic wreath.
Gee, this should help you kill some time at work. Two weeks ago I received a promotional email about a New Yorker event: a reading by Joshua Ferris and Karen Russell. I was excited. But I was also surprised to see that they were touted in the ad as “20 under 40 writers.”
Paul Auster is perhaps the most accessible writer of those considered to be part of the “high establishment.” And you know the echelon I mean—Roth, Morrison, DeLillo, McCarthy, etc. Yet his new novel, which comes out today, is too accessible, toeing a dangerous line somewhere between the inventive plots of Jonathan Lethem (one of Auster’s own protégés) and the facile sentences of Dan Brown.