someone come here and tell me how I should react
...the title is a poor paraphrase of a line from Community. Though initially I scoffed at the show, I have come to eat that scoff up; what would be funny about Chevy Chase? After all, didn't I chuckle so hard circa 1995 at the Critic line "at 10 o'clock, the best of Chevy Chase...then at 10:05, the news!"
Yes, yes I did. And yet, as I am so often laughably wrong, the following was pointed out to me:
Foul Play.
Nothing But Trouble.
Why yes, I do love two movies that star Chevy Chase. As they have release dates pre-1995,it was possible (and reality) that I loved them before I loved the Critic. I'm sure Mr Chase did something else that I love him for but wouldn't admit to at the time, but there it is. It was not, as people may naturally assume, those National Lampoon pictures. At the moment of publication, I have yet to see that one that is so famous I can't even rightly recall which Beloushi Brother that is (and yes, even in the "google it!" fad of now, I'm too lazy to see if I even spelt it correctly). Also, leave me and my weak German verbs alone. Yes, I spelt it my way. I also dreamt that you cared about my pop culture musings, but I digress.
Chevy! I'm just made about him, not necessarily saffron. My tastes are culturally pretentious; I'm probably more apt to decipher the chemical nuances of McDonalds than I would ever be able to tell you what made that grass-fed, organic, slow-cooked, rare, piece of meat that someone out there would make me feel guilty for eating. Yes, I wax intellectual about what you put in your ears and in front of your eyes, but the fuel you use to interpret those aural and visual stuff, well, I don't seem as concerned about that.
But eating is soooo much more important than how we feel about Chevy Chase. Er, well, I.
In 2011, I came out as a Chevy Chase fan. It ran a bit of an odd parallel to another eaten scoff, one in 2009.
Way back in 2007 (a year I bring up too often, but this time for a different reason), I recall wandering the streets of Santa Cruz at night. I had a friend I would phone regularly, often starting a phone conversation at midnight that would end at 3 or 4 or 5. I walked a lot, then. I also smoked a lot.
The friend, during one of my smoking fits which accompanied every walk, said something about a show premiering that summer. Something about advertising. The 1960s. Madison Avenue, I think. And cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. I had actually been a Lucky Strike smoker in 2005-06 or so. I made the switch to American Spirits sometime around then, and I'm not even entirely sure of why or how American Spirits. I just recall something about filtered Lucky Strikes no longer legally sold in California, but I could get unfiltered. Bitch, if I wanted unfiltered cigarettes I'd have learned to roll, like my papa. Papa, incidentally, has been smoking since the early 1960s --and has (with a brief 2 week exception in 2004) always rolled, to the best of my knowledge. I don't know how to roll, not even the Rick variety.
The only solace I can take in my now public confessions of ignoring Mad Men and refusing to acknowledge my love of Chevy Chase are that I now, unironically watch Community.I watch Mad Men without drinking. Mad Men is still part of my life, even if what attracted to me is no longer part of my life.
In sum, I watch far, far too much television.
Also, I've got to keep an open mind --if only so I don't eat my words, and if only so I can be in on the ground floor of new sensations such as Mad Men. I'm not much of an innovator, truthfully, but damnit, I want to be part of that first wave, or at least the New Wave. I'm open to interpretation on that last one --I'm down with Truffaut or Debbie Harry.
Well, I painted myself into a corner with that one.
Yes, yes I did. And yet, as I am so often laughably wrong, the following was pointed out to me:
Foul Play.
Nothing But Trouble.
Why yes, I do love two movies that star Chevy Chase. As they have release dates pre-1995,it was possible (and reality) that I loved them before I loved the Critic. I'm sure Mr Chase did something else that I love him for but wouldn't admit to at the time, but there it is. It was not, as people may naturally assume, those National Lampoon pictures. At the moment of publication, I have yet to see that one that is so famous I can't even rightly recall which Beloushi Brother that is (and yes, even in the "google it!" fad of now, I'm too lazy to see if I even spelt it correctly). Also, leave me and my weak German verbs alone. Yes, I spelt it my way. I also dreamt that you cared about my pop culture musings, but I digress.
Chevy! I'm just made about him, not necessarily saffron. My tastes are culturally pretentious; I'm probably more apt to decipher the chemical nuances of McDonalds than I would ever be able to tell you what made that grass-fed, organic, slow-cooked, rare, piece of meat that someone out there would make me feel guilty for eating. Yes, I wax intellectual about what you put in your ears and in front of your eyes, but the fuel you use to interpret those aural and visual stuff, well, I don't seem as concerned about that.
But eating is soooo much more important than how we feel about Chevy Chase. Er, well, I.
In 2011, I came out as a Chevy Chase fan. It ran a bit of an odd parallel to another eaten scoff, one in 2009.
Way back in 2007 (a year I bring up too often, but this time for a different reason), I recall wandering the streets of Santa Cruz at night. I had a friend I would phone regularly, often starting a phone conversation at midnight that would end at 3 or 4 or 5. I walked a lot, then. I also smoked a lot.
The friend, during one of my smoking fits which accompanied every walk, said something about a show premiering that summer. Something about advertising. The 1960s. Madison Avenue, I think. And cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. I had actually been a Lucky Strike smoker in 2005-06 or so. I made the switch to American Spirits sometime around then, and I'm not even entirely sure of why or how American Spirits. I just recall something about filtered Lucky Strikes no longer legally sold in California, but I could get unfiltered. Bitch, if I wanted unfiltered cigarettes I'd have learned to roll, like my papa. Papa, incidentally, has been smoking since the early 1960s --and has (with a brief 2 week exception in 2004) always rolled, to the best of my knowledge. I don't know how to roll, not even the Rick variety.
The only solace I can take in my now public confessions of ignoring Mad Men and refusing to acknowledge my love of Chevy Chase are that I now, unironically watch Community.I watch Mad Men without drinking. Mad Men is still part of my life, even if what attracted to me is no longer part of my life.
In sum, I watch far, far too much television.
Also, I've got to keep an open mind --if only so I don't eat my words, and if only so I can be in on the ground floor of new sensations such as Mad Men. I'm not much of an innovator, truthfully, but damnit, I want to be part of that first wave, or at least the New Wave. I'm open to interpretation on that last one --I'm down with Truffaut or Debbie Harry.
Well, I painted myself into a corner with that one.