How was your day, Dan?

THE SUPERGIRL PROJECT

Attention, dear readers: I need your assistance. I'd like to compile a photo collection here: girls dressed up as superheroes. It's no fair to give all the cool superhero toys to boys and then teach girls it is better for them to be princesses.

If they prefer the pink stuff, cool.  That's the point: they should get to decide what is for them. But other than Wonder Woman, who is still being ignored by Hollywood in favor of much less-popular male characters (did we really need a movie about Green Lantern?), the few major female characters are just afterthougts based on the men.  And those sidekicks never solve the big crimes at the end of the story.

Wanting to dress up as Batman makes them no less of a little girl than wanting to dress up as Cinderella.  And I'd hate to tell my daughter she couldn't save the day because she's not a boy.  So if your daughter/niece/next door neighbor's little girl loves to put on a cape and save the day, send me a photo. I'm collecting them to run on a Flickr page.

 

JUST DANCE

Are my arms sore from working out, or from getting punched repeatedly?

Walking into a living room filled with pre-teen girls playing "Just Dance" on Wii is akin to Mad Max walking into the Thunderdome.  Someone is going down, and there is going to be a fight.

"Just Dance" is a Wii game in which players hold a game controller and copy dance moves performed by computerized characters on the TV screen.  Somehow the controller knows if you are doing the dance moves correctly or not, and you get points based on your performance.  Up to four players can dance simultaneously.

When I heard the girls dancing to "I Feel Love" by Donna Summer, I had the nerve to run in, kick off my shoes, and start busting sweet moves on the carpet.  My nieces were thrilled to have another player join the gang; but at the end of the song, when my score flashed with the tell-tale winner's crown over it, they did NOT approve.  From then, it was on: every spin and wiggle was an excuse for one of the little girls to "accidentally" step in front of me and block my controller's beam to the Wii console.  I started asking politely for them to move.  Their responses were somewhere between a scoff and a snarl as they waved their arms and sashayed to and fro.

It wasn't long until the competition escalated to us dancing so vigorously in the living room, the photos on the walls were knocked askew by the vibrations.  And by "vibrations," I mean "shockwaves generated by my 200+ pounds jumping up and down to 'What You Waiting For' by Gwen Stefani," a force this house was not built to withstand.  If the walls wouldn't crumble from my weight, they were almost destroyed by the sheer energy of my will to win.

By the time we got to "I'm So Excited" by The Pointer Sisters, "Just Dance" had turned into a full contact sport.  Spin-toe touch-throw and elbow into Uncle Dan's ribs.  Extend arms-jazz hands-shove Uncle Dan into the wall. But I kept going.  At one point I did pick up a little blond girl in the room--I'm still not sure which one I grabbed amid the fracas and I tossed into the kitchen--it was only because she wasn't moving her feet and was only flicking her controller around to collect points which is totally cheating and that will NOT be tolerated.  The Pointer Sisters are not to be disrespected.  I did my favorite tap dancing routines to their music in the 80's.

Eventually the little girls hosed me.  One of the songs is a Bollywood routine and all that hopping and skipping was too much. Weary from tripping on my own feet, when I finished in last place I dropped my controller and sat on a bean bag chair and hung my head in shame.  "I'm too old," I said. "I can't keep up." The elder competitors laughed with glee, having defeated Goliath, and started to dance to a Black Eyed Peas song in victory.  But the youngest, a thoughtful wee lass, came and sat down next to me and patted my knee. "It's okay, Uncle Dan," she said.  "You did good for an old person."

 

 

 

I'VE STILL GOT IT

Last night I beat a house full of pre-teen girls at "Just Dance 3." BADOW.

Not only do I still have moves like a jungle cat, but I'm cool enough to know what "badow" means and how to properly use it.

I should probably also point out the fact that our "Just Dance 3" tournament ended when I had to sit down because (a) I exhausted myself before the aforementioned pre-teens broke a sweat, and (b) I alarmed the other inhabitants in the house by jumping around and rattling picture frames hung on the walls.

Speaking of awesomeness, meet my new hero:

WEAKNESS

A few years ago, I served time working at a prominent South Florida hotel.  It was an exhausting job, but the experience was fun.  Is "fun" the right word to use?  I think so.  Running around the lobby while getting yelled at by people who experienced something bad and their trips were just ruined kept me from getting bored.

During my 14 months of service, I climbed a few steps up the ladder of management. Eventually I became the guy who was shoved in front of the daily crisis, whether it was a tourist who was melting down over lost luggage or an employee who got caught stealing.  These problems landed in my lap because I just took care of them and I didn't get rattled.  Meh, stuff didn't phase me.  On one occasion I was subjected to some scornful looks when I laughed about the lady's dog dying IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LOBBY of a heart attack--seriously, that dog was so fat--but I was savvy enough to crack up in the back office where I was judged only by my co-workers.  What did we do with that dog's body? I don't remember.  We had to put it somewhere.  Anyway--

In the course of one of my promotions, I received the results of my employee evaluation.  My marks: all the best, thank you very much. But under the section that listed my possible areas of improvement, there was one sentence: "Grows impatient when faced with persistent and repetitive stupidity."  And I thought...So, what's the problem?

The worst part of job interviews is the dreaded "What is your greatest weakness?" question, a brief moment of sadism when hopeful, nervous applicants are expected to verbalize faults in themselves.  Answer too safe? They know you're hiding something.  Answer too honestly?  They won't hire a freak.  It's a delicate line one must not cross.  But thanks to that hotel job, the biggest gift I took from my time there was that line--possibly the most accurate analysis of any human's personality--to be used in dreaded job interviews forevermore.

You can borrow it if you want.

 

 

MOVIE CLUB: 'SHAME'

Have you seen "Shame"?  Starring Michael Fassbender (who was the best part of "X-Men: First Class" as Magneto) and Carey Mulligan (who depressed the hell out of me in "Never Let Me Go"), it's another artsy film where the story is told by purposely leaving questions unanswered.  As if driving the audience crazy is entertaining for anyone other than the director.  Why do I see movies like this, over and over?

Question we must discuss: He is sexually compulsive; she is a cutter.  What happened to make them this way?  Were they sexually abused when they were kids? Did they have an incestuous relationship with each other?  Obviously something happened...hence the title of the movie, "Shame."  But what was it?

The initial scene of her naked in the bathtub is presumably there to shock the audience with the inappropriate nature of her standing there naked as he stared at her.  And stared at her.  And stared at her.  It wasn't sexual; but it was not...appropriate.

But was there a moment when he said something about their father not being able to do "that" to her anymore?  It was a fast line, and it was referenced only once.

WTF.

Self-mutilation is a typical sign of sexual abuse; so is angry sexual compulsion, and the fact that he can barely handle relating to women in any way other than viewing them as sex objects.  So we, the poor audience, have to figure out what happened.  Thoughts? 

DEAR RUPERT MURDOCH,

Today is a big day! The U.S. officially ends the Iraq War, with formal removal of military forces from the country.  Of course there are still subcontracted "security forces" in the country, who are paid to enforce U.S. policy in the absence of military personnel, but that's another topic.  The Iraq War is ending!  Isn't that amazing?

I'm telling you this because in today's issue of "The Wall Street Journal," you don't mention the end of the war anywhere on your front page.  I had to dig all the way back to A16 to find a little article about it.  But on the front page, there is a riveting article titled "E-Book Readers Face Sticker Shock," about the scandalous skyrocketing of Kindle e-books.  Thank you for posting that on the front page!  America needs to know about that before anything else.

Let's look at the rest of the newspaper.  On page A6, there is an article praising Newt Gingrich.  N.G hasn't done anything newsworthy in the past few days, so this article is a retrospective on how his voting record supports bipartisanship efforts.  Apparently this is more newsworthy than the ending of a war?  Hmm. Oh, and I adore the cover of the Personal Journal: a story about how to minimize time spent looking for parking spaces in a shopping mall parking lot.  Thank God for that article.

I just can't imagine why you would want your newspapers to play down the biggest news day of the year for the United States.  Just in economic terms, cutting military presence is going to be a huge boost to our economy, considering the fact that 50% of our nation's budget goes to defense.  That should be big news for this newspaper, the financial record for our country.  And then there is the fact that ending the war was a major priority for Pres. Obama during his 2008 campaign.  It's probably the #1 reason he won the election, wouldn't you agree?

Best of luck to you these days. I know it must be time-consuming to think of explanations about why you offered to give Charlotte Church "good press" in exchange for singing at your birthday party. 

Sincerely,

Dan Renzi

WORST CHRISTMAS SONGS

I propose a challenge: Find the worst rendition of a classic Christmas carol.

It can't be a lame pop song written with the word "Christmas" a few times, performed by a budding-and-soon-to-be-forgotten hip hop "star."  This has to be a song that was performed with the honest intention of bringing holiday cheer.

Here is my entry. I defy you to find anything so glorious.

 

RESTAURANT REVIEW: "THE DUTCH"

I would have enjoyed The Dutch more if that server didn't spend the evening flirting with my dining companion.

We stopped by this restaurant, which lies deep within the belly of the über-hip W Hotel, for a late-night feasting fest. Most of the tables were occupied, wine glasses cluttered various tables, the energy of the room was at an excited-murmuring hum.  Our wine was tasty (if you go try the chardonnay, not the pinot grigio!) and the decor has a charming vibe of Southern-home-kitchen-meets-Restoration-Hardware.  We sat down, my friend I, engrossed in conversation like two old friends who haven't seen each other in years (we hadn't), and our server popped over to take our orders before leaving us alone.

That's when he came over, batting his eyelashes and saying perkily-cute things.  He acted under the guise of "helping" his co-worker, because you know, we were terribly demanding asking for...nothing.  Nonetheless, he knew how to toss out a one-liner with some zip.  He was funny.  Ten years ago, he was probably the cutest boy in whatever town in Ohio he grew up in.  How charming.  By the way, Mr. Server, I'm sitting here too, this isn't a table for one.

We ordered steaks, sides, whatnots for nibbling, and they arrived as expected.  The steaks, marked with the outrageously-high price tags one will find in every other restaurant in South Beach, were very good.  I didn't understand the overly-seasoned sauce on the patatas bravas, but no worries, it was just one side.  We loved the food, we loved the wine, we loved the ambiance of relaxed, late night fun.  Oh, and speaking of fun, here comes Mr. Good Times with his eyelashes aflutter and his comments so droll.  Yes, we are enjoying our food, thank you Mr. Server.  Oh that's right, you didn't ask me, you just asked my friend, a.k.a. MY DATE.  But I'll respond anyway, it is delicious.  Go away.

How convenient when it came time to take the check--charged to my friend's room, he'll have to say his name AND his room number.  Which server bolted to the table to take the check?  I'll give you three guesses.

PS: Dinner cost, like, a million dollars.  Their specialty is oysters.