Tuesday, January 7, 2014
2014... A new year filled with so many promises: Legalized recreational marijuana, universal health care, and proof that the search for love prevails over societal pressure to have a job. What a fine country we live in! Of course that's no secret to US born, Venezuelan raised, Juan Pablo Galavis, ABC's 18th (What!?) bachelor. During last night's premiere he really was gifted with the American dream: 25 beautiful women of his choosing... Arguably zero with legitimate careers.
Me? I am a self-diagnosed Bachewhore; I've lived, laughed, loved and cried (/suffered) through most every season. So it of course surprised me during last night's introductions to find the Bachelor house without the standard handful of "advertising executives," "medical professionals," and "consultants" we've grown to know and love. Yeah... I'm not dumb... surrendering months of your life to a TV show does not a legitimate job allow - yet, where is the effort to keep up appearances? These 26-year-olds look like 45-year-olds with the porn quality makeup they've been regularly applying since the age of 10 - why not maintain the appearance of ambition to the level they maintain physique?
So then it dawned on me: perhaps professional drive is no longer a key attractive quality in a woman. Well... shit. What the hell have I been doing all these years? Sure, I would have loved to identify myself as a "Free Spirit" or a "Dog Lover" and feel legitimized rather than slaving life away at a media agency for a measly paycheck. Well that's what resolutions are for, aren't they? I, Sofalista, now resolve to be a "aspirational Beyoncé dancer," "food eater," and most legitimate of all... "Blogger." ;) Take that, feminists of the world! I choose love and am sexier because of it! To hell with you and the roads you paved for our equality!
Ohhh this season is going to be goood! Hold on to your hats (and your jobs for all you uglies that have one)... Gonna be a wild ride!
Friday, February 3, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
…No, I don’t mean his mole. Wait… does he even have a mole? I don’t think so. Anyway…
It was announced earlier today that Fox has cancelled the So You Think You Can Dance results show. How did we find out, you ask? In true whiney-bitch form, Nigel tweeted: "FOX have cancelled the results show so I will have to change the format of SYTYCD. At least we have another season at the end of MAY." Methinks Nigel was not the most popular kid on the playground with all this tattle-taling we’re so privy to. Starting a twitter war against Fox is the 2012 equivalent to whispering “Sally totally hooked up with your boyfriend” to a middle school cheerleader. Oh you naughty boy, Nigel.
While I joke, there is some validity in leveraging a social giant to lay the path towards mass hysteria and I am 100% on board, sinking ship or not. No, this is not just a tweet. This tweet is the defense in a major counterstrike against the big fat black spot Nigel’s just been handed. Ay, matey… the black spot is better known as the kiss of death.
A Short History on “The Black Spot:”
The first appearance of the black spot can be found in the 1883 novel, Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. For those less cultured, the black spot was also an ominous device utilized in more recent pirate classics like Pirates of the Caribbean, or Muppets Treasure Island (great, GREAT flick).
Where was I? Oh yeah…
The cancellation of the results show is no doubt the first step towards ultimate demise. Next thing you know, they’ll move the performance show to Friday where series go to die. And then what? Will we be forced to watch half famous non-dancers have their way on the dance floor?! Will I have to be subject to Brooke Burke’s cringe-worthy interviews? NOT IF I HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT! Friends, pirates, lovers of all things dance, I challenge you to tie sails to your remote controls this summer and give SYTYCD its highest watched season yet! Avast, Fox! Offer us a parley! So help me God if this show gets cancelled I will boycott your entire network! (Except Glee… and New Girl… and American Idol…).
Heave ho, landlovers. And God speed, Nigel.
Greetings and Happy New Year to the five people that read this blog!
My, my, was 2011 a roller coaster! I got a new job, shacked up with man-friend, and was finally able to say the words “I’m my favorite number old” (that’s 25 for those of you who assumed I was much older based on my superfluous maturity). Despite the highs of 2011, it’s with particular fondness that I look to the year ahead. With so much lady-tickle-generating events to come (weddings… engagements… an election that will hopefully not make me want to gauge my eyes out), I can boldly say that, world-end-or-not, 2012 is going to be to human history what the dawn of American Idol was to television. Alright fine… maybe that was too bold…
While I selfishly hope your holiday hangovers left you as bloated and fatigued as I am, I’d like to support your unspoken resolutions with some new year affirmations from our favorite friends of the silver screen… you know… for auld lang syne. As I’m sure you’re aware, the new year brought a new episode of How I Met Your Mother. Although the half hour was unnecessary at best, it did subtly provide a Chinese menu of resolutions and mantras through the meaningless and recycled song-and-dance of seasons of auld. Take your pick below and grab a soda (or a gogi berry green tea… blehk you, new year’s diets):
#1: When life gives you lemons, hope someone else gets rotten lemons:
2011 was a rough year for our friend, Robyn. She reluctantly left her seat on camera, was forced into anger management (in all fairness, though, that didn’t turn out to be so bad), and was hit with the news that she’d never have kids. Talk about lemons, huh? Well if last night taught us anything, it’s that lemons can come in all shape and sizes. For Sandy Rivers, those lemons came in the form of lemon drop shots, lemon-tinis, lemoncello, and any other lemon-related alcohol reference I can make. It was his booze-based demise that allowed for Robyn to grab back hold of the microphone and show New York what they’d been missing. Moral of the story: if your life sucks, and someone else’s life sucks more, your life may not suck so bad anymore.
#2: It’s never too late to give up on your drunken dreams:
Some of you may remember Ted and Barney’s master plan of opening a bar called Puzzles (why puzzles? Well therein lies the puzzle. Oh, Barney). Most likely, however, you do not remember this as the episode in reference was more than a season ago and it was stupid. After McClarens proved to be a NYE rip-off, the duo transformed Ted’s apartment into a very 675-esque establishment and fulfilled their drunken vision. I was so inspired that I decided to revive my drunken vision, the beer-fart 3000, a devise that will allow a person to fart unabashedly without the sound and smell of your last 15 beers. In fact, I’ve even contacted NASA about it (assuming the email firstname.lastname@example.org it a real address). If anything, pursue your drunken dreams in hopes that it will result in a real (fake) website: http://www.puzzlesthebar.com/
#3: Throw a tailgate in a cemetery:
I actually don’t know if this one is legal or not… use discretion
#4: Lie to your kids… In a good way:
This would probably only apply to the 3 people I know who have young children or are having babies this year (however, if you’re any other of my friends and fancy yourself a bit of a hoe, continue reading… it may be beneficial after all). While unpacking baby Erikson’s room, our favorite parents-to-be happened upon an old book of Marshall’s, Enigmas of the Mystical. Why should children be deprived in the belief that Santa, or the Easter Bunny, or Big Foot actually may exist? Speaking from someone who found out the truth about Santa at age 5 and proceeded to ruin it for the rest of Mrs. DeMartino’s kindergarten class, this is something you want your kids to believe in for as long as they can. Especially Big Foot… imagine how many family camping trips could turn into beachfront getaways if your brood is scared of a wilderness monster!
#4: Oh yeah… stop being fat
Reason I bring this up is twofold: One… I personally look like I ate my weight in wine and meatballs this holiday season. Two… it’s quite evident that this needs to be Lily’s resolution as well. DAYUMM that belly grew overnight. Yeah I get it… there’s a kid in there… blah blah blah; but sister just went from first trimester to third in a nano-second. Is it possible she’s growing a vampire baby ala Bella Swan? You know she’s having Marshall feed her chocolate and lard covered pickles by the dozens.
Good luck to you as you ultimately fail on your quest to look like Cobie Smulders, be as rich and successful as Neil Patrick Harris, and procreate like real life Lily, Alyson Hannigan. But in the meantime, enjoy the Puzzles theme song:
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Dear Loyal Readers,
Monday, October 3, 2011
There’s been a hole in my heart since the spring of 2009. For years, I’ve searched to fill it with female-lead sitcoms but my efforts were fruitless. The laughs weren’t as hearty, the joy wasn’t as sweet, the faces weren’t as pretty; I found myself left with a rotating series of poor men’s Christinas. Yes, the whole in my heart was drilled when ABC cancelled Samantha Who and took Christina Applegate out of my living room every Monday.
Suddenly… the heavens opened and I was blinded by a shining light! Could it be?! Yes! Twas’ Christina Applegate’s whimsical blonde locks! Once again she’s returned to my living room every Wednesday night in the new comedy, Up All Night. God bless you, NBC. God bless you.
If there’s a recipe for the perfect sitcom, it has been found: ((Lorne Michaels + Christina Applegate + Will Arnett + Maya Rudolph + a really cute baby)*(Viewers who miss Samantha Who)*(Viewers who hated In The Motherhood)) – Anything that sucks = Perfection || Up All Night. Umm… nerd alert—SOMEONE GET ME AWAY FROM MY DESK… STAT!
And not to overlook the fact that this show also serves as the triumphant (correct, we are NOT considering Running Wilde) sitcom return of Gob Bluth II aka Will Arnett. As most of you entertainment enthusiasts know, Will Arnett is actually the bridegroom of one Amy Poehler which solidifies his place in my fantasy dinner party. Ahh yes I can see it now: “Will, can you please pass the Waldorf salad?” “Sure, Laura, just after Tina Fey is done picking out all the grapes and tossing them in George Bush’s mouth. Might I say, this is a fabulous party.”
Someday my fantasy dinner party will cease to be a figment of my imagination and establish itself in real life… preferably at a place with a bountiful meatball selection. Until then, I can join the Brinkley’s at theirs, blissfully sipping wine with my very own Gob Bluth (manfriend, of course). I leave you now with a celebration of sitcom stars of ole and their newest programming baby. Happy pants-peeing J