Intermission

Again, we break into your celebrity snark for a brief interlude of Rocking MeiMei's World.

The scene: Co-cynic MeiMei has made the mistake of having a life again, like, a vacation and a promotion and etc. The bad news? Less of her around here and other Internets. The good news? I get to rock her world with casual tidbits related to our favorite virtual celebrities.

Oh, and there's some dialogue embellishing going on here, but as it turns out, MeiMei is a huge fan of the unfounded elaboration, and it's not like it's not totally the way we would have said if it hadn't been 2:00 am EST.

Seren: And now what are you doing?

MeiMei: Packing for a spa.

Seren: Yeah. Well. I'm going to lock myself in the house and watch all of Firefly this weekend, so ha, I say, ha! Top that.

MeiMei: Um, no. That's so not toppable.

Seren: No, it's so not.

MeiMei: [packing noises]

Seren: So, did you know Dooce has cancer?

MeiMei: [packing noises replaced by sitting down and hyperventilating noises] What?!?

Seren: Skin cancer. Carcinoma, not melanoma. The non-malignant one. Though she does have two more spots she has to get checked out.

MeiMei: [breathing] But -- how -- I -- how is she?

Seren: Well, she's Dooce, isn't she? She f'ing hilarious. She named her tumor Ed.

MeiMei: I was only on vacation a week!

Seren: I know. And this is what happens.

MeiMei: A week!

Seren: Oh, and DJB is one of the striking writers at ANTM.

MeiMei: What?!?

Seren: I know! From recapping the show to writing for the show! I know!

MeiMei: A week! I was gone a week!

Seren: Yeah, maybe you shouldn't go away this weekend. Things happen when you do.

Start your ambivalence

So, you may have already seen this. You may have already marked it on your mental calendar. I have -- with a big black funereal X. (Okay, maybe it's a little star, but still.)

The new season of Gilmore Girls premieres Tuesday, September 26. Normally, I would add: And there was great rejoicing throughout the land.

This year? Not so much. Because, to sum up, Amy Sherman-Palladino hates us.

Or maybe I should say "hated" because everything surrounding GG is feeling very past tense for me. As in, I adored that show, and I worshipped ASP. But then I endured last season and wept for what was wrought.

And now, I am struggling to come up with a sentence involving a future tense, other than I will watch the opener. Holding my breath -- and a medicinal cocktail in one hand.

All hail the king of the nonsequitur

So, clearly, I've sprained something connected to my snark bone (the doctors tell me it will heal, with time, rest, and exposure to the new fall TV season), because I'm posting to praise someone again.

But, people, my excuse is: Fred Willard.

I dare any among you who have viewed Best in Show or Waiting for Guffman to do less than bow down. In fact, you can't even manage to bow down right now because you're so busy belly-laughing at remembered brilliance that you've fallen right off your chair and are making an utter spectacle of yourself in your cubicle and/or home office, rolling around, making noises like an epileptic dog.

And you haven't even read this awesome interview yet. Imagine how much more impressed your coworkers (and/or young children) will be when the snorting and writhing in glee increases. I recommend it.

For example:

"My mother used to have a saying when she came out to visit us; she'd see someone dressed kind of fancy and she'd say: `Boy the things you don't see when you haven't got a gun.'"

Holy philately, Batman!

Superheroes on stamps!

Maybe he just saw a dead person in the road -- or maybe not

Hey, Haley Joel, inexplicably I have not held AI or Pay It Forward against you (mostly because I avoided watching that second one, which -- phew, stinker, I hear). So, out of this strangely lasting affection I bear you, I'm going to put together a little former child star PSA for you here.

Before:

Haley Joel Osment hospitalized with minor injuries after driving into a brick pillar at two in the morning.

After:

Daniel Baldwin hospitalized with serious injuries and arrested after threading the eye of the needle through traffic while going 80 and, oops, slamming into two parked cars.

Lord knows, every teenage boy I grew up with did something similar, Haley Joel, usually something involving garbage cans or lamp posts or, tragically, someone's cat, and there's no evidence that you're doing anything less than wholesome, Haley Joel, but -- Former Child Star. And not that Daniel Baldwin is a former child star (he has the equally heavy burden of being a Baldwin), but you can see what I'm getting at, yes?

Eyes on the prize, Mr. Osment. (If you cannot yet perceive the prize, have Elijah Wood point it out to you.)

How big the pond

I have some trouble with people who take themselves a little too seriously, people who do not realize that their significance, their importance, shall we say, has a context.

Let's just say: Fish, know thy pond.

I'm waiting for M. Night Shymalan to figure this out. Turns out, so is everybody else.

Newsweek is recommending somebody step in with some strong advice. (And even indirectly shouldering some of the blame for the situation, by citing accusations that their own hyperbole over his earlier works contributed to the current circumstances.)

The NY Times is suggesting that the wink-wink of the director's participation in the hype machine is less nudge-nudge and more sincere arrogance.

In short, Night thinks he's Moby Dick and the history of film is a wading pool.

I just can't help comparing what I'm reading about the director with the words of his astonishing star, Paul Giamatti:

"I don't think my thinking will ever switch from that of a supporting actor. I would have a hard time ever thinking it's all about me and I'm the most important thing in the scene. I can't think that way."

Real talent doesn't grandstand. It doesn't have to. Not to be too Zen about it, but: the pond is always bigger than you.

Warm and fuzzy (my bad)

I warn you: If you liked Paul Giamatti before, you will read this interview and find yourself laid utterly low with admiration of his charm and humility.

AP: You live in Brooklyn. Do you think any ladies are hiding in the water there?

Giamatti: (laughs) They'd have to be in the Gowanus Canal, unfortunately. So they're probably not alive if they're in there! I mean, I don't know. There's no swimming pools, is there? "Lady in the Toilet in Brooklyn."

Under the warm glow of Paul Giamatti, I find myself saying "Village? What Village?" So great is the power of the Giamatti that he has me forgetting the darkness of Night.

As if I needed another reason to dislike Kate Bosworth

According to ABC News, she and her rib cage are hurting the children.

Tapeworm considerations aside, skeletal celebrities + pro-starvation websites = 80 percent of 10-year-olds afraid of being fat (when clearly, what 80 percent of 10-year-olds should be afraid of is: junior high) and taking extreme measures to it from happening.

And also, about the round of actress denials specific to dietary habits, the article has this most excellent response:

Jim Karas, a trainer at the Equinox Fitness Center in New York, said he was not so sure about the denials. "I would respectfully say they are not telling the truth," Karas said.

How civilized is that? I'm using that one, hereafter, as in:

Dear starlets at large, I respectfully say eat a freakin' cupcake. Trust me.

Thank heaven for the Emmys -- yeah, I said it

At long last, it seems that the Emmys are worth something: South Park's "Trapped" nomination serves as chiropratic to Comedy Central's spine. The episode will be re-broadcast.

I recommend all my friends set their VCRs, simply to pre-empt another one of my personal recreations. ("And then Travolta gets in the closet with him. Hee, hee, hee. Hold on, let me catch my breath. Heeeeee. And then R. Kelly ...")

Also, I show gratitude to the Emmys, because you know I love me any excuse to listen to the SP creators talk. And even my enthusiasm pales beside my friend Katie's -- I'm sorry, I meant "Mrs. Trey Parker." She especially likes her husband speaking in public forums, because reading about him is pretty much the only thing not currently restricted, you know, legally, for her.

So I'm giving you two takes on the recent round of interviews with the Television Critics Association, because every word is precious to us:

"So first of all," Parker told the roomful of reporters, "there can't be any questions about Tom Cruise or Scientology or 'South Park.'

and

“So there are two things we can’t do on Comedy Central: show Muhammad or Tom Cruise,” Trey Parker said.

Hey, Superman, Jack Sparrow just called: You been served

It looks as if, this weekend, America gave up any other form of entertaiment but POC: Dead Man's Chest.

The sequel takes in a box office only slightly less than the combined GNP of, say, South America -- just in the first weekend.

Not just neglecting you

So, I thought maybe I'd distinguish this week of non-posting (not spent in rehab) from those other weeks of non-posting (clearly spent in rehab), by stating the selfish reason that's keeping me away.

No, it's not that I suffered a psychotic break with reality the first time someone whose opinion I trust told me she thought Superman Returns was . . . good.

Okay, it's not just that.

It's that I'm doing this thing that's kind of goofy, which means that I can't waste hours of my life reading entertainment news. Actually, the thing (o, how I love it) is not letting me read anything right now and won't let me for a week. Something about not anesthetizing my soul, blah, blah, blah.

In short: I can't post, because I've started drinking (more) just to keep myself from perusing the headlines of Entertainment Weekly. (Don't tell me who's on the cover. Don't.)

Once the week is over, the hate and I will be back.