Okay, first, a little background.
In 1975, a really really awful movie was made called Death Race 2000. The tagline was,
“In The Year 2000 Hit And Run Driving Is No Longer A Felony. It’s The National Sport!”
Says it all, really.
Y’know how sometimes you’ll be in a car with somebody, and you’ll see a little kid on a bike or something, and someone will say,
“Watch out for that kid!”
And some other smartass (usually you) will say,
“Two points!”
Well, now you know where you got it.
Yes indeedy, DR2000 actually entered into America’s collective unconscious, where its been festering for over thirty years.
Plus it had a naked Sylvester Stallone.
Here’s one of my favorite clips from the original:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGhu5Zl5ry8&feature=related
I think we should all go and see the remake together this Thursday at 7PM at the AMC Van Ness. At the very least, when all of our Extremely Cool friends get back from Burningman, we’ll have something to show for our week.
“Yeah,” we’ll say, nonchalantly, “I guess it was pretty cool out there in the desert with all of the art and drugs and everything, but, y’know, we had fun here too. I mean, the Death Race 2000 remake was out. So, y’know.”
I’m sure it’ll be just as awful as the original.
But that won’t matter.
Because I intend to be horribly, obnoxiously drunk.
Then I plan on falling asleep about halfway through.
Anybody wanna give me a ride home?
Your friends are, of course, welcome.
As long as they have a car.
Let me know,
Andrea

I just flew from Edinburgh to Dublin with about seven books and four gallons of whiskey.

They made me check my bag, presumably on the assumption that, during the hour-long flight, I’d either get so drunk I’d somehow crash the plane, or in a fit of boredom, douse myself in the alcohol and run around the plane on fire.

Or, you know, read.

I wouldn’t have minded at all, except that apparently whiskey purchased in the actual airport causes none of these worries.

Later, at security, I removed my shoes. Then my belt, and all warm outer clothes. I checked myself for little metal bits, just in case. Then I wondered: How long until we have to actually get naked? Will anyone put up a fuss at all? As it stands, I’ve watched all sorts of passengers remove most of their clothing, mince across a cold airport floor holding their trousers up with one hand, only to be patted down because apparently the metal detector doesn’t actually work.

The most anyone does anymore is give a harassed little sigh.

How long before our shirts? Then our socks, pants, and any shred of remaining dignity.

I remain convinced that the day will soon come when air travelers are stripped, oiled, and anally violated. Then we’ll be hog-tied, and after a ceremonial shaving, launched directly into the sun.

Some of us might give a harassed little sigh.