Pinkerton's Weblog

A Touch of the Coulier

As our one whole month of warm summer weather comes to a close here in Canada, we Canucks once again pull our jackets and mittens out of the closet, and steel ourselves for another 11 harsh months of winter. Many of us grab brooms and head out to the garage, to chase off any Eskimoes that might have made nests in the engines of our snowmobiles. The Prime Minister of Canada, Jean-Claude HockeyMoose, gives his yearly address on the state of Canada, and all five hundred of us crowd around the radio we all share to find out how much we made in exports this year (in 2002 we raked in $34.85! Dizzam!).

And, as with every year when the weather starts to get a little chilly, I spend a weekend walking around in shorts and a t-shirt like a moron and then inevitably catch a cold.

This year, sadly, has been no different. What has been different, however, is the potency of my cold -- or to be more specific, the impotency. I think I caught it on Sunday, and I seem to've had it ever since -- mild muscle ache, waves of fatigue, plugged-up sinuses, the usual -- but only in a really, really subliminal sense. So far I've been able to spend most of the day not even noticing it, until about 3:00, at which point I start to slow down a little and feel a bit feverish.

In other words, I seem to have contracted the pussiest cold on the planet. It doesn't get better. It doesn't get worse. It just kind of hangs around and pisses you off -- like the last guy to leave at a party, who won't take the hint no matter how many showy yawning gestures you make.

What's worse about all of this crap is that, while it sucks -- I've felt too exhausted each night to get much of anything done, let alone go out with friends to drink and enjoy myself -- it sucks in such a faggotty, small-scale way that it's impossible to complain about it. I can't even really say I have a cold, because if I did eventually someone would suggest taking a Tylenol or something, and I'd have to shamefacedly admit that, in fact, I don't actually even feel sick enough to merit a Flintstones chewable vitamin. Because it's not a cold, not really. It's the Dave Coulier of viruses.

So: I propose that we in the English-speaking parts of the world that get these seasonal shifts and, therefore, catch seasonal colds, come up with a word for this sort of almost-but-not-really-a-cold. That way I can easily explain to people what I seem to have come down with, so they'll understand why I can't go out tonight, but also catch that it's nothing remotely serious and that I'm not looking for sympathy or really feeling anything but slightly awful.

In honor of the simile I mentioned above, I propose we call it a "coulier". For those of you out there who haven't gained acquaintance with the French-speaking world, I envy you with a passion I can't form words around. But also it's pronounced "cool-yay." I suppose if you wanted to pronounce it "Cool-ee-er", it wouldnt be the first Anglicized mangling of a French word.

Either way, the important thing is that we agree on this now so I don't look like an idiot when I mention it. If someone says "You wanna grab a beer after work?" and I say, "Naw, sorry -- I've got a really irritating coulier I can't seem to shake," I want a knowing nod, not the surprised impression that I'm being tailed surreptitiously by an ex-sitcom star.

Spider-Man!

WARNING: THESE ARE PRETTY OFFENSIVE. IF YOU DON'T LIKE BEING OFFENDED, DON'T CLICK.

Halle Berry as Catwoman

The long-in-production Catwoman movie seems to have finally gotten out of production hell, and looks to begin principal photography soon.

Eagerly anticipating the film had been my penis, say insiders. According to my penis, Michelle Pfeiffer's catsuited turn in Batman Returns was "awesome," and "made stuff come out of me."

My penis had therefore been looking forward to the new Catwoman film immensely, especially after it was rumored that the totally smoking Ashley Judd was rumored to be in the lead role. My penis tried its best to hide its disappointment when Judd was taken off the project.

Luckily, erections sprung anew at the news that the also pretty sexy Nicole Kidman might take on the role, followed by fantasies of what Kidman might look like in the catsuit. Enthusiasm flagged slightly when it was reported that Halle Berry would in fact be playing Catwoman, since as of press time my penis doesn't actually find Halle Berry all that attractive.

"She's hot and all," admitted my penis at a press conference at the time. "She's just not, like, Ashley Judd hot. She's actually kinda boney, to be honest."

Nonetheless, my penis put on a brave face and hoped for the best.

My penis's hopes were dashed today, when pictures of Halle Berry in costume were finally released to the public:

According to my penis, the costume looks "absolutely fucking ridiculous." Compared to Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman, which ranked a solid 8 out of 10 on my penis's Sex Scale, Berry as Catwoman ranks a meager 2 out of 10, given that it's hard to get aroused when you're too busy pointing and laughing hysterically at how retarded the costume looks.

My penis refused to talk to reporters today, stating only that it felt "distraught and betrayed." While my penis realizes that its arousal or non-arousal was not the main reason for making the film, it responded that it should have been, because then it wouldn't have sucked as bad as it now looks like it will.

Talk has surfaced of avoiding the film entirely, and ruthlessly mocking those who do see it. Whether the film will manage to avoid this fate is as yet undetermined.

A Shameful Confession

I actually find Hugh Grant hilarious.

I couldn't tell you why, to be perfectly honest. His movies are almost to a film that sort of treacly chick-flick brain rot I avoid like the cinematic version of not touching a public toilet seat. Even Hugh himself has admitted that he tends to make the same sort of film over and over (saccharine romantic comedies) and play the same sort of character over and over again (bumbly, charming fop). Given that I hate those types of films, there's no reason at all to like Hugh Grant. By all rights, he should be like a British version of John Cusack.

Still: I find him hilarious. Every time I catch him on an interview on a talk show, he always says at least one thing that has me howling. His delivery is impeccable. Sad as it is to admit about a man who's starred in such film spoor, he's actually... well, a pretty good comedian.

He's probably not the only comedian who you're quite certain is hilarious even though his films never seem to be. I think Norm Macdonald is a perfect example of a guy who I'd lay money down as one of the funniest guys alive -- yet if I had to back this conviction up for future generations, the only movies I'd have as evidence would be Dirty Work and Screwed. Jon Stewart, based on his stand-up and Daily Show hosting duties, is also just a hilarious, hilarious man. And I think that's reflected in his many roles as the straight man in films like Death to Smoochy, Half Baked, Big Daddy and Mixed Nuts. That's right -- Jon Stewart played the straight man in Death to Smoochy. Apparently he just didn't have the chops to make that A list material work!

I hope I've made my point, or if not my point, a point anyway: hilarious people lack the gene that allows them to make good films. I put Bill Murray forward as a notable exception. Then I pause for five minutes to think about Ghostbusters. I chuckle a little.

And then I'm back. Anyway, I've always held that Hugh Grant's About a Boy was a great comedy. So when I rented some movies this past Saturday, I made a concerted effort to find some Hugh Grant movies that didn't look like they'd disintegrate my penis upon contact with estrogen-powered romantic menace.

I settled on Mickey Blue Eyes. Surprisingly, it's not even a romantic comedy, even though I distinctly remember it being marketed like that in the States. Possibly the studio just knew exactly who they'd be getting into a theater for a Hugh Grant movie. Either way, it's not a bad little film. It's one of those Three's Company type comedies, where every innocent decision inevitably makes things worse, where people can be counted on to see something at precisely the wrong time or walk into a room at precisely the wrong moment. It wasn't bad, actually. It's not getting bought and added to my All-Time Best collection anytime soon. But I've now got two Hugh Grant comedies I could actually point to and say "Here, what about this? This was kind of funny." That's two more than Jon Stewart, when you think about it. Scary, eh?