Marissa Flaxbart

Long Live Property of the Queen

I'm not what you'd call a "fan" of the Jonas Brothers or their music. But this Saturday, NBC re-aired the Valentine's Day episode that featured the boys as musical guests. (Alec Baldwin hosted, again. Not that I'm complaining.) The episode as a whole was a little clunky, full of funny sketches that didn't end sharply enough or missed the mark by that much, but it had a high point for me in the Digital Short. If it doesn't make you laugh the first time, try it again in about a week. When I saw it this Saturday, it was for the third time, and it struck me as all the funnier on repeat viewing. I only wish that the songs were longer. And that the Jonas Brothers really made videos like these.

Surprise! Self-Checkout Lanes Are a Tourist Attraction

In addition to the elaborate rules regarding bagging, scanning, and payment, there is a certain etiquette involved in using a grocery store's self-checkout stations. So, at Jewel just now, I was a little concerned that I might be cutting in front of two confused-looking older gentlemen who stood staring at the young woman across from the station I was headed toward. Just as I decided that I was in the right, the woman turned to the two men, visibly skeeved. In what, for accuracy's sake, I'll describe as a Germanic accent, one of the men explained, "we are tourists, so we are staring. Not at you, but at the machine."

I swear. That is what he said.

She still seemed weirded out, but she humored them as I looked on, amused. "Do you pay with a credit card? Where does it go?" She nodded and pointed, and went about her business. The tourists moved on to me. Now, I was using the self checkout for 3 reasons: I was only buying one item, the lines at this particular Jewel are notoriously long and slow, and I love robots, which I consider the self-checkout machine essentially to be. Noticing the cash in my hand, the gentlemen asked me if I could pay that way. I live to explain things, so I showed them the cash slot, and where the change comes out. Then it got serious. One of the men said, "a lot of people are going to be out of work." I don't like that kind of Debbie Downer talk ruining my robot time, so I posed a counter argument in the form of further explanation. The machines were pretty finicky, so many people don't like to use them (my dad, for example, HATES them). They are also less personal which people without my robot affinity find unpleasant. And no matter what, there are so many things that need attending to with the machines that someone has to be staffed to watch the stations all day long. Because of this, stations are often closed at smaller stores (live CVS) because only one person is on duty, and they need to be ringing rather than helping people use the machines.

I don't know if they bought it. But if they're really interested in boosting the American economy, maybe they, and other overseas visitors, would be interested in buying tickets to the self-checkout lanes at other grocery stores and pharmacies, or even to other American marvels like PIN pads at McDonalds or those ATMs that an read what your checks say. There are thousands of locations nationwide. You just have to figure out where to stick the money in.

SunChips: A Dollar in a Mylar Bag

Ladies and gentleman: the strange but true story of how I purchased chips from a vending machine and ended up the winner of...more chips.

I try to avoid the vending machine at work, but I have an undeniable attraction to new and exotic flavors of popular junk food. So when I spotted new Peppercorn Ranch SunChips in slot A2, I think I made an audible gasp. This noise was to be closely followed by a groan of disappointment when I felt the bag - it was obviously full of air and not chips.

And then, something odd caught my eye. A sticker on the back of the bag said that I was a winner, and that there was money inside for my intended Frito-Lay snack. Sure enough, inside the bag was a single, rumpled dollar bill and a coupon for a 10.5oz bag of SunChips.

It occurs to me that I didn't have to spend that dollar on more SunChips, but it's too late now. I went right back to the machine in a blind rush finally to try the new flavor, an urge the folks at Frito-Lay are likely banking on.

They were pretty tasty.

What's Wrong With Revenge of the Nerds? A pointless list.

I posted this on my film review blog, Cineplexus, yesterday. Enjoy!

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Because I am watching it on TV at the moment, for what is probably the fourth or fifth time, and because I love it dearly, despite its flaws, I present to you this Pointless List. There is no way it could possibly be comprehensive:

Problems with Revenge of the Nerds

1) All students at Adams seem to be about 30.

2) Despite being an institution suitable for valedictorians who wish to study computer science (in its early days), the football team and coach rule campus

3) The dean watches Alpha Betas throw students and possessions out the windows of the freshman dorm. No punitive action is taken.

4) Freshman paying for room and board are sent at a moment's notice to bunk in the gymnasium.

5) Two naked men (Louis and Gilbert) wear their glasses in the shower.

6) Gilbert is able to sketch a digital graphic of himself and a girl he just meant using only the keyboard. It's 1984. The graphic can dance.

7) A middle-aged woman is attracted to a 12-year-old boy on sight.

8) The police of the town in which Adams is located have no jurisdiction over what happens on campus.

9) The football team doesn't notice that their jock straps are wet from "liquid heat."

10) Poindexter totally sucks at playing the violin…until the big talent show.

11) Booger is not a nerd. A stoner? Yes. A dork? Maybe. Not a nerd.

I could go on, or I could make a list of the many, many things that are just so right about this movie. Like the soundtrack, which includes Talking Heads, "Daisy" in Japanese, and a choral rendition of "We Are the Champions." But I'll have to save that list for the next time I catch Revenge of the Nerds on TV. So…see you in 2011.

Snickers. It's a double entendre. In a non-sexual way.

I'm geeking out a little about the billboard I just saw near my house.

Generally speaking, I have mixed feelings about Snickers' contention that it is some sort of hunger-stopping mini-meal (as opposed to a candy bar, which I believe it to be), but you've got to love an ad campaign as simple as this one. There are currently 10 or 20 strange, nut-, caramel-, or hunger-related slogans ("Snacklish") are floating around Chicago on taxis or peering out from train station walls, but none of them compares to this one. God bless the super-nerd ad man who came up with this one, and God bless Mr. Mars and his many candy bars.

I'm Going There: American Idol

Tonight I finally broke down and gave in to my secret pleasure. I watched American Idol. It's my first episode of the season, my first introduction to the stream of wannabes that starts out as endless, and has finally dwindled town to 12 (or 13). I have made a sort of spring ritual out of waiting until the embarrassing auditions and the awkwardness of "Hollywood Week" are over to tune in to this show. And tonight, this practice was validated, in a way: Paula casually referred to the evening as "the first night." 

I would like to highly recommend this process to anyone thinking about indulging in American Idol, be it for this season or any one of the dozens that will likely follow. Watching for the first few weeks is undeniably an exercise in schadenfreude. It will leave you feeling ugly and guilty. But tuning in to see the Top 12, while it might not be the pinnacle of television entertainment, allows you at least the opportunity of genuinely enjoying yourself while you stay up-to-date with this cultural force-of-nature.

Not interested in keeping up-to-date? Fine. But when I announce that, based on her performance this evening, I am fairly willing to put money on Allison Iraheta to go all the way, will you smile and nod, pretending to know what the hell I'm talking about?Will you understand when I compare Adam Lambert's rendition of "Black or White" to something by The Darkness? Or are you going to admit that you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, and thereby reveal that you're not as cool as/way cooler than me, depending on your circle and worldview? 

Think about it. I have. And I decided to watch.

Barbie was her given name.

Barbie, that plastic minx, is 50, and I'm celebrating with my Official Barbie Story. It is a story of profound reverse-psychology, the only blotch on the otherwise stainless parenting record of Mr. and Mrs. Don R. Flaxbart.

My dear mother, God rest her feminist soul, hated, HATED Barbie and her stupid proposterous physique, her cheerleader-preppiness. So, as a child, I was given a rule: if I wanted a Barbie, I would have to buy it myself.  My parents both had brothers and sisters, so neither was quite prepared for their only-child daughter's doll obsession; I had one in the worst way. I was a six-year-old mother to seven cotton children, I created tiny universes with my playmobil people, and Barbie...Well, she was just so tantalizingly cheap! For a week or two of saved-up allowance, I could own a doll that was totally my own. And I would treasure it.

And so, over the course of about ten years, I built up a portfolio of Barbie dolls, complete with brushed hair and attached heads (ripping the heads off of dolls or giving them awful haircuts was apparently a common practice among my peers). As a young child, there was nothing else that I was required to buy for myself if I wanted it, making my Barbies (and some other over-the-top dolls I saved up for) the only possessions that were truly mine. So this was no mere collection; this was a soap-opera of interconnected families, the Jensens, the Ratners, the fledgling Williams family waiting for a father to join them from "out of town."

Yes, that's right. My Barbies had storyline.

It all started with a matriarch. Barbie was her name, uncreatively, and she was a rock 'n' roll Barbie by birth. I have no idea where she came from, but I couldn't have been over 4 when I got her, and to this day, she remains in my posession.  She had special hip-shaking action, which allowed/forced her to move her arms back and forth, karate-chop style, when you twisted her torso.

By the time I was 10, this twisting created a creaking noise that I jokingly referred to as "arthritis" when introducing her to others, human and doll alike. At that point, I'd already formed the basis of an extended family tree that I would have a hard time abandoning if I tried playing with my dolls today. There were the Jensens, Barbie and Ken's family, a popular but slightly trashy clan with two blonde daughters and a hunky jock son, Kevin. There were the Walshes, named for daughter Brenda, a 90210-Mattel crossover. This was my star family, with the beautiful Rosa at the helm; my favorite doll, Courtney, had shiny brown hair like her sisters, and was very serious with boyfriend Kevin Jensen. If you're surprised how well I remember it all, so am I; I suppose it's a testament to how much time I spent creating and living in this tiny world.

I do so wish that I had photos of Loren Ratner (a stylish aerobic instructor) or the look-alike eldest Walsh sisters (two identical 90210 dolls modeled after Shannen Dougherty, one of whom was missing a leg on account of my cocker spaniel puppy). I could present to you my formal list of names and connections, or my huge collection of matchless tiny plastic shoes. You would marvel at the ingenuity of my bedroom backdrops made from cardstock and pictures from bedding catalogs. Perhaps you would truly comprehend the breadth of my polyvinyl planet.

I don't have those things with me at the moment. 4 years ago, my father sold the house I grew up in, and I had to search through all of my belongings, deciding what to keep and what to throw away. It was pretty ugly.

Don't panic. My carefully manicured collection definitely made the cut, much to the confusion of the rest of my family. For now, they live in a giant RubberMaid container in a cousin's garage.  There they sit - Barbie, Ken, Skipper, Kevin, Courtney, Stacey, Janet, Shannen, Brenda, Brandon, Luke -the list goes on- waiting for the day I can bestow their storyline on children of my own.

On second thought, maybe I'll keep them to myself. I wouldn't want their heads to get ripped off.

Hell Comes to Comcast Town

Is there anything sadder or more annoying than a company that tries too hard to be cool? No, except maybe when it misses the mark so entirely that it's palpable. Comcast, trying super hard not only to seem cool, but to shed its shroud of evil (impossible!) has released a new commercial and marketing campaign called "Comcast Town." The campaign might not be so bothersome if it weren't so woefully contrived. There's a tiny town map on the site complete with a quirky cast of animals in hats. Signs instruct us to "Dream Big." Right.  Dream Big. About your cable.

The most noticeable part of this campaign is, alas, the most skin-crawlingly awkward. It's the new Comcast Town commercial. To start, it seems to be about 10 minutes long, and contains a parade of "townspeople" singing a repetitive song about their cable dreams, in a creepy deadpan voice that, taken at face value, seems to imply that the singers could not care less about whatever the hell they're rhyming about. But it's not merely a silly song. It's very clearly meant to sound like a Kimya Dawson song. And a lame one at that. She's the voice behind the very popular Juno soundtrack that was a huge iTunes hit in 2007.  Point of fact: it is now 2009. So Comcast's really cloying, exceedingly long attempt to be ultra-hip is actually two years too late. 

Maybe I'm overreacting; you can decide for yourself.