About the BloggerAndy Carpenter is a native Wisconsinite who also has spent time living in Pennsylvania, Missouri, Australia and now Hilton Head Island. He graduated from the University of Missouri in 2009, and has been known to moonlight as a copy editor, bartender, pirate, rowing coach and Green Bay Packers fan. | Email Andy
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More from The PreGame
Barring a mishap — be wary of chili — my schedule for Sunday is set.
My wardrobe will be laid out the night before. I’ll have to pick up a bouquet at the florist, iron the sash and polish the tiara for the next head it’ll adorn. There should be time after brushing my teeth to refine my smile, a polite grin telegraphing my true distaste for the circumstances.
And around 10 p.m., give or take an overtime, it’ll be over. I’ll pass the crown.
“You know, I was thinking about going to the basketball game, but I think I’m going to watch the bowling team instead.” — Nobody, ever
In high school, a lot of people play football. Or baseball. Or marching band.
Under the guidelines established by the Pennsylvania Interscholastic Athletic Association, I was technically an athlete. I got a letter and everything. But I didn’t do it for the glory.
Two weeks ago, I wrote a column about wanting to see “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” at the movies despite not being able to get into the book.
Boy, did you readers respond. I got as much feedback from that column alone as I have in all my time writing for The PreGame. Interestingly enough, the responses were split into two camps: Half were thankful that someone finally admitted to not loving unconditionally Stieg Larsson’s trilogy, and the other half thought the first half (with me included) was nuts and encouraged me to give it another shot.
As I promised I would in the column, I finally got a chance to see David Fincher’s film. My thoughts:
It hit me precisely between “Cats in Hats” and “Babies Dressed as Flowers.”
I was at the bookstore, enrapt in figuring out how I was going to write an entire column about soup, when I remembered I needed to buy a calendar. Phones, computers, newspapers and the ESPN ticker being no help, it seems I’d gone the entire new year without knowing what day it was.
As a fan of the culinary pornography purveyed on the Food Network and shows like “Top Chef,” I’m consistently forced to remind myself how food that real people eat actually looks. Because as often as I watch cheftestants and food celebrities bring together their edible masterpieces with a spatter of pureed exotic ingredient, I know that the most I can do to zest up my plate is zoom in a lot with a camera and hold it at a skewed angle.
(You know how Dove has that Campaign for Real Beauty? There’s definitely a Campaign for What Food Actually Looks Like void for someone to step up and fill.)
Very often, adoration for a particular book will drive people to the cinema to see its film adaptation. And inevitably hate it because the book is almost always better.
I’m sure that’s been the case for a great deal of folks during the release of David Fincher’s take on the late Stieg Larsson’s “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.”
But I’m stuck with the opposite predicament: I want to see “Tattoo” because I disliked the book so much. And I want to (inevitably?) love it because the movie was better.
10 ... 9 ... (8 through 3) ... 2 ... 1 ... mmmph.
As optimistic a holiday as New Year’s Day is — symbolic of rebirths, fresh starts and arbitrary benchmarks to improve the self — isn’t it a little bizarre that we usually spend it at our worst: with a hangover?
Of course, in the immediate physical sense, the hangover is an indication you sent off the previous year with a bang, so it’s more understandable. Besides, those are just temporary; take an ibuprofen, lie in the fetal position and rub some dirt on it and you’ll be ready to quit smoking in no time.
Over the course of Saturday night, Santa Claus will be traversing chimneys across the country, bringing wonderful gifts to children who have behaved and lumps of coal to children whose parents haven’t figured out how to execute an empty threat.
But Santa won’t be stopping at my house. He already came this past Sunday and he brought me one of his best gifts ever: validation of my youth.
There’s an elephant in the room, and I don’t mean there’s an obvious subject to discuss that I’m avoiding. (Although “This is the third holidays-themed column you’ve written in a row” is on the verge of becoming one.)
No, I mean there’s really an elephant: It’s white, has a spending limit and has to be giftable to an age range of 10 to anybody ever.
And I never know what to buy.
Rarely do you see such a celebration of argyle and woodland creatures as you do in December.
Unless you’re a moose that attends an Ivy League university. Then every day’s a jamboree.