for 17 January 2000. Updated every WEEKDAY.
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Live and Let Die Hey Slot, You must really hate this Apted guy. What gives? And who cares? Richard Banks <richard.banks@cpa.state.tx.us> Evidently you don't. It's not that I hate Apted or anything — after all, can anyone really work up anything as strong as hatred for the kind of person who makes movies like Continental Divide, Firstborn, and Nell? I just thought it was about time someone underlined the similarities between the Bond films and the Up documen- taries. The burden of doing that fell to me, and if I've replicated the burden- some feeling with which Apted imbued TWINE and 42 Up, I sincerely apologize to you, Richard. I wish I could give you back the time you wasted reading my piece, but I can't do that anymore than the makers of TWINE can give you back the time you spent watching that, if you did. But you'll be OK. Slotcar Hatebath  Trying to imbue your readers with the same sense of tedium that you attributed to The World Is Not Enough, etc., isn't generally Suck's style. In the sprawling diatribes that Suck is renowned for, a generous sprinkling of hyperlinks to the odd and pertinent helps keep me interested in the diatribe content. I think your hyperlink ratio was substandard and your unwavering dedication to such a limited point was unenviable. But I always like the pictures. :) Adam Chaput <lunacy@freewwweb.com> After the disappointment you must've felt by the millennial rollover's lack of mayhem, did you really think a piece on James Bond movies and British documentary filmmaking would restore the oomph? We at Suck knew you'd be busy getting back to your lives after the tedium of the holidays and didn't want to add to the burden by stuffing the Apted piece full of links as if it were a Christmas turkey. But maybe it's better not to bring up turkeys. Slotcar Hatebath Filler Subject: Dead can dance but deadheads ... C'mon, do you really think that "fans" of Dead Can Dance music dance better than whirling dervish hippies? I appreciate the music of both of these bands and kinda picture the "... Can Dance" crowd doing pretty much the same moves as Jerry's kids. Fare thee well. Daniel Corvino Trenton, New Jersey <DANCORV@aol.com> You just had to go and bring the handicapped into this, didn't you? I stand behind my original assertion. Sure, goths don't dance so damn well. But no one dances as badly as deadheads. They always look like they're trying to wriggle themselves out of one of those really skinny sleeping bags. Man, I hate those really skinny sleeping bags. As if anyone would want to keep their legs right next to each other all night. What a curse! I also hate hacky-sack. What an annoying game. I would never play it, personally, because I have no foot-eye coordination. But most of all I dislike watching people play it. Especially when they're trying to play it "with style." You know what I mean. I also dislike watching people play "Tangled Up in Blue." Particularly with one of those plastic Yamaha guitars, particularly with one foot on the coffee table, particularly with a faux-scratchy voice in the middle of an otherwise OK party with a faux-sincere look on their face, particularly when they insist on looking you right in the eye and singing right at you. Greg Carter is to blame for most of this stuff. Are you happy now, Greg? Are you? Anyway, rah rah to Trenton, New Jersey. Trenton makes; the world takes! Polly Dear Polly, I'm getting sick of having to pretend I have a positive attitude and forcing smiles toward my fellow co-workers. The only time they bug me is when they have a problem. Why is this so? Disgruntled Employee It's a bummer working with other people, isn't it? I, for one, hate it, as is well documented in three years of Filler. I particularly disliked working with Owen Thomas, who not only bugged me when he had a problem but also bugged me when he had something totally unimportant to say, something that had no impact on his or my immediate job duties but that compromised my ability to do my job and reduced my overall job satisfaction considerably. Now Owen tries to interrupt me in the same way via email, but luckily I have a filter on my email that sends all emails from Owen straight into a very special mailbox. Let's call it the Owen mailbox, just to be polite, but it also serves a more general purpose, so its actual name, in accordance with this more general function, is Trash. Anyway, I'm not sure why your co-workers bug you so much. Maybe your co-workers are annoying people, or maybe you're a real jerk just like me. Either way, I'd suggest you tell them to submit their concerns and problems to you via email, and then set up your email filters accordingly. Gruntled, Polly Polly, I stretched, yawned, and read filler. I crammed down three glazed doughnuts — not Krispy Kremes, but we have one in Arlington — and drank some water. Then I wrote these words to YOU. For crying out loud, "What size are the guns?" Nate Dallas No dumb Hotmail address I don't know what that means. Is that a lyric or some kind of timely reference I should know or some kind of a reference to something I wrote that I should really know? I don't know. I'm glad you're eating doughnuts, at any rate. Polly Subject: HELP! Reading your column gives me insight into the female soul. It's a lot like vertigo. Tim Hundsdorfer <timh@ucar.edu> Insight into the female soul? Good god, man. You should know I have no soul. But, speaking of females and vertigo, I was on a bus to the airport in Newark, New Jersey, about a week ago, and there were some high school girls sitting behind me on the bus, which was kind of interesting and slightly horrifying. They were looking at photos, and one of them kept saying, "Every. Single. One. of Josh's friends are soooo cute. I mean, all his friends are totally cute." This reminded me of this radio ad for a televised version of Sweet Valley High, in which the kids go on some kind of a vacation cruise, and this girl says to a boy in a very seductive voice, "I think you're the hottest guy on the boat." It used to be so simple, you know. You just picked the most attractive person in the room, and if he didn't like you, you'd go for the second most attractive, and so on. Knowing a "Josh" is justifiable cause for celebration, given the circumstances. When we got to their terminal, one of the girls said, "Are we, like, there?" Not, like, there, Polly Polly, you're wonderful. Tell your editor we want to hear more about how you were a cheerleader. Kirsten Emmott <kbemmott@ark.com> Cool! People like you really ruin the content around here for the rest of our readers, but oh well. Screw them. The best part about being a cheerleader was that it got me a date with a senior when I was just a sophomore. This was important, because everyone in my own grade remembered how disconcertingly unsexy I was in junior high, when my nose grew to its current size a full two years before the rest of my face caught up with it. In junior high I also had bad skin, the body of a pear, and the personality of a pet rock, but let's let bygones be bygones, shall we? Anyway, cheerleaders naturally get more booty. You know, you're wearing a little baby doll outfit, essentially, and that really appeals to teenage boys — and men, for that matter. Men love to see women looking very infantile and sort of silly and innocent. Naturally, this is somewhat disturbing to most intelligent women. But once all that feminist rage wears off and we can barely remember what Adrienne Rich was trying to say way back when, we use this situation to our advantage by wearing knee socks and go-go boots and the occasional pair of braids and by dressing up as Catholic schoolgirls for Halloween. It's a blatant manipulation, sure, and it's pretty unsavory. But if you've never dressed up as a Catholic schoolgirl and you'd really like to snag a man, if only for a few hours ... OK, so, I guess my point is: I'm most definitely NOT wonderful. Setting the record straight, Polly |
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