Max-stravaganza

Oscars are this weekend, and unfortunately The King's Speech is going to win Best Picture; mainly since David Fincher alienates Academy members much like Mark Zuckerberg alienates everyone. Then you've got Mr. Darcy , who's going to win an Academy Award for doing his best Simple Jack impression. If Jesse Eisenberg stuttered during Social Network, it's because he can't keep up with Aaron Sorkin's banter, not because he's trying to exaggerate historical inaccuracies for the sake of Oscar gold . The Social Network was by far my favorite movie of the year, possibly decade (depending on whether the decade starts with year one or zero. Jack Black and Michael Cera say that it's year one, so I'm going to trust them on this.) I left the theater bruised and battered. I couldn't tell what I felt. Firstly, it's a fantastic movie. Secondably, I was demoralized since I a) didn't go to Harvard, b) come from money or c) am not good at math, whic

I know that I'm late to the party, but I'm thoroughly tired of Twitter (and I'm also late to the party on using the phrase "late to the party"). Apart from giving us 24/7 insights into the buying habits of our congressional leaders , it reinforces the misconception that every one of our random thoughts is worth broadcasting (note: but keep reading my blog). People often ask me why I don't have an account. It's rather simple. My Twitter feed, like my tell all biography and sex tape, is raunchy, poignant and full of angry language towards the female cast of Glee, but it won't be relevant until I'm famous. No one wants to hear the banal rants and ramblings of a nobody (sidenote: but keep reading my blog). A co-worker responded, "But being on Twitter is how you become famous." Not for the right reasons. Twitter is the online version of the E! Network or Bravo. What kills me is when people talk about their tweets. Verbally retweet

"The perfect match, if you ask me, is between the Cosmo woman and the fourteen-year old boy." - Nick Hornby, High Fidelity ********* Call it desperation, call it loneliness, call it pre-Valentine's malaise, but I finally decided to bite the bullet and sign up for online dating. Everyone I know under the age of thirty has joined for one of two reasons: 1) they lost a drinking game-related wager, or 2) "Everyone else does it and it seems like fun." I'm sorry, kids that got tricked into painting a fence, but it is the exact opposite of fun. Do you know what online dating is good for? Horror stories that you tell on dates that weren't arranged via the internet. It's a conversation that has been had many times, and it goes a little something a-like this: MAN : I'm so glad we met. I was having some really bad luck on eHarmony. WOMAN : Oh, me too! There was this one guy who would only talk about the plight of Malaysian lemurs. MAN : Ha ha! You sho