(Until yesterday, Hammer had been off the pop culture radar because he's been consumed by his quest to sue teenagers and texters everywhere for all their LOL's and WTF's. As Hammer wrote in his legal brief: "I clearly was the first motha fu&&a to see that a word could be reduced to an abbreviation or even just a number. Those bit$$es owe me, man." Sadly, every citation in that brief was to Al "Father of the Internet" Gore. Sadder still, Hammer has never been able to quantify what he believes he is owed as damages. His only answer has been "enuff." The case is currently before a jury of Hammer's pets, who keep losing focus.)
Well, way to stage a comeback, Mr. MC. Your song permeated every level of society yesterday. From the happenings under my own humble roof to the hallowed hardwoods and soft courts to the upper echelons of Hollywood flukies, everyone was tapping their toe to your steady beat and squealing a little "heeyyyyy heyyyyyy" of their own.
In no particular order:
1. My husband wouldn't quit.
I know, I know, it always comes back to my husband. What can I say? He gives me a lot of material.
Last night, my husband wouldn't quit tinkering. He arrived home at 6:45, had dinner until about 7:15, and then spent the rest of the night opening and shutting doors, entering and exiting his work shed, circumnavigating our yard, and generally puttering. He "made sure the chickens weren't dead;" he plunked a plastic bag of metal chains on a table, then on a chair, and then back on a table; and then he tackled the evening's piece de resistance: the feeding trough from which his chickens will feed.
That little project was where his non-quitting really shone. He didn't quit with the power tools even when both children were finally asleep after a bedtime hallmarked by tears and uncooperation. He didn't quit with the drill even when said drilling was taking place on the kitchen counter and sawdust was finding new nooks and crannies in which to land. He didn't quit with some mini-circular saw thing even when it sounded like there was a fog horn going off in our living room.
He didn't quit until I went downstairs at 9:45 and threatened him with a chain saw.
Then, he quit.
2. Novak Djokovic wouldn't quit.
If you call yourself a fan of sports or humans, then you should be really excited that we've turned the corner into the time of year when three things happen: the French Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open. If you think standing on a white bag of sand chewing dip, punching a leather mitt, and watching HGH swim through your veins is the height of spring/summer athleticism, get away from my blog immediately.
Right now, the French Open is giving Parisians the opportunity to look chic in the vicinity of clay. And yesterday, the world's #1 ranked men's tennis player -- that'd be Novak -- did something mind-bogglingly awesome. Actually, he did it four times. He saved match point.
That means that his opponent, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, was one point away from an upset in the quarter-finals of the tournament. Tsonga had FOUR chances to win the match against the unbeatable Novak. And every time, Novak hung on. He hung on to force a fifth set, which he handily won. Four HOURS and nine minutes after the first serve, the match ended with Novak as the victor.
And I was the lucky winner of following all of that drama through the media of Twitter and "Court Cast" or some similarly awfully named joke hosted by ESPN, which allows you to not-follow a match as your eyes are dazzled with laser-like images of squiggle lines bouncing around a "tennis court" at seemingly random angles and times. Seriously, it was like I was right there. Scratch that. It was like I WAS Novak, and he was me. It was exhilarating.
3. My son wouldn't quit.
He's teething. His top two teeth are taking their sweet time coming in. And he's miserable. Won't eat. Won't sleep. The gum ointments make him choke. There's only so much Infant's Advil the FDA will allow me to administer.
And so he's taken to grinding his two bottom teeth against the nubs of his two top teeth.
4. The Boston Celtics wouldn't quit.
With the series tied 2-2, Boston went down to this little hamlet of a town in Florida called Miami. Not only do they have face-eaters there, they have this team called the Heat. You might have heard of them. I mean, their roster does boast a King.
I don't think anyone expected much out of the Celtics last night. In fact, I don't think anyone has expected much out of the Celtics since it was reported that Kevin Garnett got a senior discount when he saw Fast & Furious in 2009. They're old, they're hurt, they're cantankerous. They don't even hold practices anymore. Doc Rivers has just taken to having everyone act out their plays using hand puppets against a dark screen and a flashlight held by Brian Scalabrine (who just won't accept that he plays for Chicago).
You'd think this ragtag team of AARP members would stagger down to South Beach, pull a hamstring during a game of shuffleboard, and get spooked by the white t-shirts in the stands that Ray Allen keeps insisting are the ghosts of mistresses past.
Not so much. Rajon Rondo continued his not-smiling campaign as he worked his magic. Paul Pierce personified the legal maxim "the Truth is sometimes fun to tell." And Ray Allen continued to make baskets even as he ordered "I'm Sorry" diamond studs for his wife from the iPhone he kept hidden in his socks.
Most fortuitously, Kevin Garnett remained steely calm in the face of Chris Bosh's ill-fated attempt to assume the mantle of Game Face Gimmick Goblin.
YOU CAN'T EAT MY FACE, BOSHIE BOY! MY HEAD IS TO BIG, MY FANGS ARE TOO SHARP, AND MY SWEAT IS TOO MUCH OF A LUBRICANT.
SLIPPERY WHEN WET, MY MAN. NOW STEP. OFF.
So yeah. The Celtics won. Take a 3-2 series lead back to Beantown.
5. Miley Cyrus and Liam Hemsworth won't quit.
Have you heard? This duo is engaged. She's 19, he's 22. She's a hot mess, he's hot.
I'm sure they'll set a wedding date soon, she'll wear a virginal white t-shirt and panties, and Billy Ray will croon something about When A Daddy Loves His Baby Girl. Everyone will get a tattoo to mark the occasion, she'll ride off into the sunset with her bare feet on the dashboard and a ciggy hanging from her lip, and they'll bring added stability and seriousness to the institution of marriage. No one should hang on to their gift receipts. This one won't be over until the waist-whittled teenager sings "Party in the USA" at a bar mitzvah wearing nothing but three strategically-placed yarmulkes.
6. This blog won't quit.
Sometimes every day all the time I wonder about myself writing this blog. About how much of an idiot I look like and what kind of a fool I take myself for. About whether I have anything to write about on a given day, whether I can think of anyone out there who might be reading. About whether I should keep writing.
Well, I have to lock those thoughts up for however long it takes to legitimize the fact that I now have business cards. For this blog. Thanks to my blindingly supportive husband and a patient lady at a stationery store in Portland.
Yes, that's a professional photograph of my professional calling card for my highly unprofessional blog. I'm just as impressed as you are.