Ah, Avon. Nothing says “new customer base” like having your new skin creme resemble the zombie-in-a-bottle serum from the Resident Evil movies. Not convinced? Go to io9.com and watch the side-by-side commercials for Avon and the Umbrella Corporation. It’s eerie, people.

Lifehacker.com points out the most awesome poster you’ll see today: A Periodic Table of Fonts. Bembo represent!

What if the Watchmen were a Saturday Morning Cartoon?

Don’t mix your metaphors, children, and lay off the similes, or you’ll end up with something like these pages, posted by lj user vandonovan from a fantasy book called “Silk and Steel.”

Here’s my favorite paragraph:

Her legs were quills. They were bundles of wicker, they were candelabra; the muscles were summer lightning, that flickered like a passing thought; they were captured eels or a cable on a windlass. Her thighs were geese, pythons, schooners. They were cypress or banyan; her thighs were a forge, they were shears; her thighs were sandstone, they were the sandstone buttresses of a cathedral, they were silk or cobwebs. Her calves were sweet with the sap of elders, her feet were bleached bones, her feet were driftwood. Her feet were springs, marmosets or locusts; her toes were snails, they were snails with shells of tears.

Oh man. The bit about the marmosets cracks me up. And what could be better than snail tears, you ask? The plot description from the back of the book, which contains the immortal line: “Treacherously betrayed, she flees Londeac in a hair-raising balloon/dirigible chase, only to fall into the hands of the faerie king, Spikenard.”

Hair-raising dirigible chase? Now I’m actually interested . . .

What if Frank Miller wrote Peanuts? Click here to see the hilarious results from Cinematical.

WARNING! Small spoilers ahead.

Zack Snyder’s ‘Watchmen‘ is a decent two hour movie trapped in a three hour one. Mr. Snyder faithfully (religiously?) apes Alan Moore’s seminal comic book– in most cases, line by line and panel by panel. That makes Watchmen the most literally faithful adaptation I’ve ever seen. It also makes it as thrilling as watching paint dry. Alan Moore’s comic has many virtues– a solid plot, complex characters, interesting ideas, an incredibly bleak atmosphere– but snappy dialog isn’t one of them. If I had to listen to Dr. Manhattan blabber on about the nature of time once more I was going to kick down the Emergency Exit door a la Rorschach and make a run for it.

Sometimes, less is more. Instead of just focusing on the main plot (nuclear war = bad news), Mr. Snyder tries to shove in the origin stories of all the Watchmen plus their relationships with their parents. That’s too much, and it kills the pacing. Just when the “Who killed the Comedien” plot starts to pick up, Mr. Snyder stops everything dead to have a scene where Laurie Jupiter remembers her mom having an argument with some guy. Way to kill the narrative flow, there. This jerky approach is used throughout the three hour (!) movie, and it made me stare at the ceiling a lot. Movies have to make you care about the characters, and this one assumes that we not only care about everyone but their parents and their friends. That’s assuming too much.

Less is also more for sex and violence, in moderation. Namely, people should not be laughing hysterically at your love scenes– like when Silk Spectre II and Nite Owl get it on to the awful strains of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah.’ The love scene showed faaaaaar too much detail, and the juxtaposition of the sublime (Chorus: “Hallelujah! Hallllleluuuuuujah!”) and the ridiculous (bounce-bounce-bounce-bouncebouncebounce) made the entire theater burst out laughing. Some actions are deep and meaningful when you do them, but look ridiculous when other people take a crack at it (e.g., intercourse, expressions of religious devotion, trying to appreciate modern art, and dancing like no-one’s watching). Basically, anything that involves making funny faces should not be shown in close-up on the silver screen. Other examples of directorial excess include a scene where bad guys take a circular saw to an inmate’s arms. Mr. Snyder shows the saw coming toward the arm– then shows the saw going through the arms like butter, then closes up on the bloody stumps. It’d have been much more effective to just show the saw coming towards the arms, then cut to a spray of blood on the wall. More tasteful, too.

The part of Ms. Jupiter is played by maligned Malin Akerman. Lots of reviews have given her a fair amount of guff for (lack of) acting chops, but I’m willing to give the girl a break. Ms. Akerman doesn’t have a whole lot to work with– Laurie’s role in the comics was to sleep around with various people, shout a bit, and get lectured at. Akerman plays Laurie like a pretty, athletic, slightly dim hothead, and I have no problems with that. Sure, she could have sold her line readings more, but given the dialog she had to work with, she acquitted herself A-OK in my book. (Side note: she looks a bit like a grown-up Rory Gilmore, which threw me. When she referred to her mom I kept expecting to see Lauren Graham in a superhero outfit.)

I do have to sing the praises of Jackie Earle Haley, who played Rorschach to a frightening T. Every moment he was on screen I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and he livened up every scene he was in. He almost redeems the whole shebang.

I’m glad I saw Watchmen, but I’m even more glad I have the comic book. If you have to choose between the two, choose the comic. It packs much more of an intellectual and emotional punch, and therein lies the failure of Mr. Snyder’s literal adaptation.

You must watch this commercial for Australia (the country, not the Nicole Kidman/Hugh Jackman box-office flop– although both are directed by Baz Luhrman.) Mr. Luhrman is famous for directing Moulin Rouge, though you should skip that frantic mashup in favor of the infinitely more awesome Strictly Ballroom. Trust me on this one.

To really see what’s wrong with this commercial, we’ll have to break it down.

It’s a dark and stormy night in Gotham City (or a reasonable fascimile). A man tells an overworked blonde he wants to take a break for a while– over the phone. Classy, Nameless Male Person. The blonde responds by running into the middle of the street sans umbrella, hollering into her cell phone about rearranging the front page (because women can only have high-powered jobs in the magazine industry– am I right, Harlequin Books-of-the-Week?). Here’s where things get weird: the camera zooms in on a muddy footprint– presumably of a creature following the blonde home. I think about five X-Files episodes started like this. Now I’m concerned about the blonde. Run, lady!

The blonde runs into her large, dreary apartment lovingly furnished by the All Beige Decorators of America. (Want a colored throw pillow? Too bad! They won’t allow it. Those Union regulations are no joke.) She calls Nameless Male Person and apologizes for not calling in a while. The conversation is worth repeating in full:

Man: Long day?
Woman: [nervous laughter] It’s not over yet.
Man: It’s never going to change, is it?
Woman: Can we please not have this argument now?
Man: It’s always work.
Woman: What are you saying?
Man: You’re not the same person I fell in love with.

Because  the woman he fell in love with was unemployed? “Remember playing footsie at the Welfare Office? We never do that anymore!” And way to be a jerk over the phone, Nameless Male Person. Maybe if you showed up in person your relationship would go further. Just sayin’. The blonde presses her skinny, pale hand to her forehead in the Universal Gesture of Womanly Despair.

Now it gets creepy again. A child’s voice whispers: “Sometimes, we have to lose ourselves to find ourselves.” Low-level shot of someone’s bare feet walking in the blonde’s apartment oh my god the creature is inside the house RUN BLONDE LADY RUN. It’s too late. She’s lying in bed, eyes closed, deathly pale. The creature reveals itself to be . . . an androgynous child. Androgynous Child leans over the blonde’s pillow and whispers: “Sometimes, you need to go Walkabout.” The blonde opens her eyes.  Now, I’m a New Yorker. If a small, androgynous child broke into my apartment and whispered in my ear, I would a) jump about thirty feet in the air yelling bloody murder and using every karate move known to man, and b) call the police and/or child protective services. This lady, however, just holds out her hand. The Androgynous Child takes it. Ut-oh. Now I’m concerned about the child.

Androgynous Child drops a handful of dirt into the blonde’s hand. Now I’m calling the carpet cleaners in addition to protective services, but the blonde doesn’t seem to mind. Suddenly, there’s water, water everywhere. There’s an underwater shot of the blonde lady swimming that looks a lot like the underwater shots in Jaws. Is the Androgynous Child going to swim up and bite her? But wait! The blonde is not swimming alone! Nameless Male Person is there, too– although his face is incredibly blurry. Very suspicious. The happy couple surface, surrounded by red rocks. Nameless Male Person says: “I’m glad you’re back.”

Shots of red rocks, waterfalls, red rocks, a river, and red rocks. What is this, a Martian spa? Small white text reads: “She arrived as Ms K Matthieson, Executive VP of Sales.” Shot of smiling blonde lady. “She departed as Kate.” Title: AUSTRALIA.

That’s right, ladies! Come to Australia because let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger, and if you don’t get that rock NOW you’re doomed to be MS. Executive VP of Sales forever. You’ll never get an Androgynous Child of your own that way. Don’t you want a Nameless Male Person to belittle you long-distance forever? Of course you do. True, he won’t come over unless you buy him expensive plane tickets halfway around the world, but that’s a small price to pay. Mary says he only wants you for your money, but what does she know? She’s divorced. Take my word for it– you won’t land a man with a fancy career, missy. In fact, if you don’t go to Australia right this minute you might as well kill yourself.

Egads, Baz Luhrman. This crap was unacceptable in the early 80’s, nevermind post-2000. Think before you direct, man!

Lily Allen: Brilliant satirist, or silly Brit? You decide!

Unless you’ve been abducted by aliens for the past year, you’ve been bombarded with news of the recent financial unpleasantness (Otherwise known as: It’s the Horrible Economy, Stupid). For my own peace of mind as well as your general edification, here is a list of things I’m going to do (and not do) to deal with economic shenanigans.

What I’m Doing:

• Casually glancing at the job market, in case the axe-wielders at HR turn their gimlet eyes in my direction. Side Note: Craigslist says there’s a monthly gig for go-go dancers. Score!
• Drinking coffee at work instead of a $7 mocha-latte-grande-imbibo-caveo. The coffee pot is also a hot spot for rumors unofficial information.
• Making soup at home instead of eating out as much. Chuck a lot of veggies and some chuck stew in a pot and simmer for a few hours, and the results are delicious. Properly doled out, a big pot of soup can last the week (especially if you freeze some of it). And this is coming from someone whose previous idea of a home-cooked meal was Hunan Wok on speed-dial– so when I tell you it’s an easy recipe, you better believe it.
• Buying used movies and music. Folks in the tri-state area should cotton on to the wonder and glory that is The Princeton Record Exchange. Thrill! to the wonders of Jean-Claude Van Damme’s (JCVD, to his friends) entire collection for the princely sum of $10.99! Gasp! as you behold an entire shelf devoted to $4.00 copies of Alien Vs. Predator! Moan! at the knowledge that fickle America just does not appreciate Enrique Iglesias like it used to. The Grey Lady (that’s the New York Times to non-natives) had an article on the good Exchange a few months ago, which ran more toward the snarky than the informative; criticizing the store for its “dorm-room decor” is totally, like, missing the point.
• Working through my teetering pile of unread books instead of keeping B&N solvent. (Sorry, B&N. No hard feelings, okay?) Lately I’ve been putting down the economics books and reaching for P.G. Wodehouse, who never fails to amuse.
• Saving money when possible. I found $90 worth of change the other day in my piggy bank. Who knew?

What I’m NOT going to do:

• Give up meat. Yeah yeah, you can stick your carbon footprint up your carbon . . . well, you get the idea. Sometimes a girl needs a nice, juicy steak. It’s why we have incisors, you know. This is not to disparage my friends who are turning to vegetarianism like organic parsley turns towards the sun. Live and let live, is what I say– as long as I can get some bacon on Sunday. (What stand-up comic said he was becoming vegetarian not because he loves animals, but because he really hates plants?)
• Give up alcohol. A good martini on special occassions can be a thing of beauty. “Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts” (Proverbs 31:6, for those playing at home.) Amen to that.
• Buy a gun. No, seriously. The boys and girls on the MarketWatch messageboards are big cheerleaders for the ‘guns and gold’ brigade. A friend of mine who used to be a sharpshooter in high school told me all the ammunition stores he knows of are perpetually sold out. Apparently a large number of people believe total economic collapse is imminent, and we should all be oiling our glocks or priming our Winchesters or spring-loading our AK-47s or whatever-it-is you do to weapons that can blow your head clean off. I’m not going to get involved, because, petite specs-wearing swooning female that I am, I realize that if I need to do my Annie Oakley impersonation to borrow a cup of flour, I’m probably not going to make it. I belong in the Gilmore Girls universe, not Mad Max, and at least I’m honest enough to admit it. Also, Americans tend to overreact. Every boom cycle is going to last forever (DOW 36,000, anyone?) and every bust cycle is an excuse to stockpile vats of SPAM (Hello, Millennials!). Besides, we’re free and clear until 2012, when the Mayan Alien Zombies are going to bring the apocalypse. Everone knows that.
• Put my money in my mattress. Mattresses can burn, people. Safes can walk away. And as much as the idea of stuffing my savings into a hollowed-out a copy of The Wealth of Nations appeals to me, I’m going to stay calm. The FDIC program still insures every account for up to $250k, so relax. Even if you’ve sacked away your savings at Madoff Savings and Loan, the government will step in and guarantee your ill-gotten gains.
• Buy everything from thrift stores. Nothing wrong with thrift stores, mind you. But I’d rather buy something new for a decent price and wear it into the ground than use someone else’s worn-out flannel pajamas.
• Mock Wall Street. Maybe it’s because I have friends in the industry, but seriously, folks– large banks are run like a small city– there’s thousands of people in Admin and PR and HR and IT and the Middle Office who are clean-cut, high-minded, sharp-eyed, hard-working folks who happen to work for Upper Management that made terrible decisions at the wrong time. Ease up on the hate.

And there we have it. Any suggestions from the peanut gallery?

Why hello there, stranger! Put the sharpened pate’ knife down and come warm yourself by my trashcan fire here in our little corner of WallStreetVille. What’s that? Of course you can have some fried squirrel leg! Share and share alike, I always say. There’s a Depression on, you know.

Or so the media would have us believe. Honestly, if I have to read one more article on how we need to get  house cleaning tips from The Grapes of Wrath and dress in plastic grocery bags to atone for our collective sins, I’m going to scream. And considering I might lose my job any minute, my day is already full of eye rolling, breast beating, garment rending, and teeth gnashing. I just don’t think I can fit screaming into the itinerary.

Fortunately, the internet is there to distract us from our ensuing economic twilight. Here for your pleasure and amusement are some Things I Like:

• Baby’s Named a Bad, Bad Thing– Hilariously snarky commentary on the inadvertently awful names some parents choose for their offspring. Free sample: “This is for my niece, Dawn. She is expecting a baby girl in September. I suggested that they name her Dusk. What does everyone think? I think her grand-daughter Nighttime would not approve. Or her grand-neices Afterhours and Graveyardshift.”
• This is Why You’re Fat– Pictures of the gastronomically vile. Or totally awesome, depending on how you look at it. Sample heading: Chicken-fried Bacon with Gravy. Mmmm.
• Gallery of Regrettable Food-- Speaking of unfortunate foods, be lucky we’re not in the 50’s. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen the horror that is meat-filled jello molds. You heard me. Sample snark: “One of the more popular cuts: pressed shank braised with smoker’s phlegm. It may take a few tries to get Uncle Hank to hack up enough Lucky sauce, so be patient.”
• Cockney rhyming slang– Did you know ‘Emma Freud’ was slang for ‘hemorrhoids’? You do now! Adam and Eve it.
• 15 Unfortunately Placed Ads– The title says it all, I think.
• Worst Romance Covers-- I’ve linked to 2003, but if you do a little searching you can find the rest. Here’s 2004, and it’s a doozy. I know, I know, authors and agents don’t really get a say over the covers, it all depends on the whims of an overworked, understaffed team of artists, etc. etc. That still doesn’t excuse some of the monstrosities here. But all is forgiven, because these covers are hilarious.

Here’s hoping everyone has a nice, peaceful week.