Let me side-step on a tangent.
Wikipedia says that Christopher Walken doesn’t have kids. Having Christopher Walken as your dad is kind of inconceivable so, for once, life sorta makes sense. A lot of people say my dad looks like Robin Williams. I disagree; for one thing, he doesn’t have hairy knuckles. I think my dad looks like Robert De Niro. I think that having De Niro as your dad would be really neat.* My boyfriend disagrees, but he shouldn’t be so selfish; I’m pretty sure that reality wouldn’t resemble a third-rate Ben Stiller flick in any case. Actually, I think my dad looks more like the love-child of De Niro and Alec Baldwin.* Now, it would be unbelievably cool if he really was their love-child – I like to imagine that my life would be one amazing, never-ending SNL skit. Narrated by Christopher Walken.
I’m pretty happy with the way I look, except when people say I remind them of Claire Danes. It’s kind of unfair for them to say that, considering that the comparison was last flattering back in ’96. But, despite occasional bouts of uncertainty with regards to my nose, I wouldn’t volunteer myself for a face transplant. I have nice bones, as my boyfriend once said (in a totally non-creepy sort of way), and that counts for a lot. There’s a good chance that I won’t start resembling a Shar-Pei for a long, long time. I might even avoid it altogether. Still, I wouldn’t mind looking like Michelle Pfeiffer. That is one smokin’ lady. Has been for a long time. You can keep your Angelinas and your Scarletts and your Natalie Portmans. Give me Scarface. We’ll compare notes in twenty years.
I can’t think, of the top of my head, whether Michelle Pfeiffer’s ever been in a movie with either Christopher Walken or De Niro. Someone is bound to point out the answer to me, so I won’t bother Googling it. Besides, all three are probably less than six degrees of separation apart, and Kevin Bacon is no doubt in the middle of it somehow. One expects him to be. Personally, I think George Clooney is the new Kevin Bacon.* Come to think of it, he was once in some atrocious-looking movie with Michelle Pfeiffer that I never watched. It’s no good asking me how I know these things, because I just do.
I know a lot of useless things. Many of them involve movies and/or movie actors. This doesn’t come in handy as much as you’d think. I would be far more successful in life than I am if it did. It’s a tragic case of under-utilization; by no means the most tragic of my life, but sad nonetheless. Perhaps I need to frequent pub quiz nights more often.
I once met a red-haired dude in a pub. He wasn’t bad-looking, for a red-haired dude.* I went out with him on a date, and I was sober at the time. The funny thing about that guy was that he was really proud of his follicles. And not because they were still on his head; he was a red-hair zealot, a description which surely comprises the world’s smallest sect. I caught him looking at me a few times with an odd glint in his eye; I could swear that he was calculating the odds of our future children being orange-haired freaks and (figuratively speaking) rubbing his hands with glee at that glorious prospect. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I would rather mate with an albino than spawn a ginger.* He was kind of a weird guy. Anyway, the point is that people fetishize the strangest things. Like feet, or stuffed animals. I wonder, sometimes, what makes them do that. Most of the time, I don’t want to know. I’m already full of useless information. But I can’t (and don’t) judge. I’m unaccountably fond of many strange things myself. Books. Pickles. Christopher Walken’s Twitter account.
Ed. Note (August 2012): Ok, this post makes me sound like I have a hate-on for gingers, which is totally not the case. Maybe it has something to do with latent scars inflicted on my psyche by playground meanies. In any event, my son ended up inheriting his dad’s colouring, and as a result is about 10 shades darker than me. Sometimes I marvel that he’s my flesh and blood … and then he yawns or screams (usually the latter), and I recognize my own kind. What can I say … big mouths run in our family.