I am not Sam Champion, people. I assume for most of you this goes without saying, but at this moment in my life I think I really need to state it for the record.
As everyone knows, Hurricane Sandy bent the northeasten seaboard over her lap last week and spanked it in the bad way. Lower Manhattan was blacked out (sidebar, one of the single freakiest experiences of my life was taking a shuttle bus down the Bowery to get home one night and not being able to see anything around the bus despite knowing I was in the middle of the one of the most populated areas in the country...suddenly Revolution on NBC became a whole lot scarier) and a lot of people lost a lot. My heart goes out to them. My heart does NOT go out to people who call me at my job and ask me a) what the weather was like during the hurricane (it was cold and wet. And DARK.), b) what the weather is like at the present moment and/or c) what the weather will be like during their stay in New York.
Yes, I work at a hotel...this does not mean that every morning I climb up onto my roof and check my meteorological instruments to have the most up-to-date information for you on any incoming weather fronts. There are people who actually studied this stuff in college and went out and got jobs in which their sole purpose it to answer such questions and it turns out that THEY aren't all that good at it. Why would you think I would be any better? And by the way, if you're not coming in to New York for another month, why the hell do you care what the conditions are like at the present moment? It really has no bearing on what they'll be like in 30 days, just like my pleasant tone of voice has no bearing on the fact that I'm mentally calling you every synonym for simpleton that I can come up with on the fly (moron, dumbass, halfwit, idiot, dolt, dunce, mouth-breather, parental disappoinment, gene pool hazard...).
If you simply can't live without knowing what the temperature is there is a whole goddamn television channel devoted to that if you're interested. It's called the Weather Channel and they report a lot of information about, you guessed it, the weather. It's actually their main focus, which you could probably extrapolate from the name if you really tried. If you don't want to watch TV, I have even better news for you...they set up a website! It's true, if you want the weather to anywhere in the WORLD, you can go to...wait. Are you ready to write this down? Do you have a pen? Paper? You're sure? Okay, you can go to "weather.com" (that's W-E-A-T-H-E-R-.-C-O-M), punch in any zip code or location that you want and they will give you...the weather. And don't worry...if that sounds just too difficult there's a weather.com app. Yes, that's right! There's an app you can download right to your smart phone for free that will tell you everything you want to know. You know who can't give you all the information that weather.com pulls up upon just a few key strokes? ME.
I also love people who ask me what the weather will be like in a month. No, really, I LOVE them. They give me a chance to gaze into my crystal ball and peer into the future so I can really spell out for them exactly what the weather will be like in three weeks. I get to use my clairvoyant powers so infrequently, and with that kind of thing it's really use it or lose it. If I don't exercise these muscles, my ESP will become gangrenous and fall off like a vestigial limb and then I'll never get to be a real life super-hero. So, thank you hotel guests who wonder the unknowable future...without you I'd never get any practice as a seer and my life-long goal to unseat Ms. Cleo as the go-to telephone psychic for the moronic masses would be dead before it ever got off the ground.
In conclusion...I am not Sam Champion. He's the one with the botox.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Monday, October 1, 2012
EmMo
Have you ever tried to set anybody up on a date? Me neither. I'm currently in the midst of my first ever attempt at it and let me tell you, it is nerve-wracking. No wonder that horrid matchmaker woman on Bravo is so out of touch with reality...if she had emotions like the rest of us, she'd be a quivering mass on the floor after a hard day's work. In any case, last weekend I got it into my head that I was going to set my friend...let's change all the names in this story to protect the identities of those involved...my friend Sara up on a date with a guy I met at another friend's birthday party. My other friend's name is...Lucy and the guy's name is...Matt. There, cover identities are established. I'm SO Sydney Bristow.
Anyway, I won't get into the nitty-gritty of it all...I'm just going to re-create, in it's entirety, the opening email that I sent to Lucy in regards to this little party. Subject line: "Weirdest question ever..."
In any case, that email is now out in the universe. I'll let you know if it results in a wedding or a cataclysm.
Anyway, I won't get into the nitty-gritty of it all...I'm just going to re-create, in it's entirety, the opening email that I sent to Lucy in regards to this little party. Subject line: "Weirdest question ever..."
Okay, so I have something very odd to propose to you...I hung out with your friend Matt at your party and he seemed like a great guy. I mean, he managed to talk to two gay dudes who he had never met before for almost two hours and I never once wanted to stab myself in the eye. Believe me when I tell you this is very difficult to do, as I'm judgemental as a hobby and, on the inside, probably not a very nice person.
I swear I have never done this, but I thought almost immediately that he would be a great match for my friend Sara (I don't think you've ever met her, but she's awesome). And not only because he has a dog, though that's a HUGE plus. I feel somewhat comfortable bringing this up because we talked a bunch about online dating, and how he had just put up a profile and how I met my boyfriend on an online dating site. Hey, did you know your friend Matt is online dating? If you didn't, please don't tell him I told you, because that would be really awkward. In any case, I was thinking about possibly adding him to my Facebook or something and trying to facilitate a meeting between the two of them, but I wanted to run it by you first.
Now at this point, I can think of a few reactions you might be having:
1) Um...NO. I work with this dude, I'm not stepping in that. Totally get it. If you don't want me to say anything, let me know and I'll keep my aspirations to be a Yenta in the same jar I keep my aspirations to be a brain surgeon. Or maybe you don't care if I say anything to him, but don't want your name attached to it. I can also do that. I'm flexible!
2) Um...NO. I'm in love with Matt. I'm totally butt-crazy in love with Matt!! Again totally get it. You should hit that, he seems like a great guy. Also, props for quoting Clueless. You're awesome and Matt's damn lucky.
3) Um...NO. Matt comes off well, but he actually eats toothpaste for lunch and only washes his socks on alternating Tuesdays. Is that SO bad? He only has one pair of socks. Oooooh, okay. This is why I emailed you in the first place! Thanks for the warning, I'm going to go smack my inner-Emma in the face, cause bitch needs to get her head on straight. (For those of you confused by the title of this post, it was my attempt to make a gay pun on the Jane Austen classic. I don't think I succeeded. SHUT UP, WRITING IS HARD!)
4) Um...sure. I guess? Don't feel any pressure to participate in this. This whole thing might be an outgrowth of me being in a two and a half year relationship, and just wanting to pick up a guy in a bar even if he's not for me. I need to know I still got it!
5) Awesome! Have at it! Anything I should tell Matt about this friend of yours? Why yes! She's awesome, she loves dogs and she too can spend two hours in a bar talking to two random gay dudes she's never met before. Also, she's Kat Denning's boob-double.
6) I'm still hung over from Saturday. Can we talk about this when my hair stops throbbing? Yes, and congratulations! THAT'S a party!I mean, really? You can smell the desperation on that e-mail. I've written to guys I was asking out for myself in less of a flop-sweat. Basically, rather than playing with just your own feelings, you're now putting yourself in the way of the feelings of two friends, a professional relationship and a DOG. There's a dog involved, and nothing is funny anymore. I stopped watching Game of Thrones when they killed Sansa's wolf...which was probably played by a dog. And if it wasn't, it's close enough. Side bar, does anyone else consider Marley and Me the first snuff film released by a major studio?
In any case, that email is now out in the universe. I'll let you know if it results in a wedding or a cataclysm.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Timeline
Well, it finally happened this month: Facebook forced me, kicking and screaming, into the new Timeline format. I've hated Timeline on all of my friend's profiles and thought that maybe, just maybe, Facebook had somehow forgotten about me and I would be able to skate on in blissful, technological idiocy with my in-born resistance to any kind of change unchallenged by the vagaries of Mark Zuckerberg. Alas, just last week my hopes were shattered. Again. This has got to the seventh or eighth time now. Timeline found me and forced me to join the new age. And now I'm going to say something fairly controversial.
I kind of like it.
All I've seen on Facebook is people complaining about it, so maybe I was so prepared for it to be the virtual equivalent of an unannounced colonic that the reality simply couldn't compare to the horror movie playing in my head. Regardless, I find myself enjoying the new format. Why? Well, for one thing, I like having a cover photo. Naturally, I've chosen a close up picture of a mojito sitting in the sun, just starting to sweat in the summer heat, crushed mint floating freely in a delicious rum cocktail. Now everytime I go to my Facebook home page, my mouth waters. However, even more importantly, I am loving reliving old memories via easy leaps backward in time to read old statuses. When you click on the year I joined Facebook (2009) the first status that pops up is:
"To The Guy I Went On a Date with Two Weeks Ago: While I found your company tolerable at best, I simply would not choose to waste anymore of my life in conversation with you. No hard feelings. Literally. Now please stop e-mailing me asking to be friends. I've done this the nice way. You know what way comes next."
Wow. Apparently, I was really irritated with some dude I went on a date with in February of 2009! I read the comments and I remember the whole story and have myself a good chuckle and a fond trip down memory lane. Jump ahead a month:
"I can't believe Natasha Richardson is dead right now and Amy Winehouse isn't."
Oh, and now I have a sad again about Natasha Richardson. And feel a little bit like an asshole about the whole Winehouse fiasco. March, 2010:
"I cannot believe they're making a sequel to "The Cutting Edge." Seriously, theyre never going to top the Pamchenko...stop trying."
No, really, stop trying.
There are hundreds of these little bursts of nostalgia just waiting for you on your Timeline people; I've found the first time I realized Vinay suffered from road rage. I've relived an entire trip to Italy. I'm remembering all the times I've auditioned for 30 Rock and not gotten it (this can be a double-edged sword). I've discovered that I went to my old job tipsy-to-drunk at least 4 times, openly posted about it, and still couldn't get fired.
I'm not saying it's perfect. It's still extremely difficult to find specific old posts and the whole thing just takes some getting used to visually. But seriously, I highly recommend using it see what you were thinking about two years ago, you'll have yourself a good chuckle. Or go read one of your friend's and relive some glory days. Or go read mine...it's HILARIOUS.
I kind of like it.
All I've seen on Facebook is people complaining about it, so maybe I was so prepared for it to be the virtual equivalent of an unannounced colonic that the reality simply couldn't compare to the horror movie playing in my head. Regardless, I find myself enjoying the new format. Why? Well, for one thing, I like having a cover photo. Naturally, I've chosen a close up picture of a mojito sitting in the sun, just starting to sweat in the summer heat, crushed mint floating freely in a delicious rum cocktail. Now everytime I go to my Facebook home page, my mouth waters. However, even more importantly, I am loving reliving old memories via easy leaps backward in time to read old statuses. When you click on the year I joined Facebook (2009) the first status that pops up is:
"To The Guy I Went On a Date with Two Weeks Ago: While I found your company tolerable at best, I simply would not choose to waste anymore of my life in conversation with you. No hard feelings. Literally. Now please stop e-mailing me asking to be friends. I've done this the nice way. You know what way comes next."
Wow. Apparently, I was really irritated with some dude I went on a date with in February of 2009! I read the comments and I remember the whole story and have myself a good chuckle and a fond trip down memory lane. Jump ahead a month:
"I can't believe Natasha Richardson is dead right now and Amy Winehouse isn't."
Oh, and now I have a sad again about Natasha Richardson. And feel a little bit like an asshole about the whole Winehouse fiasco. March, 2010:
"I cannot believe they're making a sequel to "The Cutting Edge." Seriously, theyre never going to top the Pamchenko...stop trying."
No, really, stop trying.
There are hundreds of these little bursts of nostalgia just waiting for you on your Timeline people; I've found the first time I realized Vinay suffered from road rage. I've relived an entire trip to Italy. I'm remembering all the times I've auditioned for 30 Rock and not gotten it (this can be a double-edged sword). I've discovered that I went to my old job tipsy-to-drunk at least 4 times, openly posted about it, and still couldn't get fired.
I'm not saying it's perfect. It's still extremely difficult to find specific old posts and the whole thing just takes some getting used to visually. But seriously, I highly recommend using it see what you were thinking about two years ago, you'll have yourself a good chuckle. Or go read one of your friend's and relive some glory days. Or go read mine...it's HILARIOUS.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Kindle Guilt
I moved this month (yes, I now co-habitate with my boyfriend), and I was shocked by something. My book collection has dwindled. My once proud, completely over-the-top ridiculous number of books has, over the years, been slowly shrinking like a polar ice cap and now I can carry my full collection of novels, plays and comics over to a new home in three stinking boxes. Three! The time was when I would have to carefully plan where to pack my books when I moved so no single box was over-burdened...and there is one reason for this change: my Kindle.
Let me say right now, I love my Kindle. I mean, I fucking love my Kindle like it's made out of chocolate ice cream with peanut butter sauce and whipped cream. I resisted getting one for a long time, then Vinay just gave me his because he never used it, and now I can't stop proverbially snorting coke off the hooker's tits. Amazon has this amazing "Buy Now with 1-Click!" option which allows you to have the book you want to read in your hot little hands in about 30 seconds with "Delivery via Amazon Whispernet," and I abuse the easy access more with every day.
Short sidebar, what the hell is a "whispernet?" Can any of my tech geeks answer this for me? I know that in order to download the book I need to be connected to the INTERnet, so what's different about the WHISPERnet? Is Amazon trying to brand the tiny little bit of web traffic that allows them to fire thousands of pages and millions of words into my little e-reader device in seconds? And if so, why call it "Whispernet?" Frankly, I find people who whisper the words while they read to be disturbing, as I it usually takes me a few seconds to realize that they aren't simply talking to themselves and/or the voices in their head. I live in New York, you don't want to grab the seat on the subway with the secret crazy. I digress.
My love affair with my Kindle has led to certain things I probably shouldn't cop to on a public blog, but we're all friends here. I named my Kindle. You know how some guys name their penis, and think they're the first one to come up with calling it Russell the Love Muscle? I named my Kindle Clint Barton, CB for short. Clint Barton, as I'm sure you don't know, is Hawkeye's real name. Not Alan Alda from M*A*S*H, the comic book character who's a member of the Avengers, portrayed by Jeremy Renner in the film. I know, you don't know whether to laugh or cry at my ridiculous level of geekdom. I spent my entire youth being oddly fascinated with Hawkeye and apparently I'll be spending my 30's oddly fascinated with my Kindle, so it tracks. Luckily, while I was lusting after Hawkeye before I really realized what "lusting" meant, I think I'm safe in saying that I have not developed actual romantic feelings for Clint. Yet.
I know you're thinking: well if you love it so much, why are you feeling guilty? Well, because I love books. I think books are the best decoration for any room. I like physically having the book in my hands, and the smell of the pages, and lining a book series up in order; it warms my heart to see all seven Harry Potter books resting comfortably on a shelf. Sadly, I live in New York and space doesn't support my book habit. Double sadly, I'm an actor and I can get the books cheaper on my Kindle then I can in print. Triple sadly...I just fucking love my Kindle. It's so light and convenient!
I hope that I, and people like me, don't lead to the downfall of the written word. There ain't nothing better than a book, and I buy books all the time for my nephews. Real books, with pages and the inner cover that they can write their names in and the spines that they can break because they read it so many times. And, after all, I'm still buying all of these books, only not in the format that I used to. It's just that sometimes I'm overcome with the idea that I am part of the "problem." I'm not even entirely sure what the "problem" is, but I really don't want to be a part of it if it's a "problem" with books.
Now excuse me, I have to go browse my Amazon recommendations to see if there are any books I want to buy.
Let me say right now, I love my Kindle. I mean, I fucking love my Kindle like it's made out of chocolate ice cream with peanut butter sauce and whipped cream. I resisted getting one for a long time, then Vinay just gave me his because he never used it, and now I can't stop proverbially snorting coke off the hooker's tits. Amazon has this amazing "Buy Now with 1-Click!" option which allows you to have the book you want to read in your hot little hands in about 30 seconds with "Delivery via Amazon Whispernet," and I abuse the easy access more with every day.
Short sidebar, what the hell is a "whispernet?" Can any of my tech geeks answer this for me? I know that in order to download the book I need to be connected to the INTERnet, so what's different about the WHISPERnet? Is Amazon trying to brand the tiny little bit of web traffic that allows them to fire thousands of pages and millions of words into my little e-reader device in seconds? And if so, why call it "Whispernet?" Frankly, I find people who whisper the words while they read to be disturbing, as I it usually takes me a few seconds to realize that they aren't simply talking to themselves and/or the voices in their head. I live in New York, you don't want to grab the seat on the subway with the secret crazy. I digress.
My love affair with my Kindle has led to certain things I probably shouldn't cop to on a public blog, but we're all friends here. I named my Kindle. You know how some guys name their penis, and think they're the first one to come up with calling it Russell the Love Muscle? I named my Kindle Clint Barton, CB for short. Clint Barton, as I'm sure you don't know, is Hawkeye's real name. Not Alan Alda from M*A*S*H, the comic book character who's a member of the Avengers, portrayed by Jeremy Renner in the film. I know, you don't know whether to laugh or cry at my ridiculous level of geekdom. I spent my entire youth being oddly fascinated with Hawkeye and apparently I'll be spending my 30's oddly fascinated with my Kindle, so it tracks. Luckily, while I was lusting after Hawkeye before I really realized what "lusting" meant, I think I'm safe in saying that I have not developed actual romantic feelings for Clint. Yet.
I know you're thinking: well if you love it so much, why are you feeling guilty? Well, because I love books. I think books are the best decoration for any room. I like physically having the book in my hands, and the smell of the pages, and lining a book series up in order; it warms my heart to see all seven Harry Potter books resting comfortably on a shelf. Sadly, I live in New York and space doesn't support my book habit. Double sadly, I'm an actor and I can get the books cheaper on my Kindle then I can in print. Triple sadly...I just fucking love my Kindle. It's so light and convenient!
I hope that I, and people like me, don't lead to the downfall of the written word. There ain't nothing better than a book, and I buy books all the time for my nephews. Real books, with pages and the inner cover that they can write their names in and the spines that they can break because they read it so many times. And, after all, I'm still buying all of these books, only not in the format that I used to. It's just that sometimes I'm overcome with the idea that I am part of the "problem." I'm not even entirely sure what the "problem" is, but I really don't want to be a part of it if it's a "problem" with books.
Now excuse me, I have to go browse my Amazon recommendations to see if there are any books I want to buy.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Okay, So I'm Not Being the Bigger Person
I'm a bit short on time this month, so I'll keep this brief: what the hell is up with gay activists inviting rabid anti-gay bigots to dinner? Dan Savage invited NOM's Brian Brown over to debate the Bible. Family Equality Council's Jennifer Chrisler invited Family Research Council's (man, what a difference a word in a title makes) Tony Perkins over for dinner in hopes of opening his heart to homosexuals. And even better, Brown and Perkins accepted. Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that dinner party.
Look, I get it. We're reaching across the aisle. We're being the bigger people. We're generally continuing the mantra of "oh, they'll come around if they can see we're just like them!" And that's a noble goal, one which I personally do not have the patience to even pretend I can achieve. Frankly, I'd rather eat dirt than have one of those card-carrying ass-hats over to my house for dinner, unless I was serving a forced watching of the last two season of Glee, which is just about the gayest form of torture I can come up with on the fly. I'd say watch Smash, but that's only 13 episodes and two seasons of Glee pushes 50...and I really, really dislike these people.
These people are not going to change their minds. Why debate the Bible with someone who clearly is only interested in it as a tool to justify his own bigotry? Why try to open the heart of someone who has not demonstrated that he even possesses one? These are not people who are interested in expanding their minds and hearts, they want to expand their influence. I'm sure it will be entertaining to watch Dan Savage eviscerate Brian Brown on the very topic Brown regularly uses to justify his positions, but it won't accomplish anything other than a lot of views on YouTube.
Rather than reaching across the aisle to them, why not just wait for them to get up and surreptitiously stick out a foot for them to trip on?
Look, I get it. We're reaching across the aisle. We're being the bigger people. We're generally continuing the mantra of "oh, they'll come around if they can see we're just like them!" And that's a noble goal, one which I personally do not have the patience to even pretend I can achieve. Frankly, I'd rather eat dirt than have one of those card-carrying ass-hats over to my house for dinner, unless I was serving a forced watching of the last two season of Glee, which is just about the gayest form of torture I can come up with on the fly. I'd say watch Smash, but that's only 13 episodes and two seasons of Glee pushes 50...and I really, really dislike these people.
These people are not going to change their minds. Why debate the Bible with someone who clearly is only interested in it as a tool to justify his own bigotry? Why try to open the heart of someone who has not demonstrated that he even possesses one? These are not people who are interested in expanding their minds and hearts, they want to expand their influence. I'm sure it will be entertaining to watch Dan Savage eviscerate Brian Brown on the very topic Brown regularly uses to justify his positions, but it won't accomplish anything other than a lot of views on YouTube.
Rather than reaching across the aisle to them, why not just wait for them to get up and surreptitiously stick out a foot for them to trip on?
Monday, May 21, 2012
Smash Test, Dummies
Okay, people, the Smash finale has aired...I'm guessing most of you gave up on the show, right? I mean, I couldn't look away the whole time even though I didn't hear a lot of the dialogue because I was too busy screaming at the television screen for showing me something so bone-crushingly stupid, but I would imagine that a lot of people checked out around Episode 4 or 5 when it became obvious that the writers simply weren't going create an interesting story and about 50% of the cast was terrible (the other 50% is excellent...I'll name names if you want). I, however, stuck with it through thick and thin and am left a bit at a loss. Every episode, every single one, had at least one moment in it that was wonderful and interesting...it was just surrounded by a mountain of crap.
In any case, if you gave up, you're not alone. One of my good friends gave up early on and when she told me I gay-gasped and clutched my pearls. "You're missing EVERYTHING!" I cried. "Debra Messing's son looks like he's Renee Zellweger's long lost twin brother! People are running out in the middle of Broadway shows and bopping around Times Square in costume! Katharine McPhee has yet to register an emotion!" She looked at me skeptically (as if these were not things that would make her more likely to watch the show), so I took further action. I rushed home and composed the following test for her...all I asked was that she take the test and if it didn't make her want to watch the glorious train wreck, I would never bring it up again.
Here I present to you, The Smash Test. The rules are simple: below I have outlined four scenarios. Three of them ACTUALLY HAPPENED in Smash this season, one of them did not. Please, take your best shot...which one of them is the fake?
1) Julia (Debra Messing) is so overcome with attraction to Michael Swift, a co-star in the Marilyn Musical, that she tells her husband Frank that she's going for a walk, leaves their apartment in Cobble Hill, goes all the way to midtown and meets Michael in the rehearsal room (which he has somehow gotten open). For those readers who don't live in NY, a subway ride from Cobble Hill to midtown is an easy 40 minutes door-to-door. When she gets there, she very clearly says she does not want to sleep with him and only arrived to tell him that. Michael, obviously being someone who's mother should have read him a copy of No Means No, Charlie Brown when he was a child, proceeds to slowly but surely convince her to take off her top. Side-boob occurs, and they bang on the rehearsal couch (as someone who has used many rehearsal couches in his life, may I just say...ew). Julia then returns home from her "walk," which, unless she has conquered the space time continuum, took at least an hour and a half assuming she and Michael got the refusal, rape-y convincing and the resulting porking done in a flat ten minutes. Frank apparently does not notice anything odd, which means either a) it's convenient at this time for the writers to have him be a complete moron or b) Julia takes a lot of long walks.
2) Eileen (Anjelica Huston), after being dumped by her comically over-the-top d-bag husband, discovers dive bars and the Buck Hunter video game. Much time is spent with her obsessing over how wonderful the martinis are in said dive bar, which is odd because most dive bars I've ever been to would throw a pitcher of Bud Light in your face for ordering a martini. There is also much time spent killing fake deer, which might be a reference to Betty Draper going full on Hatfield on her neighbor's homing pigeons back in Season One of Mad Men, but is accomplished with about a twentieth of the subtlety. Over martinis and fake hunting expeditions, Eileen confides in her new favorite bartender about her money woes...after all, she only needs seven million dollars and she can't seem to raise it! Said bartender then pulls a stack of money out from underneath his bar and offers to invest in the musical. She refuses, so he introduces her to Randy Cobra (a Billy Idol-esque rock star and not, as you might have guessed from the name, a Ron Jeremy-esque porn star) who speaks to her for about 5 mintues gives her all seven million dollars, resulting in what I believe might be the first example of rock star ex machina in popular culture. At this point, she calls all of her former investors who were putting demands on her to the aforementioned dive bar and Randy Cobra lights their contracts on fire in a garbage can.
3) Ellis (Jaime Cepero) is among the most hated characters in the history of television. He's hated by the audience, by the other characters in the show and, I suspect, by the late Mother Theresa. In order to secure a movie star to open the show, Ellis (who has been presented as a heterosexual with a girlfriend) bangs the male personal assistant of Rebecca DuVall (Uma Thurman) and with his help signs Rebecca to star. Rebecca demonstrates little-to-no musical talent, and in her neediness tells her assistant to stop spending so much time with Ellis and focus on her. Ellis decides to grind up some peanuts, which she is deathly allergic to, and slip them into Rebecca's smoothie. Rebecca goes into anaphylactic shock in the middle of rehearsal and her throat closes up. In a possible homage to "Pulp Fiction," Karen (Katharine McPhee) takes the epi-pen she always carries with her for no good reason and jams it directly into Rebecca's chest saving her life and the show simultaneously. Rebecca then reveals that she was able to taste the peanuts in the smoothie, but drank it anyway because she was so scared to perform live that she wanted to self-sabotage the performance. She recommends Karen take over the role mere days before opening, while Ellis confronts Eileen and demands that he be given a producer credit because he took care of the Rebecca problem for her. Eileen, in a move heralded by every person that's every seen the show, fires him and he stalks off threatening retribution.
4) Eileen's daughter Katie (Grace Gummer) arrives and everyone rejoices because she is the most angelic person to walk the face of the earth, which the audience is subtlely informed of via her nickname: "Saint Katie." Eileen and the musical's director Derek (Jack Davenport) contact OneRepublic's Ryan Tedder and ask him to write new music for the Marilyn Musical behind the current creative team's back. Karen is drafted to take part in the sub-workshop and eventually puts on a surprise performance for Julia, Katie and company as a sexed-up, modern day Marilyn writhing on a bed, shrieking lyrics along the lines of "Touch me! I wanna feel you on my body, put your hands on me!" The audience reacts with appropriate horror and numerous altercations erupt, including Saint Katie dragging her mother outside and scolding her that she should know better than to go behind her creative team's back; after all, she's supposed to be a better person than her odious ex-husband. Saint Katie then returns to her mother's apartment, furnishes the entire place with what appears to be pieces from Pier One Imports and summarily departs to count salmon in Alaska. Because that's what GOOD people do.
I'm dying to know...can you pass the Smash Test? Full disclosure, my friend guessed wrong...but she watched the rest of the season.
In any case, if you gave up, you're not alone. One of my good friends gave up early on and when she told me I gay-gasped and clutched my pearls. "You're missing EVERYTHING!" I cried. "Debra Messing's son looks like he's Renee Zellweger's long lost twin brother! People are running out in the middle of Broadway shows and bopping around Times Square in costume! Katharine McPhee has yet to register an emotion!" She looked at me skeptically (as if these were not things that would make her more likely to watch the show), so I took further action. I rushed home and composed the following test for her...all I asked was that she take the test and if it didn't make her want to watch the glorious train wreck, I would never bring it up again.
Here I present to you, The Smash Test. The rules are simple: below I have outlined four scenarios. Three of them ACTUALLY HAPPENED in Smash this season, one of them did not. Please, take your best shot...which one of them is the fake?
1) Julia (Debra Messing) is so overcome with attraction to Michael Swift, a co-star in the Marilyn Musical, that she tells her husband Frank that she's going for a walk, leaves their apartment in Cobble Hill, goes all the way to midtown and meets Michael in the rehearsal room (which he has somehow gotten open). For those readers who don't live in NY, a subway ride from Cobble Hill to midtown is an easy 40 minutes door-to-door. When she gets there, she very clearly says she does not want to sleep with him and only arrived to tell him that. Michael, obviously being someone who's mother should have read him a copy of No Means No, Charlie Brown when he was a child, proceeds to slowly but surely convince her to take off her top. Side-boob occurs, and they bang on the rehearsal couch (as someone who has used many rehearsal couches in his life, may I just say...ew). Julia then returns home from her "walk," which, unless she has conquered the space time continuum, took at least an hour and a half assuming she and Michael got the refusal, rape-y convincing and the resulting porking done in a flat ten minutes. Frank apparently does not notice anything odd, which means either a) it's convenient at this time for the writers to have him be a complete moron or b) Julia takes a lot of long walks.
2) Eileen (Anjelica Huston), after being dumped by her comically over-the-top d-bag husband, discovers dive bars and the Buck Hunter video game. Much time is spent with her obsessing over how wonderful the martinis are in said dive bar, which is odd because most dive bars I've ever been to would throw a pitcher of Bud Light in your face for ordering a martini. There is also much time spent killing fake deer, which might be a reference to Betty Draper going full on Hatfield on her neighbor's homing pigeons back in Season One of Mad Men, but is accomplished with about a twentieth of the subtlety. Over martinis and fake hunting expeditions, Eileen confides in her new favorite bartender about her money woes...after all, she only needs seven million dollars and she can't seem to raise it! Said bartender then pulls a stack of money out from underneath his bar and offers to invest in the musical. She refuses, so he introduces her to Randy Cobra (a Billy Idol-esque rock star and not, as you might have guessed from the name, a Ron Jeremy-esque porn star) who speaks to her for about 5 mintues gives her all seven million dollars, resulting in what I believe might be the first example of rock star ex machina in popular culture. At this point, she calls all of her former investors who were putting demands on her to the aforementioned dive bar and Randy Cobra lights their contracts on fire in a garbage can.
3) Ellis (Jaime Cepero) is among the most hated characters in the history of television. He's hated by the audience, by the other characters in the show and, I suspect, by the late Mother Theresa. In order to secure a movie star to open the show, Ellis (who has been presented as a heterosexual with a girlfriend) bangs the male personal assistant of Rebecca DuVall (Uma Thurman) and with his help signs Rebecca to star. Rebecca demonstrates little-to-no musical talent, and in her neediness tells her assistant to stop spending so much time with Ellis and focus on her. Ellis decides to grind up some peanuts, which she is deathly allergic to, and slip them into Rebecca's smoothie. Rebecca goes into anaphylactic shock in the middle of rehearsal and her throat closes up. In a possible homage to "Pulp Fiction," Karen (Katharine McPhee) takes the epi-pen she always carries with her for no good reason and jams it directly into Rebecca's chest saving her life and the show simultaneously. Rebecca then reveals that she was able to taste the peanuts in the smoothie, but drank it anyway because she was so scared to perform live that she wanted to self-sabotage the performance. She recommends Karen take over the role mere days before opening, while Ellis confronts Eileen and demands that he be given a producer credit because he took care of the Rebecca problem for her. Eileen, in a move heralded by every person that's every seen the show, fires him and he stalks off threatening retribution.
4) Eileen's daughter Katie (Grace Gummer) arrives and everyone rejoices because she is the most angelic person to walk the face of the earth, which the audience is subtlely informed of via her nickname: "Saint Katie." Eileen and the musical's director Derek (Jack Davenport) contact OneRepublic's Ryan Tedder and ask him to write new music for the Marilyn Musical behind the current creative team's back. Karen is drafted to take part in the sub-workshop and eventually puts on a surprise performance for Julia, Katie and company as a sexed-up, modern day Marilyn writhing on a bed, shrieking lyrics along the lines of "Touch me! I wanna feel you on my body, put your hands on me!" The audience reacts with appropriate horror and numerous altercations erupt, including Saint Katie dragging her mother outside and scolding her that she should know better than to go behind her creative team's back; after all, she's supposed to be a better person than her odious ex-husband. Saint Katie then returns to her mother's apartment, furnishes the entire place with what appears to be pieces from Pier One Imports and summarily departs to count salmon in Alaska. Because that's what GOOD people do.
I'm dying to know...can you pass the Smash Test? Full disclosure, my friend guessed wrong...but she watched the rest of the season.
Monday, April 2, 2012
The Ship Sinks
Is anyone else really excited for Titanic to return to theaters? I know I am; I figure once it finally returns in all of it's glorious 3-D-ness, I can happily return to pretending I didn't sit through it the first time and only be reminded by the soft-strains of it's formerly ubiquitous theme song when I'm caught in a Lite FM Hell like a doctor's office or a Duane Reade. I can't say I remember much about the movie other than being largely bored by it...the special effects were impressive, but I kind of doubt that they'll hold up to our post-Avatar standards. This is probably a good time to note that I haven't seen Avatar...but if I'm forced to see one Hollywood film this year starring blue people, I will choose to watch that over The Smurfs. My boyfriend, on the other hand, is completely pumped to go see this movie. Below, I will enumerate a few scenarios in which I might be convinced to actually attend.*
1) ABC Cancels Cougar Town. I expect that if ABC lowers the axe on my beloved cul-de-sac, I'm going to be in a deep enough state of mourning that I'll be able to be convinced of just about anything, so if Vinay tells me that we're going to see a Cougar Town movie I'll believe him because I'll want it to be true. The fact that more people are going to go watch Leo do his best ice cube impression in the re-opening weekend than watch my dysfunctional winos is just sad. If this does happen, and I do wind up at a screening, I reserve the right to stand up and scream "SIX SEASON AND A MOVIE!!" while wildly gesticulating with a bottle of red wine. It's what Jules and company would want.
2) I Screw Up Something REALLY Badly. I'd like to be clear here: I'm not talking about accidentally forgetting the milk or being late to dinner. I'm talking about something like Vinay winding up in the hospital and me screwing up the information on his forms and rather than getting his appendix removed he leaves the hospital a woman. Something on that level.
3) The Threat of Becoming a Tribute in The Hunger Games. Did you read the book/watch the movie? Shit gets real in that arena. My usual fighting technique of cutting people with words would provide about 15 seconds of snarky commentary before I was hewed down like an unwanted weed. "Oh, big man's got a SWORD, what are you compensating for any--" *dies*. Just to clarify, if Gary Ross would like to hire me to be killed as one of the tributes in the next movie, I'm in. Seriously, Gary, call me.
4) Money. Lots and lots of money.
I think that just about covers it. Other than that, I'm really just not interested in seeing Titanic.
*Management reserves the right to refuse to attend and/or leave this movie at any point up to and including Kate Winslet's orgasmic steamy window slap.
1) ABC Cancels Cougar Town. I expect that if ABC lowers the axe on my beloved cul-de-sac, I'm going to be in a deep enough state of mourning that I'll be able to be convinced of just about anything, so if Vinay tells me that we're going to see a Cougar Town movie I'll believe him because I'll want it to be true. The fact that more people are going to go watch Leo do his best ice cube impression in the re-opening weekend than watch my dysfunctional winos is just sad. If this does happen, and I do wind up at a screening, I reserve the right to stand up and scream "SIX SEASON AND A MOVIE!!" while wildly gesticulating with a bottle of red wine. It's what Jules and company would want.
2) I Screw Up Something REALLY Badly. I'd like to be clear here: I'm not talking about accidentally forgetting the milk or being late to dinner. I'm talking about something like Vinay winding up in the hospital and me screwing up the information on his forms and rather than getting his appendix removed he leaves the hospital a woman. Something on that level.
3) The Threat of Becoming a Tribute in The Hunger Games. Did you read the book/watch the movie? Shit gets real in that arena. My usual fighting technique of cutting people with words would provide about 15 seconds of snarky commentary before I was hewed down like an unwanted weed. "Oh, big man's got a SWORD, what are you compensating for any--" *dies*
4) Money. Lots and lots of money.
I think that just about covers it. Other than that, I'm really just not interested in seeing Titanic.
*Management reserves the right to refuse to attend and/or leave this movie at any point up to and including Kate Winslet's orgasmic steamy window slap.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Restaurant Etiquette
I'm not claiming to be Miss Manners, but having waited tables in New York City for about 6 years in my twenties I think I'm fairly qualified to hold forth on this subject. It pretty much all boils down to this: don't do anything that would inspire your waiter to hock a loogie into your food. We all know the basics, like don't be a dick and try to consolidate your requests, but a few of these things slip through the cracks. I'm here to let everyone know about a rampant problem in restaurants today: loitering.
Restaurant loiterers are really the worst people. As a waiter I would have rather dealt with someone being a dick than someone refusing to get the hell out of the establishment, and that's for one simple reason: money. Waiters work for tips. If you're camping out at a table after you've paid your check, you're costing your waiter money because no one else is sitting at that table running up a bill for them to be tipped on. Obviously, if the restaurant is empty they don't care, but in that case they're probably not making much money anyway.
This past weekend, Vinay and I were out with our friend Hung when we ran afoul of a group of loiterers in the West Village. We were planning on eating around 9, so naturally we went to the restaurant at 7:30 to put our names down for a table; for all you non-city dwellers out there, yes, that is a normal amount of time to wait for a table on a Saturday night in the West Village. You are correct, it is ridiculous. But, hey, we knew what we were getting into...we put our names down and headed out to a bar to kill some time. It's important to note that I had had lunch at approximately 1:30 pm that day, and not eaten since. Just keep that fact in the back of your mind.
In any case, the time flew by and we received a text message from the restaurant telling us our table would be ready in approximately 10 minutes. Off we went, and checked back in at approximately 8:45. At this point we were told it would be a few more minutes, which we accepted with a shrug and ordered a bottle of wine at the bar. At this point, everything was smooth sailing. Cut to 45 minutes later, at which point I had officially been drinking on an empty stomach for two hours, and the entire group is about ready to turn on each other and have a real life version of Alive. And what was the problem you ask? Loiterers.
Admittedly, the hostess made a tactical error in telling the three of us that the people we were waiting to get up were sitting directly next to where we were standing, calmly sipping their water a full 20 minutes after they had paid their bill. I was pissed. I was minorly pissed for the wait-staff, but I was majorly pissed for myself and my poor neglected stomach.
"Ugh!" I said. "Table of three get UP!"
Now I'll maintain to the day I die that I didn't intend for them to hear what I said. It was a noisy West Village restaurant, and since their conversation was so riveting that they were willing to inconvenience everyone in their general vicinity by not getting the fuck out, I assumed that they weren't tuned in. I was wrong. I calmly went back to speaking to Vinay, while the loiterers asked Hung if we were waiting for their table.
"Well, not your table SPECIFICALLY." Hung lied.
"Whoever said that was obnoxious!" the woman at the table complained.
"Well, it wasn't me." Hung said, and turned back to our conversation. Meanwhile, I was drunk enough to completely miss this entire exchange.
Another fifteen minutes ticked by, and at this point we had finished our bottle. I flatly refused to drink anymore until I had eaten since I wanted to enjoy my dinner and not spend it projectile vomiting, so I went over to the hostess and very politely told her that we had been waiting two-and-a-half hours and we're hungry, so those people needed to leave. And when I say politely, please believe me that I was extremely polite. She apologized and gave me the "I know, I hate them too, but I can't say it" face, then slid over a few minutes later to ask them if there was anything else she could get them or if they were all done. They stood up, and the woman left first...making certain to step on Hung's foot and grind her heel into his toes.
Hung is an angry drunk on the best of days...so if you add in an actual reason to be angry you are going to have one pissed-off, 100 pound Vietnamese alley cat on your hands. Said woman got an immediate body block off of Hung's foot, a quick titty-grab and an extremely insincere apology. At which point, the following exchange occurred.
Man: "Do you want to get smacked?!"
Hung: "Yes, please, smack me right here in the West Village."
Man: "You want to get smacked??"
Hung: "Be civilized, sir! Be civilized!"
The loiterers were then escorted out of the restaurant, and we sat down and finally ate.
Three things can be taken from this story. One, if you're going to be bitchy about waiting for a table, you should to it with Hung around because he's apparently going to be the scape-goat for everything you do. Two, if you are done with your dinner, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. And three, "Be civilized!" should definitely be a go-to argument phrase in some reality show before the year is out, because it's goddamn hilarious, especially when being spouted by a tiny Asian man doing his best sassy black woman impression.
Oh, and don't sit side-saddle. You know what I'm talking about, the couple who sits a table of four next to each other so they can canoodle and do God knows what else under the table. Just stop it. Your waiter and all your fellow patrons hate you.
Restaurant loiterers are really the worst people. As a waiter I would have rather dealt with someone being a dick than someone refusing to get the hell out of the establishment, and that's for one simple reason: money. Waiters work for tips. If you're camping out at a table after you've paid your check, you're costing your waiter money because no one else is sitting at that table running up a bill for them to be tipped on. Obviously, if the restaurant is empty they don't care, but in that case they're probably not making much money anyway.
This past weekend, Vinay and I were out with our friend Hung when we ran afoul of a group of loiterers in the West Village. We were planning on eating around 9, so naturally we went to the restaurant at 7:30 to put our names down for a table; for all you non-city dwellers out there, yes, that is a normal amount of time to wait for a table on a Saturday night in the West Village. You are correct, it is ridiculous. But, hey, we knew what we were getting into...we put our names down and headed out to a bar to kill some time. It's important to note that I had had lunch at approximately 1:30 pm that day, and not eaten since. Just keep that fact in the back of your mind.
In any case, the time flew by and we received a text message from the restaurant telling us our table would be ready in approximately 10 minutes. Off we went, and checked back in at approximately 8:45. At this point we were told it would be a few more minutes, which we accepted with a shrug and ordered a bottle of wine at the bar. At this point, everything was smooth sailing. Cut to 45 minutes later, at which point I had officially been drinking on an empty stomach for two hours, and the entire group is about ready to turn on each other and have a real life version of Alive. And what was the problem you ask? Loiterers.
Admittedly, the hostess made a tactical error in telling the three of us that the people we were waiting to get up were sitting directly next to where we were standing, calmly sipping their water a full 20 minutes after they had paid their bill. I was pissed. I was minorly pissed for the wait-staff, but I was majorly pissed for myself and my poor neglected stomach.
"Ugh!" I said. "Table of three get UP!"
Now I'll maintain to the day I die that I didn't intend for them to hear what I said. It was a noisy West Village restaurant, and since their conversation was so riveting that they were willing to inconvenience everyone in their general vicinity by not getting the fuck out, I assumed that they weren't tuned in. I was wrong. I calmly went back to speaking to Vinay, while the loiterers asked Hung if we were waiting for their table.
"Well, not your table SPECIFICALLY." Hung lied.
"Whoever said that was obnoxious!" the woman at the table complained.
"Well, it wasn't me." Hung said, and turned back to our conversation. Meanwhile, I was drunk enough to completely miss this entire exchange.
Another fifteen minutes ticked by, and at this point we had finished our bottle. I flatly refused to drink anymore until I had eaten since I wanted to enjoy my dinner and not spend it projectile vomiting, so I went over to the hostess and very politely told her that we had been waiting two-and-a-half hours and we're hungry, so those people needed to leave. And when I say politely, please believe me that I was extremely polite. She apologized and gave me the "I know, I hate them too, but I can't say it" face, then slid over a few minutes later to ask them if there was anything else she could get them or if they were all done. They stood up, and the woman left first...making certain to step on Hung's foot and grind her heel into his toes.
Hung is an angry drunk on the best of days...so if you add in an actual reason to be angry you are going to have one pissed-off, 100 pound Vietnamese alley cat on your hands. Said woman got an immediate body block off of Hung's foot, a quick titty-grab and an extremely insincere apology. At which point, the following exchange occurred.
Man: "Do you want to get smacked?!"
Hung: "Yes, please, smack me right here in the West Village."
Man: "You want to get smacked??"
Hung: "Be civilized, sir! Be civilized!"
The loiterers were then escorted out of the restaurant, and we sat down and finally ate.
Three things can be taken from this story. One, if you're going to be bitchy about waiting for a table, you should to it with Hung around because he's apparently going to be the scape-goat for everything you do. Two, if you are done with your dinner, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. And three, "Be civilized!" should definitely be a go-to argument phrase in some reality show before the year is out, because it's goddamn hilarious, especially when being spouted by a tiny Asian man doing his best sassy black woman impression.
Oh, and don't sit side-saddle. You know what I'm talking about, the couple who sits a table of four next to each other so they can canoodle and do God knows what else under the table. Just stop it. Your waiter and all your fellow patrons hate you.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Adventures in Baby-Sitting
There aren't many times in the world where I'm embarassed. Outside of the obvious "oops! I crapped my pants" variety of humiliations, I tend to avoid situations where I'm going to wind up red-faced with my pants down with a fair degree of success. So imagine my surprise when I was baby-sitting my two and a half year old nephew Joseph a few weeks ago and wound up nervously giggling while he looked blithely on, completely unashamed.
My nephew, and there's really no way to soften this statement so I'm just going to rip off the Band-Aid, is uncut. Au natural. As God, or whatever higher power you believe in, made him. As such, he requires a bit of extra cleaning downstairs. Now look, he's a kid and according to the doctors it's not as big a deal while he's younger, but nevertheless you want to try to instill strong hygiene habits on this kind of stuff from an early age. Joey, unfortunately, does not enjoy it when anyone attempts to roll back the turtleneck and clean underneath; in fact he hates it so much that he flatly refuses to do it. It's worth noting at this point that my other nephew, Jin (also two and change), is all about popping out to say hello, to the point where many a bath can degenerate into "Take pee-pee out!" and really lose focus on the whole cleaning aspect of the proceedings.
So cut to a few weeks ago when I'm watching Joey and bath time rolls around. My sister had already given me permission to give the kid some ice cream that night, so I bribed him into the tub by promising a surprise afterwards (I know, these are terrible choices for a parent, but I'm not a parent I'm an indulgent uncle) and started natural proceedings. At this point, Joey started asking me to get into the bath with him.
Now, I realize that there is nothing unnatural to the child in this request. There is, however, something incredibly weird to it for an adult. So I told him that I didn't need to take a bath. He countered with asking me if I wanted to be clean too. I told him I would get clean later. He wondered why I didn't get clean now. Realizing I was on the losing side of the argument, I took off my socks and rolled up my jeans and sat on the rim of the bathtub with my feet in the water, which actually appeased him for a few moments. I was foolish enough to think I had won.
The battle started up again when I asked him if we could wash under the crank cover. I was firmly rebuffed. I attempted a simple re-ask in hopes of a changed answer. He again pointed out that I should get into the bath. I balked, and told him it wouldn't hurt to look under the hood to make sure everything was working correctly. He balked and said in no uncertain terms that I was a liar and if I made a move towards his crotch cowl he'd kick me in the teeth .* He then played his trump card and said "You do it."
Well, that gave me pause. Again I realize that this request was not at all bizarre to him since he spends most mornings proudly shirt-cocking around the house, but in that moment I must say it was one of those moments for me where I was left speechless. For one thing, I don't want to overreact, jump out of the tub and cover my crotch with my hands while screaming "WHAT!?!? NONONONO!!" since that would very possibly a) make my nephew suspect that I'm a Never-Nude and/or b) set up a complex about nudity in him that would cripple him for the rest of his life, resulting in him becoming a Never-Nude. Nobody wants this. Secondly, was this a teaching moment? Was this something that I could help him understand and get over, since I was 99% sure I was the only male in his life that also sported the good hood? Thirdly, was his complete lack of embarassment enough to counteract the attack of nervous hysteria that was bubbling up inside me? I stood there in the tub opening and closing my mouth like a fish gasping for air while Joey's tepid bathwater lapped around my feet and my nephew looked up at me with a challenge for Naked Chicken in his eyes.
Ultimately, and I must admit right now that this is making me uncomfortable again just typing it, I decided that it might actually help him if I demonstrated that it wouldn't hurt. I tried to weakly bargain with him that if I showed him it wouldn't hurt, he would then clean himself. He stated an unequivocal no, but that he still wanted me to do it. I said maybe if I did it, he could at least try it. He looked at me with a mixture of scorn and pity. Finally I decided that if I was going to do this, I needed to just take the leap akin to jumping out of a plane to go sky-diving. I looked up to avoid any accidental eye contact took a deep breath and leaped. I have never had my underwear down and up so fast in my life. Joseph looked on, entirely unimpressed with my display and entirely unfazed by the uncomfortable sweat that was dripping down my forehead. He calmly returned to playing with his toys in the tub, let a few moments pass then looked up at me and commanded "Again."
Well, let it never be said that I don't know where to draw a line. Joseph was out of that tub and into pajamas in record time, as I was no longer confident in my ability to outflank him in a debate, particularly on the topic of his knob-warmer. I bundled him downstairs and we had ice cream and watched a not-so-vaguely racist episode of Thomas and Friends while I alternated between laughing about what happened and hiding my face in a pillow to mask how red my cheeks were. He calmly went to sleep and my sister has informed me that my attempt to teach has met with no success as he still passionately defends his right to keep his cobra fully hooded. Which means that the only good that can come out of this experience is the laughs it brings people, so I certainly hope that you enjoyed this.
*There is a chance that this conversation has been upgraded from baby talk for the purposes of humor. A slight chance.
My nephew, and there's really no way to soften this statement so I'm just going to rip off the Band-Aid, is uncut. Au natural. As God, or whatever higher power you believe in, made him. As such, he requires a bit of extra cleaning downstairs. Now look, he's a kid and according to the doctors it's not as big a deal while he's younger, but nevertheless you want to try to instill strong hygiene habits on this kind of stuff from an early age. Joey, unfortunately, does not enjoy it when anyone attempts to roll back the turtleneck and clean underneath; in fact he hates it so much that he flatly refuses to do it. It's worth noting at this point that my other nephew, Jin (also two and change), is all about popping out to say hello, to the point where many a bath can degenerate into "Take pee-pee out!" and really lose focus on the whole cleaning aspect of the proceedings.
So cut to a few weeks ago when I'm watching Joey and bath time rolls around. My sister had already given me permission to give the kid some ice cream that night, so I bribed him into the tub by promising a surprise afterwards (I know, these are terrible choices for a parent, but I'm not a parent I'm an indulgent uncle) and started natural proceedings. At this point, Joey started asking me to get into the bath with him.
Now, I realize that there is nothing unnatural to the child in this request. There is, however, something incredibly weird to it for an adult. So I told him that I didn't need to take a bath. He countered with asking me if I wanted to be clean too. I told him I would get clean later. He wondered why I didn't get clean now. Realizing I was on the losing side of the argument, I took off my socks and rolled up my jeans and sat on the rim of the bathtub with my feet in the water, which actually appeased him for a few moments. I was foolish enough to think I had won.
The battle started up again when I asked him if we could wash under the crank cover. I was firmly rebuffed. I attempted a simple re-ask in hopes of a changed answer. He again pointed out that I should get into the bath. I balked, and told him it wouldn't hurt to look under the hood to make sure everything was working correctly. He balked and said in no uncertain terms that I was a liar and if I made a move towards his crotch cowl he'd kick me in the teeth .* He then played his trump card and said "You do it."
Well, that gave me pause. Again I realize that this request was not at all bizarre to him since he spends most mornings proudly shirt-cocking around the house, but in that moment I must say it was one of those moments for me where I was left speechless. For one thing, I don't want to overreact, jump out of the tub and cover my crotch with my hands while screaming "WHAT!?!? NONONONO!!" since that would very possibly a) make my nephew suspect that I'm a Never-Nude and/or b) set up a complex about nudity in him that would cripple him for the rest of his life, resulting in him becoming a Never-Nude. Nobody wants this. Secondly, was this a teaching moment? Was this something that I could help him understand and get over, since I was 99% sure I was the only male in his life that also sported the good hood? Thirdly, was his complete lack of embarassment enough to counteract the attack of nervous hysteria that was bubbling up inside me? I stood there in the tub opening and closing my mouth like a fish gasping for air while Joey's tepid bathwater lapped around my feet and my nephew looked up at me with a challenge for Naked Chicken in his eyes.
Ultimately, and I must admit right now that this is making me uncomfortable again just typing it, I decided that it might actually help him if I demonstrated that it wouldn't hurt. I tried to weakly bargain with him that if I showed him it wouldn't hurt, he would then clean himself. He stated an unequivocal no, but that he still wanted me to do it. I said maybe if I did it, he could at least try it. He looked at me with a mixture of scorn and pity. Finally I decided that if I was going to do this, I needed to just take the leap akin to jumping out of a plane to go sky-diving. I looked up to avoid any accidental eye contact took a deep breath and leaped. I have never had my underwear down and up so fast in my life. Joseph looked on, entirely unimpressed with my display and entirely unfazed by the uncomfortable sweat that was dripping down my forehead. He calmly returned to playing with his toys in the tub, let a few moments pass then looked up at me and commanded "Again."
Well, let it never be said that I don't know where to draw a line. Joseph was out of that tub and into pajamas in record time, as I was no longer confident in my ability to outflank him in a debate, particularly on the topic of his knob-warmer. I bundled him downstairs and we had ice cream and watched a not-so-vaguely racist episode of Thomas and Friends while I alternated between laughing about what happened and hiding my face in a pillow to mask how red my cheeks were. He calmly went to sleep and my sister has informed me that my attempt to teach has met with no success as he still passionately defends his right to keep his cobra fully hooded. Which means that the only good that can come out of this experience is the laughs it brings people, so I certainly hope that you enjoyed this.
*There is a chance that this conversation has been upgraded from baby talk for the purposes of humor. A slight chance.
Friday, November 25, 2011
"Smash"-ing
So, it turns out that if I miss a month, people notice. I apologize, I wish I had an awesome reason for missing October, but in all honesty I think I just forgot. All the drinking is catching up with me. Or I'm just getting old. And as I look back, I realize that my post for last October was basically "nothing happened," so maybe October's just a bad month for this blog. In any case, let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?
This will be my second post in a row about television, and if you aren't into the medium I'm afraid you're in for a dismal read. That being said, I think I know my audience pretty well, most of you are TV geeks just like me and I believe you're all salivating at the thought of more posts about it. I'll just state up front that I'm currently reeling at the news that my beloved Cougar Town has been left off of ABC's mid-season schedule, fresh on the heels of NBC's announcement that Community was taking a knee come January as well. It's been a bad week for cult comedies (news of Arrested Development rising from the ashes like a phoenix not-with-standing). So let's talk about something completely different: NBC's upcoming Smash.
I am the target audience for Smash. It's true. It's a show about making a Broadway musical! As I often performed full productions of Broadway musicals in my bedroom growing up (my Pippin was truly something to behold), this show isn't going to hit my sweet spot; it's going to destroy it. It's going to follow a team of writers as they attempt to write a musical about Marilyn Monroe, complete with full production numbers each week. It's a TV show about New York that is actually filmed in New York! Jack Davenport's in it! Debra Messing's in it! Anjelica Huston's in it! And it's introducing Katherine McPhee! *record scratch*
Look, I've got nothing against Katherine McPhee. Don't know the woman. Never having been a fan of American Idol, I didn't catch the McPheever when she was on it; I know she sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" a lot and that she's real purty, which means she was probably Simon's favorite. I get that NBC is at the bottom of the ratings barrel, is desperate to come across any hit for their schedule and is probably hoping that there's some draw left in having a former Idol contestant headline their production. So I will do my best to give Katherine McPhee an honest-to-goodness chance to impress me with her performance. That being said, I'd like to kick NBC's advertising team in the taco.
They are not "introducing" Katherine McPhee. She got the job because she was the runner-up on American Idol. That may not be only reason she got the job, but it's a big one. Idol generally gets over 20 million viewers per episode and since she survived to the end, she was on every single live show her season as well as a lot of the audition episodes. I would say it's possible that more people in the target demographic of 18-49 that advertisers love so much know who Katherine McPhee is than know who Anjelica Huston is (I seriously just realized that fact, and it's making me a little sick. Everyone immediately go watch Addams Family Values or Prizzi's Honor and report back here when you're done). If NBC really wanted to "introduce" someone to the general public, there's only a couple hundred fantastic Broadway actresses that are completely unknown to America at large. Katherine McPhee's not one of them.
Again, I hope she takes this opportunity and proves to be excellent in the role so I can be completely lost in a Broadway musical once a week, cause my gay ass loves a good show-tune. But seriously, NBC? "Introducing Katherine McPhee?" Suck my left nut.
**As I was finishing this post, I was notified by Vulture.com that Harvey Weinstein is apparently stirring up rumors that he might mount a Marilyn Monroe musical on Broadway and wants Katy Perry to play Marilyn. Perhaps there was some memo sent around Hollywood that today was the day to try to give every New York Actor an aneurysm with one news story, because that's really the only excuse for this. I realize that the chances of this actually happening are basically nil and that Harvey's just trying to drum up business for his Marilyn movie with Michelle Williams, but seriously...I read that and almost burst a blood vessel. I'm lucky I don't have that bloody eyeball thing going on right now. Katy Perry headlining a Broadway musical...I think that might make me quit the business.**
This will be my second post in a row about television, and if you aren't into the medium I'm afraid you're in for a dismal read. That being said, I think I know my audience pretty well, most of you are TV geeks just like me and I believe you're all salivating at the thought of more posts about it. I'll just state up front that I'm currently reeling at the news that my beloved Cougar Town has been left off of ABC's mid-season schedule, fresh on the heels of NBC's announcement that Community was taking a knee come January as well. It's been a bad week for cult comedies (news of Arrested Development rising from the ashes like a phoenix not-with-standing). So let's talk about something completely different: NBC's upcoming Smash.
I am the target audience for Smash. It's true. It's a show about making a Broadway musical! As I often performed full productions of Broadway musicals in my bedroom growing up (my Pippin was truly something to behold), this show isn't going to hit my sweet spot; it's going to destroy it. It's going to follow a team of writers as they attempt to write a musical about Marilyn Monroe, complete with full production numbers each week. It's a TV show about New York that is actually filmed in New York! Jack Davenport's in it! Debra Messing's in it! Anjelica Huston's in it! And it's introducing Katherine McPhee! *record scratch*
Look, I've got nothing against Katherine McPhee. Don't know the woman. Never having been a fan of American Idol, I didn't catch the McPheever when she was on it; I know she sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" a lot and that she's real purty, which means she was probably Simon's favorite. I get that NBC is at the bottom of the ratings barrel, is desperate to come across any hit for their schedule and is probably hoping that there's some draw left in having a former Idol contestant headline their production. So I will do my best to give Katherine McPhee an honest-to-goodness chance to impress me with her performance. That being said, I'd like to kick NBC's advertising team in the taco.
They are not "introducing" Katherine McPhee. She got the job because she was the runner-up on American Idol. That may not be only reason she got the job, but it's a big one. Idol generally gets over 20 million viewers per episode and since she survived to the end, she was on every single live show her season as well as a lot of the audition episodes. I would say it's possible that more people in the target demographic of 18-49 that advertisers love so much know who Katherine McPhee is than know who Anjelica Huston is (I seriously just realized that fact, and it's making me a little sick. Everyone immediately go watch Addams Family Values or Prizzi's Honor and report back here when you're done). If NBC really wanted to "introduce" someone to the general public, there's only a couple hundred fantastic Broadway actresses that are completely unknown to America at large. Katherine McPhee's not one of them.
Again, I hope she takes this opportunity and proves to be excellent in the role so I can be completely lost in a Broadway musical once a week, cause my gay ass loves a good show-tune. But seriously, NBC? "Introducing Katherine McPhee?" Suck my left nut.
**As I was finishing this post, I was notified by Vulture.com that Harvey Weinstein is apparently stirring up rumors that he might mount a Marilyn Monroe musical on Broadway and wants Katy Perry to play Marilyn. Perhaps there was some memo sent around Hollywood that today was the day to try to give every New York Actor an aneurysm with one news story, because that's really the only excuse for this. I realize that the chances of this actually happening are basically nil and that Harvey's just trying to drum up business for his Marilyn movie with Michelle Williams, but seriously...I read that and almost burst a blood vessel. I'm lucky I don't have that bloody eyeball thing going on right now. Katy Perry headlining a Broadway musical...I think that might make me quit the business.**
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Oh, Just Film in New York, Would You?
Ah, Fall TV Season. 'Tis one of the best seasons of the year, up there with Baseball Season, Rabbit Season (Duck Season!) and, my personal favorite, Margarita Season. Fall TV Season is always a crap shoot; what new pilots will be canceled right after you fall in love with them (R.I.P. Lone Star)? What horrible pilots will inexplicably find an audience and continue on ad infinitum (Rules of Engagement, airing this year on Saturday night)? What new city can CBS put a carbon copy crime drama in (Tulsa)? But the most burning question I have every year is what fresh, hellish portrayal of my beloved New York City is going to be forced upon me by television producers. Dear Readers, I give you: 2 Broke Girls.
Let me say upfront that I actually enjoyed the pilot of 2 Broke Girls (the second episode not so much). It was reasonably funny and, given that it was on CBS, pretty risque. That being said let's go over how the sitcom, which takes place in Brooklyn, proceeded to get everything completely wrong about it's setting.
1) The "New York Subway"- The generic set that Max (Kat Dennings) and Caroline (Beth Behrs) meet up on during the morning commute was incorrect in just about every way possible. First of all, I know it's fun to think of New York as a disgustingly dirty pit, but that fact of the matter is that our metro system is no longer covered in graffiti. The set looked like it was from Coming to America...I half-expected Eddie Murphy to pop out and started talking about his royal penis. Secondly, if Max and Caroline are riding the subway during rush hour there would be a crush of people on that train so strong that they would be unable to move. Thirdly, if Caroline, as implied by the script, slept the night on the subway train there is no possible way she wouldn't have been woken up by someone sitting so close to her that her personal space bubble would have been forever violated.
2) The "New York Apartment"- The series is called 2 Broke Girls. At the start of the series, one of the titular Broke Girls lives in an apartment with her slacker boyfriend who does not appear to contribute to the rent. Said apartment that the girl (who you must remember, is broke!) is paying for all by her lonesome is a one-bedroom, with a separate living room and kitchen and...drum roll please...a backyard. Yeah, not so much. Not unless "broke" is code for "independently wealthy with a trust fund."
3) The "New York Smell"- I know New York smells. Among the things it smells like are street meat, roasted peanuts, the homeless, garbage, fresh coffee, fresh bagels, fresh danishes and urine. It does not, I repeat does not, smell like horse crap. The only time New York smells like horse poo is when you are walking directly behind a mounted cop. In any case, the second episode of the show repeatedly posits that Caroline's horse, which they're keeping in the backyard...oh, wait, did I forget to mention that the backyard is big enough to hold a horse? Guess what! The backyard is big enough to hold a goddamn horse. And naturally, the horse is leaving little gifts all over the luxurious outdoor space, which the characters have decided smells like Brooklyn. It. Does. Not.
Look, I get that this kind of stuff bothers essentially nobody. But it makes me nuts, and it's my blog so I can bitch about whatever I want.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, Prime Suspect? Yeah, I'm looking at you, Annual-Unnecessary-Adaptation-of-a-Far-Better-British-Original. 20th Street and 4th Avenue doesn't exist. 4th has already become Park that far north. You're welcome.
Let me say upfront that I actually enjoyed the pilot of 2 Broke Girls (the second episode not so much). It was reasonably funny and, given that it was on CBS, pretty risque. That being said let's go over how the sitcom, which takes place in Brooklyn, proceeded to get everything completely wrong about it's setting.
1) The "New York Subway"- The generic set that Max (Kat Dennings) and Caroline (Beth Behrs) meet up on during the morning commute was incorrect in just about every way possible. First of all, I know it's fun to think of New York as a disgustingly dirty pit, but that fact of the matter is that our metro system is no longer covered in graffiti. The set looked like it was from Coming to America...I half-expected Eddie Murphy to pop out and started talking about his royal penis. Secondly, if Max and Caroline are riding the subway during rush hour there would be a crush of people on that train so strong that they would be unable to move. Thirdly, if Caroline, as implied by the script, slept the night on the subway train there is no possible way she wouldn't have been woken up by someone sitting so close to her that her personal space bubble would have been forever violated.
2) The "New York Apartment"- The series is called 2 Broke Girls. At the start of the series, one of the titular Broke Girls lives in an apartment with her slacker boyfriend who does not appear to contribute to the rent. Said apartment that the girl (who you must remember, is broke!) is paying for all by her lonesome is a one-bedroom, with a separate living room and kitchen and...drum roll please...a backyard. Yeah, not so much. Not unless "broke" is code for "independently wealthy with a trust fund."
3) The "New York Smell"- I know New York smells. Among the things it smells like are street meat, roasted peanuts, the homeless, garbage, fresh coffee, fresh bagels, fresh danishes and urine. It does not, I repeat does not, smell like horse crap. The only time New York smells like horse poo is when you are walking directly behind a mounted cop. In any case, the second episode of the show repeatedly posits that Caroline's horse, which they're keeping in the backyard...oh, wait, did I forget to mention that the backyard is big enough to hold a horse? Guess what! The backyard is big enough to hold a goddamn horse. And naturally, the horse is leaving little gifts all over the luxurious outdoor space, which the characters have decided smells like Brooklyn. It. Does. Not.
Look, I get that this kind of stuff bothers essentially nobody. But it makes me nuts, and it's my blog so I can bitch about whatever I want.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, Prime Suspect? Yeah, I'm looking at you, Annual-Unnecessary-Adaptation-of-a-Far-Better-British-Original. 20th Street and 4th Avenue doesn't exist. 4th has already become Park that far north. You're welcome.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
I Survived Hurricane Irene, and All I Got Was Scurvy, Rickets and Generalized Malnutrition
Before anyone panics, let me assure you that I have not contracted any diseases that were stomped out a few hundred years ago. But come on, that's pretty damn good title. Hyperbole is the soul of blogging. Or at least of this blog's title.
In any case, I'm sure that everyone knows at this point that Hurricane Irene was actually Tropical Storm Irene in NYC and it was basically a non-event for us. A lot of anticipation for a really un-momentous climax. Like virgins having sex. I realize that it was awful in other places, and my sympathies to those people who were negatively affected. Is that enough? Have I acknowledged others sufficiently that I can go back to talking about myself now? Fantastic.
As I have told many stories on this blog about my current workplace, I'm sure I don't have to refresh loyal reader's memories that I work in a hotel in Manhattan that is run by what essentially amounts to an arrogant, moronic garden gnome and a cheap, evil ogre. In response to the forecast for the weekend, Gnome and Ogre decided that employees would have to stay over in the hotel in order to keep the place running; mind you, Gnome and Ogre were running back to their homes to stay with their families and take care of them. It was the little peasants that would be required to stay at work the whole time. Let me say now that I don't really have a problem with Gnome and Ogre staying at home; their presence could only have gummed up the works further, as neither one of them has managed to make an effective decision in their entire tenure. Getting one of them to do something useful is like trying to flush a floater: a waste of time and resources.
As I'm sure you can tell, I was one of the employees who stayed at the hotel. I actually didn't have a huge problem with this, as my boyfriend was stranded in LA due to flight cancellations and I obviously wasn't going to be able to do much with a hurricane raging through Brooklyn. However, the crux of the problem arose when I brought up the idea of the hotel providing a per diem for the affected employees. After all, since I was going to be away from my home during this time and would be unable to get food in the area, I thought it was reasonable that the hotel provide some sustenance for it's 30 workers that would be keeping the business up and running during a natural disaster. The hotel could either give everybody a small per diem and we could go get food to bring along, or they could provide food for us.
Well, Gnome and Ogre were having none of the per diem idea. GIVING money to WORKERS?? That's just insane! The hotel, of course, would provide food as it always does. Luckily, I was aware of the worth of a promise from the establishment and wound up packing food for two days and a wine supply. Let's jump ahead to 3 o'clock on Saturday. At this point, all stores in the area have closed, as the MTA shut down operations at noon. Most employees who are on the evening shift have arrived early, as the only way into work was the train and bus system. Cut to the hotel cafeteria, which would not be receiving any further shipments as, again, there was an act of God occurring outside. The hotel has thoughtfully provided the following for it's 30 employees for 4-6 meals each.
-Two (2) Ten Ounce Campbell's New England Clam Chowders
-Three (3) Maruchan Instant Ramen (Beef Flavor)
-Six (6) Two and a Half Ounce Velveeta Mac & Cheese
-Six (6) Hot Dog Buns
-The Bottom of a Crate of Tootsie Rolls
-One (1) Italian panini
-One (1) crate of apples (containing approximately 60 units of fruit)
I realize I should no longer be surprised by this place demonstrating a complete dearth of managerial skills. Yet, somehow, hope springs eternal. I think to myself "Self...I know that these people are the dregs of humanity and the fact that they make exponentially more than you is unfair in the extreme given their incompetence, maliciousness and generalized idiocy. But Self, even THEY have to eat! Even THEY understand that you can't have employees at work for 36-48 hours and not provide food!"
Surprise! They don't understand this! As I said, I had food with me (I didn't expect them to provide GOOD food) and I was fine, but I hope everyone else working there had the same instincts. I wrote an angry letter to the HR Department, the final paragraph of which I will reproduce for you below:
No response as of yet! Let's see how long it takes before they acknowledge anything happened at all...I'm guessing I never hear a peep.
In any case, I'm sure that everyone knows at this point that Hurricane Irene was actually Tropical Storm Irene in NYC and it was basically a non-event for us. A lot of anticipation for a really un-momentous climax. Like virgins having sex. I realize that it was awful in other places, and my sympathies to those people who were negatively affected. Is that enough? Have I acknowledged others sufficiently that I can go back to talking about myself now? Fantastic.
As I have told many stories on this blog about my current workplace, I'm sure I don't have to refresh loyal reader's memories that I work in a hotel in Manhattan that is run by what essentially amounts to an arrogant, moronic garden gnome and a cheap, evil ogre. In response to the forecast for the weekend, Gnome and Ogre decided that employees would have to stay over in the hotel in order to keep the place running; mind you, Gnome and Ogre were running back to their homes to stay with their families and take care of them. It was the little peasants that would be required to stay at work the whole time. Let me say now that I don't really have a problem with Gnome and Ogre staying at home; their presence could only have gummed up the works further, as neither one of them has managed to make an effective decision in their entire tenure. Getting one of them to do something useful is like trying to flush a floater: a waste of time and resources.
As I'm sure you can tell, I was one of the employees who stayed at the hotel. I actually didn't have a huge problem with this, as my boyfriend was stranded in LA due to flight cancellations and I obviously wasn't going to be able to do much with a hurricane raging through Brooklyn. However, the crux of the problem arose when I brought up the idea of the hotel providing a per diem for the affected employees. After all, since I was going to be away from my home during this time and would be unable to get food in the area, I thought it was reasonable that the hotel provide some sustenance for it's 30 workers that would be keeping the business up and running during a natural disaster. The hotel could either give everybody a small per diem and we could go get food to bring along, or they could provide food for us.
Well, Gnome and Ogre were having none of the per diem idea. GIVING money to WORKERS?? That's just insane! The hotel, of course, would provide food as it always does. Luckily, I was aware of the worth of a promise from the establishment and wound up packing food for two days and a wine supply. Let's jump ahead to 3 o'clock on Saturday. At this point, all stores in the area have closed, as the MTA shut down operations at noon. Most employees who are on the evening shift have arrived early, as the only way into work was the train and bus system. Cut to the hotel cafeteria, which would not be receiving any further shipments as, again, there was an act of God occurring outside. The hotel has thoughtfully provided the following for it's 30 employees for 4-6 meals each.
-Two (2) Ten Ounce Campbell's New England Clam Chowders
-Three (3) Maruchan Instant Ramen (Beef Flavor)
-Six (6) Two and a Half Ounce Velveeta Mac & Cheese
-Six (6) Hot Dog Buns
-The Bottom of a Crate of Tootsie Rolls
-One (1) Italian panini
-One (1) crate of apples (containing approximately 60 units of fruit)
I realize I should no longer be surprised by this place demonstrating a complete dearth of managerial skills. Yet, somehow, hope springs eternal. I think to myself "Self...I know that these people are the dregs of humanity and the fact that they make exponentially more than you is unfair in the extreme given their incompetence, maliciousness and generalized idiocy. But Self, even THEY have to eat! Even THEY understand that you can't have employees at work for 36-48 hours and not provide food!"
Surprise! They don't understand this! As I said, I had food with me (I didn't expect them to provide GOOD food) and I was fine, but I hope everyone else working there had the same instincts. I wrote an angry letter to the HR Department, the final paragraph of which I will reproduce for you below:
Bitch probably needed a dictionary to read that one.How [the food provided] is expected to keep a 35 person staff fed and healthy for at least another 36 hours is a mystery to me. I can only hope that most people had the foresight to pack food from home. However, I cannot help but feel as if this blatant disregard for a hard-working staff's time and health is anything but indicative of either a deep ignorance of the situation or a complete lack of caring. As I know the problem was brought up to the Executive Committee on Friday, with plenty of time to implement a course of action to avoid such negligence, I don't see how anyone could reasonably claim ignorance. Whatever the reason, the result is unacceptable and I, for one, feel as if the powers that be at this hotel owe their employees compensation and a heartfelt apology.
No response as of yet! Let's see how long it takes before they acknowledge anything happened at all...I'm guessing I never hear a peep.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The European Gelato Conundrum
I recently went to Spain. I saw Madrid, I saw Ibiza, I saw Barcelona and as is my tradition, I didn't see set foot in any cathedrals. However, after spending ten days in Spain, I'm left with one burning question: why can't the US get gelato right? Seriously, for all the money that's being thrown around for frozen treats during the dog days of summer, no one wants to step up and just figure out what, exactly, they're putting in this stuff across the Atlantic? No fewer than five new ice cream shops have sprung up in my neighborhood of Brooklyn alone in the last year, and not one of them has gelato on the menu. The only place with "gelato" is a small stand outside of a pizza place that serves their "gelato" in small paper cups that generally fall apart and can only hold a maximum of two scoops of their pale imitation. In Madrid, I was able to get a heaping cup with chocolate, pistachio and coconut gelato scooped on top of each other, and a solid transport system that could carry it while I strolled through the city streets, eating it at my leisure.
It's not as if America has a problem with treats that are fattening. We are a culture that keeps Paula Deen in the money as she shows us how to fry up whole sticks of butter, or make a deluxe hamburger with Krispy Kreme donuts serving as a bun. We aren't afraid of few calories, and those of us who are go to Tasti D-Lite, a self-described "frozen treat." So serve it up, America. I want all of the creamy goodness that I get in my Eurpean gelato to be imported directly to Brooklyn. Frankly, I would prefer my tax dollars be spent on this task than supporting organizations like the Boy Scouts. Make it happen.
It's not as if America has a problem with treats that are fattening. We are a culture that keeps Paula Deen in the money as she shows us how to fry up whole sticks of butter, or make a deluxe hamburger with Krispy Kreme donuts serving as a bun. We aren't afraid of few calories, and those of us who are go to Tasti D-Lite, a self-described "frozen treat." So serve it up, America. I want all of the creamy goodness that I get in my Eurpean gelato to be imported directly to Brooklyn. Frankly, I would prefer my tax dollars be spent on this task than supporting organizations like the Boy Scouts. Make it happen.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Take a Look. It's In a Book.
This post is inspired by my dear friend Amber, otherwise known as The Bookwench. If you'd like to read her consistently hilarious, salty musings on her time working in bookstores, head on over to http://bookwench42.blogspot.com/ and find her thoughts on everything from stupid people who can't count to her overwhelming need for a herd of attack ponies. Oh yes. Attack ponies.
But back to my point. This is about people who say the following statement:
"I'm SO EXCITED for the final Harry Potter movie!! I can't wait to see how it ends!!"
Really? Can you not wait? Are you SO EXCITED??? Here's an idea: read the books. The ending of Harry Potter has been spoiled since the final book was published in 2007. For those of you keeping track, that's four years ago. FOUR YEARS in which you could have borrowed them from a friend (because every person on the planet has a friend who owns the complete series) and read them. You are not that busy.
And the thing is, it's not like it's a chore to read the things. They're almost universally adored by everyone who takes the time; they fly by. It's not like I'm demanding you slog your way through Atlas Shrugged before going to see the movie, or insisting that you read Moby Dick before catching it on AMC one Saturday afternoon (side note: I haven't read either of these books, though I was supposed to read Moby Dick in high school and didn't...still aced the test, because my teacher wasn't the brightest). The Harry Potter novels are modern classics, written for a modern audience, at a low enough comprehension level that 10 year-olds can read them, understand them and love them.
I'd like to point out that I don't care if you don't want to have anything to do with the entire Harry Potter phenomenon. I mean, I think you're missing out and you're judging a book by it's cover, which is really not okay when dealing with an actual book (incidentally, it's totally fine when dealing with people). But whatever, you hate fantasy novels, you hate children's literature, you hate all things bright and beautiful...that's your affair.
I also don't care if you enjoy the movies and don't really feel like reading the books. And I happen to think the movies are excellent adaptations of the books. But seriously, people...you are not super-fan if you haven't ever bothered to look at the source material. And if you continue to insist on squealing as if you know what the hell you're talking about, I'm going to have to recommend you get punched in the neck.
Let's round this out with a haiku:
Not illiterate?
Fantastic! Now suck it up
And read the damn books.
But back to my point. This is about people who say the following statement:
"I'm SO EXCITED for the final Harry Potter movie!! I can't wait to see how it ends!!"
Really? Can you not wait? Are you SO EXCITED??? Here's an idea: read the books. The ending of Harry Potter has been spoiled since the final book was published in 2007. For those of you keeping track, that's four years ago. FOUR YEARS in which you could have borrowed them from a friend (because every person on the planet has a friend who owns the complete series) and read them. You are not that busy.
And the thing is, it's not like it's a chore to read the things. They're almost universally adored by everyone who takes the time; they fly by. It's not like I'm demanding you slog your way through Atlas Shrugged before going to see the movie, or insisting that you read Moby Dick before catching it on AMC one Saturday afternoon (side note: I haven't read either of these books, though I was supposed to read Moby Dick in high school and didn't...still aced the test, because my teacher wasn't the brightest). The Harry Potter novels are modern classics, written for a modern audience, at a low enough comprehension level that 10 year-olds can read them, understand them and love them.
I'd like to point out that I don't care if you don't want to have anything to do with the entire Harry Potter phenomenon. I mean, I think you're missing out and you're judging a book by it's cover, which is really not okay when dealing with an actual book (incidentally, it's totally fine when dealing with people). But whatever, you hate fantasy novels, you hate children's literature, you hate all things bright and beautiful...that's your affair.
I also don't care if you enjoy the movies and don't really feel like reading the books. And I happen to think the movies are excellent adaptations of the books. But seriously, people...you are not super-fan if you haven't ever bothered to look at the source material. And if you continue to insist on squealing as if you know what the hell you're talking about, I'm going to have to recommend you get punched in the neck.
Let's round this out with a haiku:
Not illiterate?
Fantastic! Now suck it up
And read the damn books.
Friday, May 27, 2011
What Did You Expect?
Has everyone heard about the Northwestern University Human Sexuality class that was canceled after the professor had a voluntary, after class demonstration involving a non-student couple and their fucksaw? No? How this didn't blaze across the internet like the news of a Bieber shearing I'll never know.
It seems this past February, Professor John Michael Bailey invited a guest lecturer into class, one Ken Melvoin-Berg who runs the "Weird Chicago Red Light District Sex Tour" (I'm not making this up). The esteemed speaker proceeded to inform the student that there would be a graphic exhibition following class, which some of the students chose to stick around for. At which point, a couple (I assume they volunteered) climbed up onstage and the man proceeded to get his girlfriend off with the aforementioned fucksaw, while Berg narrated the goings on and held forth on topics such as proper usage of a fucksaw and how important it is to make sure you have the blessing of your partner before whipping it out. This went over about as well as you would expect and since, the class has been canceled and Bailey has been placed under investigation. I can't help but think that this entire situation could have been avoided if people had applied a little bit of critical thinking to the matter. Observe.
What did you expect, Professor John Michael Bailey? You invited some dude who runs an experience that he's named the "Weird Chicago Red Light District Sex Tour" to come speak to you college course, and apparently gave him carte-blanche to speak about and do whatever he wanted. Your course getting canceled was probably fated as soon as you heard the words "fucksaw demonstration" and that didn't raise any red flags for you. People support your school with donations and tuition; how many parents and alumni do you think would be thrilled to find out that they're paying for this? The alumni would be pissed that they weren't enrolled when this kind of stuff was getting offered, and most parents would probably prefer that their kids learn about things like power tool-sex toy hybrids in their spare time.
And further, what did you expect, students who stayed after for the demonstration that you had been warned would be graphic? There are three possibilities for how this shook out: either one of you complained, one of the people who didn't stay complained, or one of you told your parents about what happened and they complained. Since I sincerely doubt that anyone would want to tell their mother about an experience like this, that leaves us with a student as the culprit, and I'm guessing it was one of you, as someone who left really shouldn't be offended enough to pursue this. So you chose to stay for the show, and then afterwards wished you hadn't and decided that you should get your professor axed. Look, the guy clearly should have put the kibosh on this before the model climaxed all over your term papers, but it was voluntary. You should be glad it wasn't on the final. And what's up with a bunch of college students leaving when they're being told there's going to be a graphic sexual act being performed for their viewing pleasure? For shit's sake, you're what, 20? Where are your raging hormones? You all should have been GLUED to those chairs. All that free porn on the internet is de-sensitizing our youth.
And finally, what were you expecting, Northwestern University? That this story wouldn't be reported with glee as soon as one snarky blogger got a hold of it? Wouldn't it have been better to just give this guy a slap on the wrist and let him know that you don't think showing a bunch of college kids an orgasm is something that upholds the great tradition of your institution (although from what I've heard about straight college guys, there might be some women out there who are very thankful for the kind of education this may have provided)? Instead, you have a news story about it, and your school is going to forever be associated, at least by me, with the phrase "fucksaw demonstration." Seriously, I promise sweeping this one under the rug was the the better choice.
In fact, I'd say the only people who got what they expected out of this were the exhibitionist couple who performed for the class. They clearly got EXACTLY what they wanted, and are probably still getting it regularly at the thought of all those eyes glued on them, so more power to them. Also, that is one confident dude, as I don't know of any human pelvis that can match a rate of 2500 strokes per minute, which the fucksaw claims to reach. I bet they're a blast at parties. As the two most intelligent people who are a part of this story, I wish them and their fucksaw all the best.
It seems this past February, Professor John Michael Bailey invited a guest lecturer into class, one Ken Melvoin-Berg who runs the "Weird Chicago Red Light District Sex Tour" (I'm not making this up). The esteemed speaker proceeded to inform the student that there would be a graphic exhibition following class, which some of the students chose to stick around for. At which point, a couple (I assume they volunteered) climbed up onstage and the man proceeded to get his girlfriend off with the aforementioned fucksaw, while Berg narrated the goings on and held forth on topics such as proper usage of a fucksaw and how important it is to make sure you have the blessing of your partner before whipping it out. This went over about as well as you would expect and since, the class has been canceled and Bailey has been placed under investigation. I can't help but think that this entire situation could have been avoided if people had applied a little bit of critical thinking to the matter. Observe.
What did you expect, Professor John Michael Bailey? You invited some dude who runs an experience that he's named the "Weird Chicago Red Light District Sex Tour" to come speak to you college course, and apparently gave him carte-blanche to speak about and do whatever he wanted. Your course getting canceled was probably fated as soon as you heard the words "fucksaw demonstration" and that didn't raise any red flags for you. People support your school with donations and tuition; how many parents and alumni do you think would be thrilled to find out that they're paying for this? The alumni would be pissed that they weren't enrolled when this kind of stuff was getting offered, and most parents would probably prefer that their kids learn about things like power tool-sex toy hybrids in their spare time.
And further, what did you expect, students who stayed after for the demonstration that you had been warned would be graphic? There are three possibilities for how this shook out: either one of you complained, one of the people who didn't stay complained, or one of you told your parents about what happened and they complained. Since I sincerely doubt that anyone would want to tell their mother about an experience like this, that leaves us with a student as the culprit, and I'm guessing it was one of you, as someone who left really shouldn't be offended enough to pursue this. So you chose to stay for the show, and then afterwards wished you hadn't and decided that you should get your professor axed. Look, the guy clearly should have put the kibosh on this before the model climaxed all over your term papers, but it was voluntary. You should be glad it wasn't on the final. And what's up with a bunch of college students leaving when they're being told there's going to be a graphic sexual act being performed for their viewing pleasure? For shit's sake, you're what, 20? Where are your raging hormones? You all should have been GLUED to those chairs. All that free porn on the internet is de-sensitizing our youth.
And finally, what were you expecting, Northwestern University? That this story wouldn't be reported with glee as soon as one snarky blogger got a hold of it? Wouldn't it have been better to just give this guy a slap on the wrist and let him know that you don't think showing a bunch of college kids an orgasm is something that upholds the great tradition of your institution (although from what I've heard about straight college guys, there might be some women out there who are very thankful for the kind of education this may have provided)? Instead, you have a news story about it, and your school is going to forever be associated, at least by me, with the phrase "fucksaw demonstration." Seriously, I promise sweeping this one under the rug was the the better choice.
In fact, I'd say the only people who got what they expected out of this were the exhibitionist couple who performed for the class. They clearly got EXACTLY what they wanted, and are probably still getting it regularly at the thought of all those eyes glued on them, so more power to them. Also, that is one confident dude, as I don't know of any human pelvis that can match a rate of 2500 strokes per minute, which the fucksaw claims to reach. I bet they're a blast at parties. As the two most intelligent people who are a part of this story, I wish them and their fucksaw all the best.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Wedding Bell Blues
A few weeks ago, while in California, I stumbled across a report on NBC's today show. What was it? It was a hard-hitting expose on girls that were traveling to England and hanging out in pubs that Prince Harry supposedly frequents in hopes of bagging themselves a prince. Congratulations NBC, you've now validated a practice that sets women back further than Jersey Shore. Yeah, I said it.
What the hell is up with Royal Wedding Fever? RWF is like social herpes: it pops up in unexpected places and it won't go away. I would really love someone to develop some kind of Valtrex for all major media outlets. Let's actually say all minor media outlets as well; really anyone or anything with the ability to produce more "news" about this non-event should be treated. I'd buy it in bulk. I just found out that apparently ABC has produced a 3D animated breakdown of tomorrow's ceremony, and I barely managed to swill a large gulp of malbec to stop my head from exploding. Didn't a bunch of our ancestors fight a war so we wouldn't have to care what the British royal family did? I mean, not my ancestors...they were all scattered throughout Italy, Ireland and Germany during the American Revolution. Besides, we're lovers not fighters. But someone else's ancestors definitely fought for freedom!
For the record, I have nothing against Prince William or Kate Middleton. I'm sure they have beautiful souls. This is also not a "I can't married and I hate that they can" thing. I'm not a homo who begrudges other people their marriages. Go forth. Prosper. Don't procreate if you're stupid. If you're not sure if you're stupid, err on the side of sterilization.
But getting back to the upcoming nuptials, every time I hear someone saying that they're going to wake up at 3 am to "see the hats" and "eat scones" and watch this ridiculous pageant I want to punch them in the neck. First of all, who the hell ever wants to eat scones? They're a shitty dessert; it's like someone decided to take cookies, overcook them and throw in some bad fruit to try to make it "fancy." Furthermore, if you're going to do the party right, don't get up at 3 am, STAY up until 3 am. It'll be much easier, and if you just get completely schnackered you might not hate yourself so much for getting no sleep. Instead, you'll have a pounding hang-over, and hate yourself for that instead; luckily if you just strap on your boot flask in the morning a little hair-of-the-dog should get you through work. Don't even get me started on the people who are actually taking a the day off.
I realize that the Royal Wedding is, at this point, a gigantic snowball that is hurtling down the mountain at unimaginable speed. The most anyone can do is to leap out of the way and hope to not get splattered with too much unwanted detritus when it hits bottom and explodes. Personally, I'll be holed up in my room loving Parks & Recreation and The Vampire Diaries. Yes, I believe The Vampire Diaries to be a far more entertaining and intelligent way to spend time in front of the TV then this union.
What the hell is up with Royal Wedding Fever? RWF is like social herpes: it pops up in unexpected places and it won't go away. I would really love someone to develop some kind of Valtrex for all major media outlets. Let's actually say all minor media outlets as well; really anyone or anything with the ability to produce more "news" about this non-event should be treated. I'd buy it in bulk. I just found out that apparently ABC has produced a 3D animated breakdown of tomorrow's ceremony, and I barely managed to swill a large gulp of malbec to stop my head from exploding. Didn't a bunch of our ancestors fight a war so we wouldn't have to care what the British royal family did? I mean, not my ancestors...they were all scattered throughout Italy, Ireland and Germany during the American Revolution. Besides, we're lovers not fighters. But someone else's ancestors definitely fought for freedom!
For the record, I have nothing against Prince William or Kate Middleton. I'm sure they have beautiful souls. This is also not a "I can't married and I hate that they can" thing. I'm not a homo who begrudges other people their marriages. Go forth. Prosper. Don't procreate if you're stupid. If you're not sure if you're stupid, err on the side of sterilization.
But getting back to the upcoming nuptials, every time I hear someone saying that they're going to wake up at 3 am to "see the hats" and "eat scones" and watch this ridiculous pageant I want to punch them in the neck. First of all, who the hell ever wants to eat scones? They're a shitty dessert; it's like someone decided to take cookies, overcook them and throw in some bad fruit to try to make it "fancy." Furthermore, if you're going to do the party right, don't get up at 3 am, STAY up until 3 am. It'll be much easier, and if you just get completely schnackered you might not hate yourself so much for getting no sleep. Instead, you'll have a pounding hang-over, and hate yourself for that instead; luckily if you just strap on your boot flask in the morning a little hair-of-the-dog should get you through work. Don't even get me started on the people who are actually taking a the day off.
I realize that the Royal Wedding is, at this point, a gigantic snowball that is hurtling down the mountain at unimaginable speed. The most anyone can do is to leap out of the way and hope to not get splattered with too much unwanted detritus when it hits bottom and explodes. Personally, I'll be holed up in my room loving Parks & Recreation and The Vampire Diaries. Yes, I believe The Vampire Diaries to be a far more entertaining and intelligent way to spend time in front of the TV then this union.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Hell Freezes Over: The Ballad of Joan and Olga
There are certain things I don't imagine myself doing. Competing in the 2012 Summer Olympics. Memorizing the formula for glue (anyone get that reference?). Long division. Then there are those things that not only do I not picture myself doing, but things that I under NO circumstances ever want to do. Eat salmon. Throw out good wine. Camp. However, this past week I was confronted with something that I never planned on doing, and in fact would have laughed at the thought of. What was it you ask? Why, this past week I helped a woman achieve orgasm.
Allow me to explain. The hotel I work, star of much past ridiculata documented here, has in every guest room a small pamphlet detailing items available for purchase. This pamphlet is known as The Pleasure Chest. The Pleasure Chest contains items ranging from vibrators to dildoes to butt plugs to a pair of rhinestone-studded handcuffs (because nothing classes up a joint like bedazzling some bed-time restraints). On this fine evening of which I write, a lovely woman, let's call her Joan, called down to Guest Services and requested Item #105 from the Pleasure Chest, which (for those of your with prurient interests) is a Rabbit Vibrator made famous years ago by Sex & The City. Joan was completely unashamed about her request, to which I say congratulations! Get your freak on! I told her I'd have it sent to her room and hung up.
This is where the entire operation starts to go slightly awry. Whose job is it to deliver sex toys to rooms, you wonder? Why, it's the Housekeepers' responsibility (though I always thought it should have gone to Room Service..."Your butt plug on silver platter, sir!"). So I get on the radio to inform the Housekeeper that we have an order.
"Guest Services to Housekeeping," I said "Room 1607 would like to order Item #105 from The Pleasure Chest."
"Copy!" the radio squawked back.
I happily moved on with my evening, which I'm sure consisted of nothing resembling work. Approximately fifteen minutes passed and the phone rang again. It was Joan and it seemed that the delivery of vibrator to vibratee did not go as planned. Apparently, when I passed on the message to the Housekeeping Manager, (let's call her Olga) the message was not received. Olga, you see, was born and raised somewhere in Eastern Europe and to say that English is her second language is generous. Olga, upon hearing my message, got right on her duties and promptly delivered an iron and ironing board to Joan. I'm sure somewhere out there, there is some housewife that has a dirty little secret about her ironing board, but apparently Joan did not wish to pleasure herself atop a pressing table.
In a display of patience unheard of among hotel guests, Joan calmly drew out the Pleasure Chest pamphlet and showed Olga just what exactly she was requesting. Olga, still somewhat confused, returned to the Housekeeping Office to try to find Joan's toy. After a thorough search, Olga conquered...she found a box with the Pleasure Chest logo on it! Proud of herself she marched right back up to Joan's room to deliver her prize.
Unfortunately, this was strike two; what Olga actually found was the intimacy kit (also provided by The Pleasure Chest, but not available in the pamphlet!) containing, among other things, condoms and lube. And really, if a woman is trying to have a pleasant night by herself is there anything more lemon-juice-in-the-wound than sending her a pair of condoms? Unless she's a lesbian. But for some reason I imagine lesbians traveling with their paraphernalia. Somehow Joan, who is now my favorite guest in history, still manages to keep her cool and calmly called me back and explained what had happened.
It's at this point that I really had to become involved. I called Olga up to the office and pulled out The Pleasure Chest pamphlet to again go over with her what, exactly, Joan was looking for. Olga professed to have no idea where all these sex toys were being kept, and kept shrugging her shoulders. I'm sure you can imagine how wonderful it is to be having an extended conversation about vibrators with a woman who acts like she was brought up in a small town just outside of Transylvania. Every time you say the word "vibrator," she thinks you're saying "vampire" and throws holy water in your face.
I realized fairly quickly that Olga was not going to be much help in this department, and had to start calling around the hotel to find out who, if anyone, would be able to locate the assorted items. Everyone I spoke to informed me that it was Housekeeping's job to deliver said items.
"I know!" I wanted to scream, "But, goddammit, Olga doesn't know where they are, Joan has been waiting for 25 minutes to get off and for fuck's sake this is the first hotel guest I've actually like in 2011! So if someone, ANYONE, has any idea where we can find a toy that locates a woman's g-spot, get it up to Joan's room so she can have her very hard-earned orgasm!!"
But I didn't.
Finally, we found a Bellman who knew where the toys were kept. Why he knew is probably a question better left unasked. It turns out the assorted sexual accoutrement were being kept in a locked closet in the gym, which I hope will make everyone pause before they go sniffing around your hotel's fitness area looking for a towel. I dispatched Olga to retrieve the vibrator and called Joan back.
"I'm so sorry for the confusion," I said "but your purchase is on the way right now."
"No problem!" Joan chirped, not skipping a beat. "I can't wait!"
Joan is my heroine. I hope that that vibrator gave her a night she'll never forget.
Allow me to explain. The hotel I work, star of much past ridiculata documented here, has in every guest room a small pamphlet detailing items available for purchase. This pamphlet is known as The Pleasure Chest. The Pleasure Chest contains items ranging from vibrators to dildoes to butt plugs to a pair of rhinestone-studded handcuffs (because nothing classes up a joint like bedazzling some bed-time restraints). On this fine evening of which I write, a lovely woman, let's call her Joan, called down to Guest Services and requested Item #105 from the Pleasure Chest, which (for those of your with prurient interests) is a Rabbit Vibrator made famous years ago by Sex & The City. Joan was completely unashamed about her request, to which I say congratulations! Get your freak on! I told her I'd have it sent to her room and hung up.
This is where the entire operation starts to go slightly awry. Whose job is it to deliver sex toys to rooms, you wonder? Why, it's the Housekeepers' responsibility (though I always thought it should have gone to Room Service..."Your butt plug on silver platter, sir!"). So I get on the radio to inform the Housekeeper that we have an order.
"Guest Services to Housekeeping," I said "Room 1607 would like to order Item #105 from The Pleasure Chest."
"Copy!" the radio squawked back.
I happily moved on with my evening, which I'm sure consisted of nothing resembling work. Approximately fifteen minutes passed and the phone rang again. It was Joan and it seemed that the delivery of vibrator to vibratee did not go as planned. Apparently, when I passed on the message to the Housekeeping Manager, (let's call her Olga) the message was not received. Olga, you see, was born and raised somewhere in Eastern Europe and to say that English is her second language is generous. Olga, upon hearing my message, got right on her duties and promptly delivered an iron and ironing board to Joan. I'm sure somewhere out there, there is some housewife that has a dirty little secret about her ironing board, but apparently Joan did not wish to pleasure herself atop a pressing table.
In a display of patience unheard of among hotel guests, Joan calmly drew out the Pleasure Chest pamphlet and showed Olga just what exactly she was requesting. Olga, still somewhat confused, returned to the Housekeeping Office to try to find Joan's toy. After a thorough search, Olga conquered...she found a box with the Pleasure Chest logo on it! Proud of herself she marched right back up to Joan's room to deliver her prize.
Unfortunately, this was strike two; what Olga actually found was the intimacy kit (also provided by The Pleasure Chest, but not available in the pamphlet!) containing, among other things, condoms and lube. And really, if a woman is trying to have a pleasant night by herself is there anything more lemon-juice-in-the-wound than sending her a pair of condoms? Unless she's a lesbian. But for some reason I imagine lesbians traveling with their paraphernalia. Somehow Joan, who is now my favorite guest in history, still manages to keep her cool and calmly called me back and explained what had happened.
It's at this point that I really had to become involved. I called Olga up to the office and pulled out The Pleasure Chest pamphlet to again go over with her what, exactly, Joan was looking for. Olga professed to have no idea where all these sex toys were being kept, and kept shrugging her shoulders. I'm sure you can imagine how wonderful it is to be having an extended conversation about vibrators with a woman who acts like she was brought up in a small town just outside of Transylvania. Every time you say the word "vibrator," she thinks you're saying "vampire" and throws holy water in your face.
I realized fairly quickly that Olga was not going to be much help in this department, and had to start calling around the hotel to find out who, if anyone, would be able to locate the assorted items. Everyone I spoke to informed me that it was Housekeeping's job to deliver said items.
"I know!" I wanted to scream, "But, goddammit, Olga doesn't know where they are, Joan has been waiting for 25 minutes to get off and for fuck's sake this is the first hotel guest I've actually like in 2011! So if someone, ANYONE, has any idea where we can find a toy that locates a woman's g-spot, get it up to Joan's room so she can have her very hard-earned orgasm!!"
But I didn't.
Finally, we found a Bellman who knew where the toys were kept. Why he knew is probably a question better left unasked. It turns out the assorted sexual accoutrement were being kept in a locked closet in the gym, which I hope will make everyone pause before they go sniffing around your hotel's fitness area looking for a towel. I dispatched Olga to retrieve the vibrator and called Joan back.
"I'm so sorry for the confusion," I said "but your purchase is on the way right now."
"No problem!" Joan chirped, not skipping a beat. "I can't wait!"
Joan is my heroine. I hope that that vibrator gave her a night she'll never forget.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Spider-Man: Turn Off the Plot
So this Saturday I saw the current Typhoid Mary of Broadway, otherwise known as Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark. How does one turn off the dark you ask? I can assure you I have no idea, and the show makes no effort to tell you. We all know that the critics have almost unanimously declared the show a total disaster, which led me to have a slight hope of lowered expectations leading to a more enjoyable evening.
Before I continue, let me state for the record that I am the target audience for this musical. I love comic books. I need no deeper meaning in my musicals, I'm perfectly happy to enjoy it for pure entertainment value. I like the songs of U2. I generally am happy spending time with things that cost $65 million dollars to create. I went in wanting to be able to scoff at the critic's derision.
This musical is an unmitigated disaster. What follows, to be clear, is not an attempt at criticism. What follows is a rant from an outraged fan-boy.
At what point does one become so wrapped up in and blinded by one's own arrogance that one believes that the best way to present a beloved, almost 50-year-old pop culture figure is to rewrite his history to the point where it's barely recognizable? There are countless characters available for your use, whether the focus is on the romantic or heroic story-lines. Why invent new ones? And if you are using classic characters, why completely disregard the established history? And if you aren't draining them of their history, why do you then make them so bland and washed out that they display no personality whatsoever? Sure, the Green Goblin can talk with a Southern accent! Who cares if he lives in New York? Let's make up a super-villainess and then have her be played by a drag queen! It'll be funny! Never mind that Mary Jane is supposed to be a hot-tempered model with a body that stops traffic! Let's dress her in bland clothing and make her so boring that the biggest unsolved mystery of the show is why in hell Peter would ever be attracted to her in the first place!
And really, these are just scratching the surface of how offensively terrible this show is. At least three different decades are presented by the various costumes. The lead actor is so utterly devoid of charisma that he manages to make you mostly root for the Green Goblin, because at least the Goblin's having fun. There is not, in the entire two and half hour fiasco, a single hummable tune. Whenever even the creative team can't pretend that whatever is going on onstage isn't a gigantic steaming pile of nonsensical poo, they bring out the video screens and play videos of the super-villains doing super-villainous acts, all scored by music that can most generously be characterized as loud. The big eleven o'clock number, as performed on Saturday, was unintelligible from start to finish, and ended with a shriek so off-key that I actually recoiled in my seat and tried to plug my ears. The entire second act is a Julie Taymor fever-dream that inspired me to say "What the fuck is going on?" in complete bewilderment. I still couldn't tell you what happened in that second act. I think it may all have been an illusion. Except for the parts that weren't. Those were real. But everything else was an illusion. I think.
I could go on. I could talk about the number where Arachne (you know the one from Greek mythology?) decides the reason that Peter loves Mary Jane and not her is because Mary Jane has shoes on her legs. So she goes out to get shoes, and a corps of poor chorines are saddled with four fake legs strapped to their waists while they dance. You know, because they're like spiders. Only spiders have eight legs, so I guess we're counting arms as a pair of legs now. Something like that. Or other needless re-writes to the story, or other wretchedly bad performances or other ridiculously poor directorial choices. But instead, I'll move on and talk of the good things I saw.
Aaaaand scene.
Before I continue, let me state for the record that I am the target audience for this musical. I love comic books. I need no deeper meaning in my musicals, I'm perfectly happy to enjoy it for pure entertainment value. I like the songs of U2. I generally am happy spending time with things that cost $65 million dollars to create. I went in wanting to be able to scoff at the critic's derision.
This musical is an unmitigated disaster. What follows, to be clear, is not an attempt at criticism. What follows is a rant from an outraged fan-boy.
At what point does one become so wrapped up in and blinded by one's own arrogance that one believes that the best way to present a beloved, almost 50-year-old pop culture figure is to rewrite his history to the point where it's barely recognizable? There are countless characters available for your use, whether the focus is on the romantic or heroic story-lines. Why invent new ones? And if you are using classic characters, why completely disregard the established history? And if you aren't draining them of their history, why do you then make them so bland and washed out that they display no personality whatsoever? Sure, the Green Goblin can talk with a Southern accent! Who cares if he lives in New York? Let's make up a super-villainess and then have her be played by a drag queen! It'll be funny! Never mind that Mary Jane is supposed to be a hot-tempered model with a body that stops traffic! Let's dress her in bland clothing and make her so boring that the biggest unsolved mystery of the show is why in hell Peter would ever be attracted to her in the first place!
And really, these are just scratching the surface of how offensively terrible this show is. At least three different decades are presented by the various costumes. The lead actor is so utterly devoid of charisma that he manages to make you mostly root for the Green Goblin, because at least the Goblin's having fun. There is not, in the entire two and half hour fiasco, a single hummable tune. Whenever even the creative team can't pretend that whatever is going on onstage isn't a gigantic steaming pile of nonsensical poo, they bring out the video screens and play videos of the super-villains doing super-villainous acts, all scored by music that can most generously be characterized as loud. The big eleven o'clock number, as performed on Saturday, was unintelligible from start to finish, and ended with a shriek so off-key that I actually recoiled in my seat and tried to plug my ears. The entire second act is a Julie Taymor fever-dream that inspired me to say "What the fuck is going on?" in complete bewilderment. I still couldn't tell you what happened in that second act. I think it may all have been an illusion. Except for the parts that weren't. Those were real. But everything else was an illusion. I think.
I could go on. I could talk about the number where Arachne (you know the one from Greek mythology?) decides the reason that Peter loves Mary Jane and not her is because Mary Jane has shoes on her legs. So she goes out to get shoes, and a corps of poor chorines are saddled with four fake legs strapped to their waists while they dance. You know, because they're like spiders. Only spiders have eight legs, so I guess we're counting arms as a pair of legs now. Something like that. Or other needless re-writes to the story, or other wretchedly bad performances or other ridiculously poor directorial choices. But instead, I'll move on and talk of the good things I saw.
Aaaaand scene.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
I've Got a Pocketful of Sunshine
There are many things that I've found in my pocket over the years. My phone. My keys. On one glorious day, a $20 bill. I've never found sunshine. Not once. This is partly because I'm not what one would refer to as an eternal optimist. This is also partly because sunshine is intangible light, and hence impossible to keep in one's pocket. However, I'm not here to parse the relative reality of Natasha Bedingfield song titles. I'm here to discuss how I've finally wound up with a "pocketful of sunshine." The quotation marks are there to denote sarcasm.
It seems that recently the Labor Board made a surprise visit to my place of employment in midtown. Now don't get your hopes up; this story sadly doesn't end with my departure from the hotel in a blaze of glory. However, the Labor Board was nice enough to let the Powers That Be know that doling out paychecks every two weeks was illegal, and hence I will now be receiving remittance for my soul every seven days. The Labor Board's flexing it's muscle had an unforeseen and unfortunate consequence for the very employees they were trying to protect: they scared the general manager. And when the GM, who's a useless little hamster if there ever was one, is scared he feels he needs to take action.
"Action" in this case could mean any number of things. For instance, if I was someone in charge of a group of dissatisfied employees who had just had my ass handed to me by the government, I would make an effort to improve working conditions. Perhaps offer an incentive. Buy lunch for the employees. Give people a raise which they haven't received in three years. However, the dirty little hobbit did none of these things. Instead, he had all employees come to one of three inspirational talks that I have no doubt he composed himself in a haze of delusion and self-importance.
I wish I could tell you that I had the forethought to record his ramblings. I didn't. I could try to recreate them here for you, but I don't feel I could even begin to do them justice without the help of a significant amount of mind altering drugs and large influx of douche into my personality. In essence, he spoke about how he knew that the hotel was going to make it in this struggling economy because of how wonderful all of his employees are. He pointed out how whenever he went into Duane Reade, he couldn't get the employees to smile at him and he couldn't understand why. Here's why: the Duane Reade employee is probably working two jobs and struggling to make ends meet and hence isn't interested in making small talk with an over-privileged asshole with all the charm of an unanesthetised limb amputation. He also told a story about how he "made a cab driver's day" by giving him a $3 tip on a $7 ride. Allow me to say that I routinely tip that much, and I don't make a six-figure salary...I've also never deluded myself into thinking that I made someone's day by tipping them $3 instead of $1 or $2; I really only do it because I'm too embarrassed to ask for such a paltry sum of money back.
However, all of this is just a lead up to the coup de grâce. Giving, he explained, was in itself the greatest gift of all for giving makes us feel wonderful. It was like The Gift of the Magi in midtown. And then he had the HR Director (who probably would have hung her head in shame if she possessed the slightest shred of intelligence or professionalism) stand up and hand out his gift to us. Below, you'll find a picture of said gift.
That's right folks. It's a dollar bill. But not just any dollar bill, it's a dollar bill that this hobbit took the precious time to draw a smiley face on. And what does that smiley face make it? It makes it magic. Oh you read that right. Magic.
This magic dollar bill, he informed us, was his gift to us and the act of giving it brought him huge amounts of joy. So he begged us to keep it safe, not to put it with our other money and look at it whenever we needed a little influx of happiness. And then, when we were through, he told us to give it to someone else and explain to them the magic of the dollar bill. We could look forward to a huge rush of joy whenever we chose to pay this magic dollar forward, for (again) the gift of giving is the greatest gift of all.
Where to begin? First of all, if I get a magic dollar bill it better be the kind of dollar that I can plant in the ground that grows into a tree that sprouts money. Second of all, I think my one-and-a-half year old nephews would have rolled their eyes and called bullshit at that ridiculousness. And at least they could have expressed their displeasure by throwing some half-chewed food at that gnome without having people think they were acting out of character. And finally, this is the way you try to return equilibrium after the Labor Board visits and tears you a new one is to tell a room of adults that you're giving them something MAGICAL? Is this the Hotel Hogwarts? If so, I've got a place for him to stick his wand.
Anyway, since then this magical money has been burning a hole in my pocket. And that's the sunshine in my pocket. It's the magic of giving. So wear your sunglasses the next time you see me. If I open my wallet you might be blinded by the blazing light of bequeathment. And I'm ending this on that awesome alliteration.
It seems that recently the Labor Board made a surprise visit to my place of employment in midtown. Now don't get your hopes up; this story sadly doesn't end with my departure from the hotel in a blaze of glory. However, the Labor Board was nice enough to let the Powers That Be know that doling out paychecks every two weeks was illegal, and hence I will now be receiving remittance for my soul every seven days. The Labor Board's flexing it's muscle had an unforeseen and unfortunate consequence for the very employees they were trying to protect: they scared the general manager. And when the GM, who's a useless little hamster if there ever was one, is scared he feels he needs to take action.
"Action" in this case could mean any number of things. For instance, if I was someone in charge of a group of dissatisfied employees who had just had my ass handed to me by the government, I would make an effort to improve working conditions. Perhaps offer an incentive. Buy lunch for the employees. Give people a raise which they haven't received in three years. However, the dirty little hobbit did none of these things. Instead, he had all employees come to one of three inspirational talks that I have no doubt he composed himself in a haze of delusion and self-importance.
I wish I could tell you that I had the forethought to record his ramblings. I didn't. I could try to recreate them here for you, but I don't feel I could even begin to do them justice without the help of a significant amount of mind altering drugs and large influx of douche into my personality. In essence, he spoke about how he knew that the hotel was going to make it in this struggling economy because of how wonderful all of his employees are. He pointed out how whenever he went into Duane Reade, he couldn't get the employees to smile at him and he couldn't understand why. Here's why: the Duane Reade employee is probably working two jobs and struggling to make ends meet and hence isn't interested in making small talk with an over-privileged asshole with all the charm of an unanesthetised limb amputation. He also told a story about how he "made a cab driver's day" by giving him a $3 tip on a $7 ride. Allow me to say that I routinely tip that much, and I don't make a six-figure salary...I've also never deluded myself into thinking that I made someone's day by tipping them $3 instead of $1 or $2; I really only do it because I'm too embarrassed to ask for such a paltry sum of money back.
However, all of this is just a lead up to the coup de grâce. Giving, he explained, was in itself the greatest gift of all for giving makes us feel wonderful. It was like The Gift of the Magi in midtown. And then he had the HR Director (who probably would have hung her head in shame if she possessed the slightest shred of intelligence or professionalism) stand up and hand out his gift to us. Below, you'll find a picture of said gift.
That's right folks. It's a dollar bill. But not just any dollar bill, it's a dollar bill that this hobbit took the precious time to draw a smiley face on. And what does that smiley face make it? It makes it magic. Oh you read that right. Magic.
This magic dollar bill, he informed us, was his gift to us and the act of giving it brought him huge amounts of joy. So he begged us to keep it safe, not to put it with our other money and look at it whenever we needed a little influx of happiness. And then, when we were through, he told us to give it to someone else and explain to them the magic of the dollar bill. We could look forward to a huge rush of joy whenever we chose to pay this magic dollar forward, for (again) the gift of giving is the greatest gift of all.
Where to begin? First of all, if I get a magic dollar bill it better be the kind of dollar that I can plant in the ground that grows into a tree that sprouts money. Second of all, I think my one-and-a-half year old nephews would have rolled their eyes and called bullshit at that ridiculousness. And at least they could have expressed their displeasure by throwing some half-chewed food at that gnome without having people think they were acting out of character. And finally, this is the way you try to return equilibrium after the Labor Board visits and tears you a new one is to tell a room of adults that you're giving them something MAGICAL? Is this the Hotel Hogwarts? If so, I've got a place for him to stick his wand.
Anyway, since then this magical money has been burning a hole in my pocket. And that's the sunshine in my pocket. It's the magic of giving. So wear your sunglasses the next time you see me. If I open my wallet you might be blinded by the blazing light of bequeathment. And I'm ending this on that awesome alliteration.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Rethink Possible
I'm having to rethink possible right now. Is it possible that AT&T actually has the gall to use this as their slogan? Is it possible that I'm paying premium rates for a phone that only allows me to actually place or receive phone calls and/or texts about 70% of the time? Is it possible for me to rip down every single poster I see with this ad campaign on it and never get caught?
Probably not on that last one, but seriously, I resisted getting a smart phone for years. First of all I didn't want to be THAT available. After all, years of cultivating a man of mystery persona would all go to waste if I suddenly could get three different forms of contact from a device that fits in my pocket. Outside of that, I'm also...oh, how to put this...cheap. Not only am I cheap, I'm poor and cheap. This is a toxic combination when it comes to buying things that aren't necessities. And by necessities, I of course refer to food, clothing and wine. As such, years passed before I got my first cell phone. When I got a cell phone, I needed to be shamed into using text messaging. And finally, once I was a rabid texter, it took years before I cracked and got an iPhone. And by "cracked and got an iPhone," I of course mean got someone to buy me one for my birthday.
In any case, I may have resisted at first, but now I have a freaking iPhone and the fucker doesn't work. Really Apple? Really AT&T? Suck it. Why does it take 5 minutes for my e-mail to "download from the server?" When playing Words with Friends, why does the internet connection constantly time out? When I sit at work in midtown, how is it possible that my phone shows five bars of service and yet does nothing that I pay for it to do? The entire company is in need of cock-punch.
I'm gonna Rethink Possible your ass. And I don't care that that doesn't make sense.
Probably not on that last one, but seriously, I resisted getting a smart phone for years. First of all I didn't want to be THAT available. After all, years of cultivating a man of mystery persona would all go to waste if I suddenly could get three different forms of contact from a device that fits in my pocket. Outside of that, I'm also...oh, how to put this...cheap. Not only am I cheap, I'm poor and cheap. This is a toxic combination when it comes to buying things that aren't necessities. And by necessities, I of course refer to food, clothing and wine. As such, years passed before I got my first cell phone. When I got a cell phone, I needed to be shamed into using text messaging. And finally, once I was a rabid texter, it took years before I cracked and got an iPhone. And by "cracked and got an iPhone," I of course mean got someone to buy me one for my birthday.
In any case, I may have resisted at first, but now I have a freaking iPhone and the fucker doesn't work. Really Apple? Really AT&T? Suck it. Why does it take 5 minutes for my e-mail to "download from the server?" When playing Words with Friends, why does the internet connection constantly time out? When I sit at work in midtown, how is it possible that my phone shows five bars of service and yet does nothing that I pay for it to do? The entire company is in need of cock-punch.
I'm gonna Rethink Possible your ass. And I don't care that that doesn't make sense.
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