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.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
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.
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