Sunday, July 26, 2015

Rant:Bed and Breakfasts

A lot of the time the Manimal and I don't see eye to eye. For example, I like watching Antiques Roadshow and crying when someone finds an ancient Navajo blanket worth beaucoups bucks while the Manimal enjoys shows about zombies that (from what I can tell) are just hours of people screaming and grunting. Anyways, all this is to say that there's really only one thing that we both agree upon wholeheartedly and without reservation: our hatred of Bed and Breakfasts.

Things you will never hear us saying:
  • Let's jet up the coast and stay at some quaint B&B this weekend.
  • I so enjoyed talking to that elderly failed actress about her concept rooms while waiting for her to cook me some subpar breakfast food.
  • I love Bed and Breakfasts!
Why on earth would you stay in a B&B when there are a plethora of hotels around? Hotels rule! Here are some things you can do in an anonymous hotel room and not in a Bed and Breakfast:
  • Kill a man
  • Smoke crack with a hooker then get reelected as mayor of Washington D.C.
  • Act like Vivian from Pretty Woman
  • Watch cable
Even better than hotels are motels, especially those murder motels particular to the U!S!A! with their murky swimming pools and doors opening directly onto the outside world. I think I have expounded on my affection for murder motels before, but here are a couple of my faves from a recent trip to the West coast:

The Palms Motor Hotel, Portland, Oregon. 


A neon-lit oasis on the highway beckons one and all for nights of endless pleasure and entertainment.

Favorite Trip Advisor review snippet: 
"The fun came when we rolled back the blankets. A previous guest had written "Please wash" in felt pen with an arrow and a circle around an offending stain."

City Center Motel in Vancouver, BC


Favorite Trip Advisor snippets: 

"At least one of the occupants was taken away by police on an outstanding warrant. He didn't go quietly."

"At 12 am some guy was on his cell phone outside my door making very loud calls on his phone - the first to his dealer looking for him to come down to sell him some coke, and the second to some woman who we was trying to convince to come down to "party". This went on for over an hour."



So why the ire for B&Bs? Well, let's see:

1. I don't like people.
Why am I going to pay money to talk to some lonely innkeeper about shit I don't care about. I already have to hang out with my mum (who, incidentally, wants to run an alpaca themed B and B. ugh). If you're not already praying for the sweet release of death you will be when you have to talk to the other patrons about their lame lives.

2. There is no privacy. 
One time after we went to a hippy outdoor wedding in Woodstock NY, the Manimal got explosive diarrhea after gorging on some shrimp that had been left outdoors too long. He had to spend the night in the toilet which only had fricken french doors!! Every sound was audible. Each gurgle, splat and pained whimper rang out clearly through the country air; the eerie corridors were alive with the sound of Manimal's butt symphony. Why would anyone voluntarily pay money to be subjected to this?

Staying at a B&B also makes me feel like a teenager who has secretly been drinking, or smoking some casual weed, and then gets up to make some midnight chicken nuggets but unexpectedly has to make small talk with an elderly incontinent relative while trying to abscond back upstairs to play Nintendo. In a B&B, one feels as though everyone just knows what you've been up to (even if you haven't done anything at all!) and everything you say makes you look even weirder and more messed up.  Compounding this, the people who run B&Bs are also usually very nosey because they often rely on using you for conversation fodder with their next guests. 

3. There are mf'ing curfews: 
WTF? I need the option of stumbling into my room at whatever goddam hour I please. I might miss out on seeing Sinbad as I once did in a hotel lobby at 2am. He was very nice and smelled like baby powder in case you were wondering. 

*Another bucket list item checked off.

Last time I checked this was America- you can't put a curfew on freedom. If that's not bad enough, in addition to evening curfew there are also breakfast curfews! These sadists mandate you wake up at sparrow's fart to eat breakfast with other strangers - it's like a living nightmare. Often the home cooked breakfast is the jewel in the rusty old crown of these establishments and something you will be reminded of over and over again- "Oh wait until breakfast. We have home made vomit flapjacks and Dave's very own barf waffles. He's been perfecting them for 20 years!" I guess breakfast is part of their name and it would be remiss of them not to provide it, but what really grinds my gears is that they force everyone to wait to eat until all parties are present because they are not a hotel and therefore cannot handle cooking for more than four people at once. Therefore you are held hostage and given hate eyes by the other guests if you leave them hanging while you finish your grasse matinee.

3. The Decor/Themes:
Is it the law that there must be doilies? Are they protecting Big Doily? I don't know why the fuck everything must smell like pot pourri. And is it also the law that every B&B in the world must house some gimpy pet that everyone thinks is adorable but who bites you on the sly under the table? 

Also, what's with all the themes? Surely you could run a respectable B&B that just consists of nicely furnished rooms rather than having to have a Shirley Temple room or, as in one particularly horrific room I stayed in, a porcelain doll theme?




The final nail in the coffin of us ever staying at a B&B again came during our glorious trip to the mighty Pacific North West. After not being able to secure lodgings at any of the area's hotels on account of an antique car show passing through town, we were forced to go to the only available place left: The Rooster Inn. We pulled up the gravel driveway in our obscene silver convertible (which I had somehow secured for no extra cost at Hertz by saying I was a public school teacher), with Manimal yelling, "No! No! Noooooo!" as the realization that it was a B&B dawned on him. After an awkward check in further sullied by Manimal's refusal to participate, we were shown to our room dubbed The Madison Room. 

Why, you ask? Well, it appeared to be dedicated to a small child of the same name. Madison was everywhere - from the scrabble tiles spelling out her name with photographs of her wearing a Blossom hat:


"Hello. I have come to eat your soul."

to her tiny brush and comb set on the dresser. 


*Our melancholy French friend's opinion of 'murica did not improve after staying in The Madison Room

Who was this Madison? Was she a tiny spirit who would commune with us? A child who had experienced some kind of terrifying demise in this very room? Would I awake in the night to find her hovering above me with glowing red eyes? As we explored the room further, we found some more disturbing details that raised more questions than they answered - a tiny locked door hidden within a closet:




and an odd crawl space containing a headless dummy wearing an antique nightgown:

Why?

It felt as though we were in a real life episode of NatGeo's The Haunting. So, we did the only thing we could: we packed up the convertible, did a turn and burn on the gravel driveway, and got the hell out of there. Those poor souls we abandoned are probably still waiting for us to come down so they can finally eat their breakfast.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

One night in New York...

I love my in-laws. No, for the first time in the history of this blog I am not being sarcastic. I really do.

Several Christmases ago, my glamorous in-laws were living in the Big Apple, and it was great. Living in New York one often ends up spending most of one's recreation time barricaded in a 200 sq. foot apartment preying for sweet sleep to take the pain away, rarely taking advantage of all the city has to offer. Well, thanks to my in-laws, I was partaking in Gotham's cultural highlights at an unprecedented rate. All said and done,  I saw Katie Holmes' "escape from Tom Cruise" play, a truly magnificent adaptation of August Wilson's The Piano Lesson, Alvin Ailey, and a musical parody of Silence of the Lambs replete with a lively musical number dubbed "If I Could Smell Her Cunt"(an ode to Miggs if you remember) and many more.

One night, however, we all did our own thing. While my in laws went to a flamenco show, Manimal submitted a few writhing men, and I inadvertently got happy hour drinks with my friend at a lesbian bar. When we all arrived home we compared our experiences via email. Here is the result.

The original email by my in-laws: 


Flamenco in the Big Apple. If you're not interested, hit Ctrl Alt Del right now. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. To unsubscribe, reply saying Please Unsubscribe Me.

It was in Joe's Pub on Lafayette St. What a misnomer. A night club in a former municipal building. Superb restaurant upstairs--"The Library", with ribs to die for. Very eclectic crowd. Beside us, 2 elderly German ladies who went suddenly silent when we said that E. was from Lebanon. But the majority were hispanophone and shouted Olé wildly at every possible opportunity.

Men in black--a very talented guitarist (just one--this is not the Gypsy Kings); the singer (in constant agony, clearly he has major issues, since he kept clasping desperately at his lower rib cage); and, last but not least, the guy who claps with cupped hands for the entire show.

The star, the principal dancer; tall and lean in a tight-fitting tan suit; black untucked shirt, with sleeves hoisted to the elbows; black patent leather shoes with enormous wooden tap-dancing heels (gotta get a pair of those); Mick Jagger hair to the shoulders, only lots more greasy; and enough energy to light up Sevilla from dusk to dawn. Two women dancers; fiercely handsome, Gypsy style; gave the male dancer something to dance for.

The show lasted just one hour. The artists were exhausted--and so were we, the passive audience on our bar stools, with bourbon and mojitos. A stunning blonde on the adjacent barstool spilled her mojito on my Montebellucci tartan trousers. I very rapidly forgave her and struck up a lively conversation. She graciously agreed to walk home with me to West 12th street. End of music/dance review...

Manimal's evening:


Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in Brooklyn. If you're not interested, hit Ctrl Alt Del right now. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. To unsubscribe, reply saying Please Unsubscribe Me.

I was late, but not too late. An evening at work trolling through real estate listings and gasping at their inaccuracies had taken its toll. As the train went over the bridge the bright lights were behind me, getting dimmer with the same steady cadence as the awkward half beats rhythmically burping from the tracks. Upon disembarking I scrambled through the streets dimmed by the elevated tracks that shadowed the eclectic array of fry shops and cell phone merchants. I walked, under the tracks, over the highway intersection, past the siren smell of the Peter Luger's (with steak to die for), to my destination - SOMA GYM. What a misnomer. This was not the Soma drug of Bradbury repute that made all problems seem trivial, this was a vast sweaty empire housed in a converted factory building with rust detailing. 

The men, dressed in shorts and black skin tight shirts, wicked their sweat over the well worn mats. Once they saw me at the entrance door they all suddenly went silent, mouths swollen from containing their protruding neon mouthpieces. Formalities aside, I sat on the mats. At first, I moved enough to crack the winter's chill but not enough to instigate lethargy. After beating my cupped hands together repeatedly, I was ready to fight.

The star, the principal instructor, a thin well coiffed Mick Jagger, only a lot more dapper and with almost enough energy to light up Louisville, lorded over us with his instruction.  He looked over our motley assortment and pushed us towards conflict; each man had an opponent, and each opponent would fight you with the violence of a bobcat but with the awkward intimacy reserved for a fleeting conquest.  He kept our pace at a steady four minutes a round.  

In the finale I looked across the wet mats to my final opponent. An overgrown Inca and Hispanophone enthusiastically greeted me while managing to spill his spit laden mouthpiece over my shorts. We looked long into each other's eyes, slapped hands in sport, and proceded to grapple with abandon. He gripped my wrist  with his ape like hands and swatted me behind the head in an effort to conquer my defenses. We tugged, pushed, sprawled, and tumbled; each man was looking for an advantage until our wind expired or until the boxing bell reached its crescendo. 

The session last over an hour. I was exhausted and so were my opponents. We went to an adjacent bar and drowned our bruises in beer. We rapidly forgave each other for the misplaced elbows to the teeth and thumbs in our eyes. Graciously, a broken opponent offered to drive me home to Sterling Place. End of grappling review . . .

Ronnie's night: 


The Cubby Hole- an unsolicited review of my own evening. Or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Village Lesbian Bar". If you're not interested, hit Ctrl Alt Del right now. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. To unsubscribe, reply saying Please Unsubscribe Me.

After work drinks with an old coworker in the Big Apple. Post performance evaluation at the cube farm and recent breakups requiring equal parts analysis and gin-soaked sympathy. The Cubby Hole on West 4th. What a misnomer. A modern day shanty adorned with oversized Christmas decorations and the pent up frustrations of the marginalized. Free pizza, and popcorn to die for. Very eclectic crowd.

Beside us, at first, two French lesbians baby talking "sotto voce" and letting the world pass them by. On the other, a bat faced older man trying valiantly to pass as a woman. His demure gold hoops at odds with his rangy body. But the majority were saphophones and sang along enthusiastically to The Divinyls.

A bathroom break. The subtle changeover from insouciant happy hour to something quite different. I return to the star: an inebriated young woman with the face of Justin Bieber and the personality of a young John Belushi was climbing the back of my empty chair with a capuchin agility. My "date" guffaws like a man angling for a bank loan.

Lily is in the Air Force and has just "made out hard for, like, 20 minutes" with her best friend Tanya who is now ignoring her. She is in constant agony, clearly she has major issues, since she keeps
pantomiming her prior make out session by turning her meager Mick Jagger-esque back to us and running her hands theatrically up and down it in a simulcra of two-personed lust.

Our session lasted just one hour. In that scant time, Lily endeavored to teach us the proper method of saluting, which seemingly required her to graze my companion's breasts repeatedly. Tanya, her indignation rendering her fiercely handsome in the mottled glare of the fairy lights, finally intervened asking if my lady friend and I were "together" and spilling her beer on my Montebellucci parts. I very rapidly forgave her and struck up a lively conversation regarding taking my friend to Minetta Tavern for a romantic dinner. Exhausted, we graciously agreed to step off, and left the unlikely lovers to beat
on, boats against the currents, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

End of watering hole review...

Sunday, August 11, 2013

List: More Terrifying Animals

Tonight I was at a dinner party where the conversation turned to "sea mammals" and their value. As usual, my opinion was not on par with the masses (except for my ideological twin and downstairs neighbor, MC Darnell who, incidentally, also is the only other person who hates horses as much as me). 


* He believes they are the two animals that humans have an excessively unhealthy relationship with and made this excellent collage to illustrate our point.

I outlined my disgust with the Stubenville rape bros of the sea: dolphins, as well as our society's unholy obsession with seals (sure, baby seals have soft eyes but be sure they would hold any one of us captive in an underwater torture chamber if they had their druthers) but I don't think I really made much headway. This conversation reminded me that I had been hoarding the following series of terrifying sea beasts in my blog drafts section for far too long.

What is up with Mother Nature? I mean, really? She's been messing with us since before we even existed. Much like the creators of Saw and the marketing team behind Carrot Top she's always thinking of new and unusual ways to make us dry heave. 


And why is it that the most terrifying and horrific beasts come from the sea? I've mentioned this before but where there's water it's guaranteed that there will be something that can make you pee your pants in terror.  I've already documented my loathing of some Poseidon's more well known offerings but horrifying things just keep creeping in to my radar.

Exhibit A: Giant Salamander.
Holy Mary Mother of God, what the fuck is that??  It doesn't even have eyes! It must just track us by the stench of our fear. Apparently, they can live for 75 years which is 74 years, 365 days, 23 hours and 59 minutes too long.  Why have we not formed some sort of international task force of Jason Bournes to destroy these? I would pay extra taxes for sure to make this a reality. What is Obama doing? Hell, I already pay Michelle Bachmann's salary. This I would do gladly. 

Oh and before you hippies get on my case and start being all, "Well that's a just one kind of salamander, Ronnie. Other salamanders are really cute" let me remind you that they are kin to this:


Gott in Himmel! That thing is going to destroy us all! There's really only one thing to do:

* Kudos to you anonymous Chinese family for doing what I do not have the cojones for. Homeboy in the yellow and blue parka looks ready to get to work.

Promachoteuthis Sulcus:
I think I have been more than vocal about my hatred of all forms of squid from the Colossal Squid all the way down to this jerk.
* "Hello. My only purpose is to terrify you."

Unnamed terrifying sea creature:
Jesus christ, this is like the reverse of when the Manimal discovered the platypus and was endeared by its ability to not only be an amalgam of various other animals,  but also lend itself to being his ultimate party conversation starter: "What is a mammal?" Which, if you are ever unfortunate enough to be lured into his conversational web, usually devolves into him saying something like, "So you're fairly confident, then, that mammals don't lay eggs? Would you bet your life on it? Hmmm?"

This bitch is like a reverse see-through platypus. It's got bits of all the wrong stuff and they're all put together in the worst possible way.

Soft Shell Turtle.
Normally I find turtles to be kind of cute and non-threatening. I usually also like (eating) things with the words "soft shell" in them. However, this guy is the terrifying combo of both of these terms. What is going on with his face?? He's got like zombie red eye photo eyes and what seems to be one head coming out of a larger head/neck. 
Normally I'm a big fan of well developed traps:

* oh, hai there Tom Hardy

but that is ridiculous. This is enough for me to forgive the Manimal for eating turtle soup at a Chinese restaurant 8 years ago.

Giant Isopod:
This thing makes me want to revise my aim to eat shrimp every day of my life. *shudder*
My record is 62 days in a row.

Finally, I don't know what this is but it embodies the reason I get nervous swimming in the ocean.


Saturday, June 15, 2013

Rave: Texts

If you know about my fixation on karaoke, 90210 and Ray Pruit you will understand why this text exchange with my BFF BMoney is the best thing that ever happened.


I think I have peaked.

Friday, May 31, 2013

Summer Resolution


It is 2013 and I have reached new depths of lameness. For example, right now I am listening to Ne-yo circa 2008 and eating fistfuls of baklava. Needless to say, I am whale-y and gross. So, like anyone who has sunk to the point where they habitually wear an outfit the Manimal has deemed "failure wear" and who frequently eats Pannettone more than once a day, I have to change things up. I need an inspiration, someone I can look up to who's not John Candy. All good success stories have an older role model guiding and shaping them towards betterment until they force life to just tap out in awe of their brilliance. So, I started thinking: who will be my Summer Resolution icon? Who's life and belief system will I begin to emulate religiously in order to get out of my funk? 
At first I was thinking L'il Wayne:
* And I can already do a French Inhale too. Score!
Pros: He's skinny, and I already partake in the purple drank
Cons: Face tattoos seem painful. And someone already took my first choice 

*An aside: L'il Wayne should not be confused with L'il Albert, the namesake of one of my favorite useless experiments back in the glory days when we could experiment on real human babies.

* John B. Watson "ran out of time" at the end and so L'il Albert was never "desensitized". Oops!

 Then I thought about someone who is also skinny, but whose essence I admire and would not be a stretch to adhere to. 

“My biggest nightmare would be if the kids ever came up to me and said ‘Dad, I’m a vegetarian.’ Then I would sit them on the fence and electrocute them.”

Gordon Ramsay!
Pros: He eats good food, he has a net worth of $50 million for (essentially) cursing, he acts like me in private, but in public! I could be more free!
*Dickface
Cons: Do you see those face crevices? No me gusta. Also, sometimes yelling that hard makes me get that little glob of blood in my eyeball and that's not really so attractive in a lady.
I was starting to get discouraged again when it suddenly dawned on me: I couldn't use anyone I actually resembled because then I'd soon be back to square one. For example, I already yell out gangsta rap and drink prescription grade cough syrup mixed with Sprite. How would following L'il Wayne really elicit any meaningful change? Sure, maybe I could do some jail time but I already have a game plan worked out for that and I don't want to use it up prematurely on a Summer Resolution. 
Then it dawned on me. Who only eats food purer than the driven snow? Who would rather make out with Stevie Janowski than drink booze, let alone downing several To Go cups full of red wine on a Tuesday night? Who is really skinny and already publishes a regular missive devoted to advising people on how to live like her? That's right: Gwyneth Paltrow.  

Gwyneth Kate Paltrow Martin is the daughter of well-to-do parents, and an actress who won an  Best Actress Oscar in 1998 for her forgettable role in Shakespeare in Love.
Pop quiz!
Question: Which of the following films came out in 1998 and  would have deserved an Oscar more than our Gwynnie?
1) An American Tail: The Treasure of Manhattan Island
2) Apt Pupil (a mix of Nazis and Rear Window that I recall Manimal hilariously thought was called Apartment Pupil at the time)
3) The Big Lebowski (!)
4) You've Got Mail
Answer: All of them.
Of late, she has garnered more attention for her charmingly named lifestyle blog: GOOP. People really seem to respond badly to this blog and GP's earnest recs for living the good life. Unlike my girl and convicted felon Martha Stewart who, I think we can all agree, is a staunch bitch and knows her way around a 4 piece, Gwyneth seems a bit feckless. 
But, I must push all of that out of my mind and get to the task at hand. For all her failings, Gwyneth does embody the exact opposite of myself, and that is what I must follow. She did date Brad Pitt in his prime and talk him into copying her hairstyle after all.

Even if she does claim to be "sensitive to dairy, gluten, wheat, corn and oats" I will endeavor to take from her what I can, even though I believe "food sensitivities" are complete bullshit and invented by people who don't want to admit to disordered eating. No matter,  if she tells me to eat chia seed pudding, dammit I will eat chia seed pudding. Maybe I'll even throw a little unsweetened almond milk in there for good measure. 
And so, to jump head first into this challenge and prepare for September 1st when I emerge from a cheetos crusted cocoon and begin my metamorphosis into a lithe and bendy butterfly, I am going to ruminate on some of Ms.Paltrow's random thoughts:

"I'd rather smoke crack than eat cheese from a tin."
Aw shit, this lady is crazy. Crack+cheese in a can= a party.

"When I pass a flowering zucchini plant in a garden, my heart skips a beat."
Me too!

"I don't really have drunk friends. My friends are kind of adult..."
Okaaaayy...

"I've found that the best hangover remedy can be a hot and cold spa treatment. The original would be the traditional Turkish Hamman, but you can find this kind of treatment at spas all over the world."
Interesting. My hangover cure usually goes as follows:

Plus:

Repeat as necessary until you no longer feel like this:

I've heard it helps to write your goals and resolutions down. So with my new icon's help, I will plan my first baby step.

1. Plan out my meals and buy stuff from the supermarket beforehand.
You don't want to get caught out and then end up eating Pad Thai out of a styrofoam container. As Gwynnie so sagely notes: 
She's right, that is total nightmare fuel.

I'll check back with you periodically to make new baby steps and keep you updated on my progress towards becoming a lithe blonde WASP goddess. Hopefully, I'll go from this:



To this:



In no time!

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Rant: Stop the world, I want to get off.

Today, I saw something that indicated that, Mayans aside, we as a whole are certainly spiraling towards our own destruction. I saw this:

* In case you were wondering, that phallic orange thing in the background is their carrot rocket ship.

Yes, that is a children's series dubbed "Paleo Pals". WTF, Life?!?

Look, I know I'm not the best at tolerating other people. And I know I suffer from crippling misophonia that makes me visualize tearing off the faces of those audibly chewing gum and then spitting their bloody parts all over the subway car while laughing maniacally.
* I am trying to get my insurance to pay for this.

I realize that I am judgey and ill tempered but it seems as though this book was created precisely to whip me into a rage finally great enough to make the papers the next day.

Paleo Pals? Come. On. For the uninitiated, "Paleo" refers to the idea of eating as people might have during the Paleolithic era—an era that ended around 10,000 years ago with the development of agriculture. Basically, you can only eat things that a caveman may have had access to. Every fricken person I know is fricken Paleo. Manimal is Paleo except for Shake Shack, my parents are Paleo, many of my lamer friends are Paleo. And, like any other fad, I have to hear about it all the time. Hell, I am almost Paleo but that's because wheat makes me toot like a French Horn and I work in a open cube farm so I would risk severe judgement and ostracizing. 

But, it's not just having to endure endless discussions of poundage lost and energy levels, what really grinds my gears is that most people just eat fake Paleo versions of regular stuff. Cavemen did not whip up "Paleo brownies" for example. And I would wager that Paleolithic men (and more modern Paleo-esque societies) were way too badass to fuck with almond milk of any variety.



Also, how do we know that cavemen did not have access to stuff that would be non-Paleo now? Just as the Dark Ages removed all trace of progress, perhaps there was an unknown event that erased all evidence of cavemen having weird campfire s'mores and fried bugs or whatnot. But really, the worst thing about Paleo Pals is that people are forcing their kids to be Paleo. That's not OK! I'm not saying kids should get to eat a tub of frosting using jellybeans as their cutlery, and I don't think there's ever a true reason to eat Lunchables, but let's be reasonable.

Anyway, the plot of Paleo Pals: Jimmy and the Carrot Rocket Ship goes something like this:

Piper, Phoenix and Parker are not ordinary children; they are super heroes that travel the land helping other children learn about living the healthiest, most exciting, most super lives possible. They are known as The Paleo Pals, and this is a story about how they help out Jimmy, a little boy who is not sure if eating paleo food is even one tiny bit exciting or super. Climb into the carrot rocket ship, travel to brilliant green farms, and live Jimmy’s exciting adventure with Piper, Phoenix and Parker: The Paleo Pals!

Of course they're named Piper, Phoenix and Parker. Their androgynous names allow them not to offend anyone down at the co-op. You know what, after reading this, I had to feel sorry for Jimmy who was simply pushing back on the whole family turning Paleo. At one point, faced with his dinner, Jimmy is less than enthused and yells, "I don't CARE about your oopity-goopity food! And I don't care about being healthy. I guess I'm just gonna starve! I'm going to bed!" At this point I was really pulling for Jimmy. Stand your ground, B. He reminded me of young me, except that he didn't run to his room and take angry hits from a homemade bong (relax folks, I didn't inhale) and then spend hours making retarded mix tapes by taping songs off the radio.

Anyway, when the Paleo Pals learn about Jimmy, they whisk him off in the Weiner Carrot ship and bring him to a farmer's marker (i know) where he selects a "giant purple cabbage"to eat.


* A bunch of kale and some $11 pickles, please.

Another stop: the evil, vaguely Victorian, food processing plant which spews toxic black fumes into the air and is surrounded by dead and dying earth. The Paleo Pals also take Jimmy to a playground where as one Amazon reviewer sagely notes, "kids who don't eat "paleo" are depicted as lethargic, sick, sad, unable to do well at anything, and are even aggressive and angry while those who do eat "paleo" are kind, energetic, successful, and happy as if eating paleo is the only factor that makes a child nice or not; successful or not."

What sort of stupid busy-parent shaming kind of statement is this? I mean, I ate Elios and Sara Lee chocolate pound cake almost every day and I turned out fine. In fact, right now I'm off to beat a man's head in with a rock because he was sucking a hard candy in an irritating manner. So, who needs you anyway, Paleo Pals?

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

List: Top Christmas Films

Who doesn't like Christmas? Oh, right, quite a few people.

I am one of the world's most secular individuals. It is now family lore that when I was on Double Dare (I know! So awesome!) in 1992 I answered "A band" in response to the question: "What is Genesis?" But I still love the birth of baby Jesus, nonetheless.

If you know of another holiday which begins a full two months before the actual date of said holiday and expects, nay demands, that you drink egg nog (alcoholic heavy cream!), open gifts, and then pass out on the sofa after ingesting a year's worth of carbohydrates then you may protest. Otherwise, maybe you should just get down with the 'nog and zip your pie hole.

A friggen egg nog fountain! I want to go to there.

Things that are awesome about Christmas:
- Advent calendars.
- The fact that the Manimal, JoSi and I try to go to Rolf's and eat an entire suckling pig every year.
- Going on a Lohan holiday
- Plum pudding with BRANDY BUTTER. It's butter that gets you twisted. I will personally submit anyone who opposes plum pudding.
- People that go overboard with their christmas lights. Also, the person below who is my decorating hero.


The best thing about Christmas, though, is the movies. Now that I live in the Northern Hemisphere, I finally "get" holiday movies. What else are you going to do to convince yourself that staying inside because it's negative 29 degrees outside is fun? Growing up in Australia, I would have to spray fake snow in the windows and turn up the AC so I could enjoy my fillums. That's for the birds, yo!

But I'm not talking abut holiday themed garbage like Jingle All The Way (excepting, of course, the always welcomed inclusion of Sinbad) or the terrifying Michael Keaton abomination that is Jack Frost (complete with Hanson tie in video). No, I'm talking about the movies that make you glad to be alive during Noel. Without further preamble, allow me to regale you with my list of top Christmas movies for your viewing pleasure this holiday season:

1: Home Alone 1 and 2

Dedicated readers will know of my obsession with Home Alone. One Christmas, I wrote an ode to cultural touchstone and all around BAMF Roberts Blossom aka Old Man Marley (RIP).

What's not to like about the Home Alone franchise? It has holiday cheer, a house in the Chicago suburbs which dictated how I thought all American suburbs looked, and people getting hurt frequently. Plus, it's made by the auteur of all auteurs John Hughes and even has a cameo by my spirit animal, John Candy.

My hero: Fuller!

2. The Ref
Let's be honest here, I have been in a near-constant love affair with the 90s since I was in the 90s. This film, about a burglary gone wrong and the resultant insanity is vintage 90s gold. Its title refers to the job unfortunate cat burglar Denis Leary (at the height of his "look at me! I'm an angry guy! I like to scream and smoke cigarettes! Arrghhhdgdhdhhfh!!") has to play when he takes a family hostage on Christmas Eve. Of course, because it's set during the holidays, the family whose house he hides in is made up of the most annoying people known to man. Hilarity, naturally, ensues.
Bonus: The Ref also stars Kevin Spacey and Judy Davis (swoon!).


This Scandinavian feast and accompanying speech always reminds me of something my mum would do. She's always trying to make something "interesting" for special occasions rather than sticking with the classics. Inevitably we have to hear a sweet, but long winded, explanation about Tibetan Yak dip when we are all really just waiting for my stepdad to uncork his homemade honey mead from the shed. After that, we eat party pies until halfway through the bottle when we all spontaneously go blind and pass out.

Here you go - enjoy!

3. Die Hard 1 and 2:
My favorite thing about Die Hard 2 is the scene where we are introduced to Colonel Stuart because it is a literal representation of Manimal's morning routine:

*Sadly, I'm not joking.

But Die Hard 1 is king. Nothing says Christmas like watching Bruce Willis stomp all over Hans Gruber in a soiled wife beater. Nothing. It's also got Carl frickin' Winslow as the sidekick cop. This is what the baby Jesus watches on the couch when he's full of roast potatoes and brandy butter. Yipeekiyay motherfucker!

4. Planes, Trains and Automobiles
Oh, man. This is the ultimate holiday (OK, I know it's technically about Thanksgiving but whatever) movie because it's sappy and funny at the same time. It also has Steve Martin basically playing me, and John Candy (again!) as the Manimal-esque shower curtain ring salesman with the proverbial heart of gold, Del Griffith. The scene below is an uncannily accurate depiction of what happens to me if I don't get first shower.

*Disturbingly, this clip resides in an area of YouTube that is frequented by people searching for "hairy daddies". Steve Martin? Really?

Watching this movie was also when I first learned one of my all time favorite phrases, "My dogs are barking",  when Del takes his shoes off in a crowded plane. Shortly after, I also realized why those shoes are called Hush Puppies. Genius! Me and my brother, Dr. Poobelle, also say this absurdly often:

"I'm the real article."

The resolution of Trains, Planes and Automobiles is also on my list of embarrassing things that make me cry. I won't spoil it, but Del Griffith is a complicated fellow. I'd rather play Pick Up Sticks with my butt cheeks than not watch this movie at Yuletide.

So there you have it. I suppose you could spend your time watching Garfield: The Movie or  It's a Wonderful Life but really aren't the holidays about not flagellating yourself for being savagely submitted by another year of disappointment, and rather about living vicariously through a man beating seven types of snot out of a German villain? I think that's WJWD.