Thursday, December 24, 2009

Rave: Salt Man

Last night, I lay cuddled in bed in the late stages of an eggnog buzz, idly flipping through the channels waiting for something, anything, to take me away from the plethora of fame-whore reality show contestants and nauseating variants of decoding- the-Bible "documentaries". Suddenly, my glassy eyes locked on a vision of perfection, a scene which transported me back to the halcyon days of a young Montebellucci. It was the church scene of Home Alone in which Old Man Marley, a misunderstood neigbourhood codger discusses the intricacies of love, family, sin and redemption with young Kevin McCallister.

One thing that you must know about myself (and any Anglo, really) is that we cannot emote, yet are deeply sensitive. I'm talking ludicrously sensitive and sentimental. This manifests itself in a variety of ways: a propensity for hitting the sauce, crippling politeness, uncontrollable facial tics and a deep river of insecurity which binds us all. Hence, dear reader, I often emote privately, in the darkness, to all manner of things: Kodak commercials, Christian the Lion, The Olympics, Michael McDonald songs,you name it.

Anyway, I perked up immediately at the sight of Old Man Marley. For those of you philistines who are not versed in Home Alone, Marley is an Old Man (as his well chosen moniker suggests) who is said to have killed his entire family with a snow shovel and mummified them with driveway salt. Now, ostracized from the hoity-toity Chicago enclave in which he lives, Marley shovels and salts the driveways of his neighbors in relative anonymity. Of course this is total bullshit. The Salt Man has been cast out like a piece of old rubbish for a crime he didn't even commit, just because he's a little bit different. Well excuse me, fictional Chicago suburbanites. Last time I checked, you were leaving your spawn alone on Christmas when there are freakin' Wet Bandits on the loose! Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Rant: You're out of your element Finnish Tourists

As a passive-aggressve Antipodean, one of the things which makes me most happy is order, politeness and knowing the goddamn system. When any, or all, of these elements goes awry I start to climb my mental clocktower and silently begin going postal. Of course, to the average troglodyte bystander, it would appear as though I am carefree, content and happily observing the hustle and bustle of everyday life. No, in reality I am disemboweling you and your future progeny in my mind.

Allow me a little self indulgence as I outline my highly- structured morning routine. It is sacred. It cannot be messed with. I know it as precisely as John Patrick Mason knows the fire breathing mechanism's timing to enter The Rock. In fact, anyone lucky enough to witness the phenomenon which is my morning routine would be my own personal Stanley Goodspeed. I set my alarm to unleash its ungodly wail a full hour before I am to awake. Then, I proceed to slap at the snooze function like an ill-mannered ranga for 75 minutes. As I awake in a panic, I stumble over the resident manimal and run into my kitchen/home office/living room/dining room/ mudroom/ library and microwave a cup of opaque Brooklyn water until it is approximately tepid. As it absorbs the nuclear rays, I turn on the shower so it can use its full 4 minutes to warm up. I dump a bunch of Folgers "coffee" in to the cup and drink it IN the shower as I try to rinse away the detritus resulting from sleeping on a 12 year old futon. As the dulcet tones of Soterius Johnson tell me it is 7.51, I run out of the house knowing that it the subway is anything less than 100% efficient I am screwed. In fact, the whole thing looks a little something like this...


Welcome

A warm welcome to all of you, my fellow denizens of the interwebs.
Finally I, Veronica Montebellucci, have decided to grace the blogosphere with my very own brand of logorrhoean stylings.
What prompted this pin-dive in to infamy, you ask? Well, it came upon me as I made the customary soul-destroying trip to my place of employ. As the New York City Mass Transit System transported me, Boruta-style, to my "job" (more about this later) I steadied my game face which looks a little something like this:
Peering out in to a myriad of word-searchers and mouth-breathers, my gaze locked on to a young couple entwined. These two have successfully ruined my commute with their doe-eyed "no, i love you more" murmurs for three days now. THREE M-Fing DAYS!! (For you non-New Yorkers, seeing someone on the subway more than once makes one deeply paranoid. I was about to bust out my best Jason Bourne moves if they tried anything funny).

At that moment, as I choked down the bile rising in my throat, I realized that I had to share my misanthropy with the world. What good is my own private "two minutes of hate" if my personal Emmanuel Goldstein roams free, blissfully unaware of their misdeeds. "Ronnie," I said to myself, "the world must know of the petty annoyances which mar your day-to-day existence."
And thus my blog was born. I hope it finds you well of kidney and sound of mind. Please feel free to join me as I share my perturbances and triumphs. Bask in my loathing of the bletcherous and, most of all, be party to this autohagiographer as she navigates her particular corner of this crazy world.


In inceptum finis est