i just want to conquer people and their souls

There are few people in this world that I would really, truly be starstruck by. I think we all know about my fangirl obsession with Roberts Blossom , but this young man could possibly be even higher on my list of "people I would like to share a McFlurry with". Ladies and gentlemen I am, of course, speaking about Ray Pruit of Beverly Hills 90210 fame. Behold, Ray Pruit in his Texas tuxedo*: * [after posting this entry, I was angrily accosted by more than one of my friends, who insisted this was, in fact, a "Canadian Tuxedo". After much diligent research I have found that they are both valid descriptors of Ray Pruit's glorious ensemble . I also found out about the "Guido Tuxedo" which is equally excellent] For the uninitiated (ie. rejects) who don't know, Ray Pruit ("one T. It's all my momma could afford") was a musician/carpenter who foolishly allowed himself to fall for Donna "helmet hair, franken-boobs" Martin. Donna...

What is sweet, cold, hot, awesome and gives you diarrhea all at once? Ladies and gents allow me to introduce you to the new official dessert of Veronica Montebellucci: Baked Alaska! Last night, myself, my wife and an assortment of my very best (ie. not inept or at all annoying) coworkers wined and dined in the "Board Room" of Delmonicos . How did they allow a ragtag team of deviants in to such a fine establishment? Why it was Restaurant Week , of course!For the uninitiated, Restaurant Week is the time of the year when fancy places open their doors to plebes like me and offer deep discounts on what would otherwise be prices roughly equivalent to my monthly living expenses. Behold:

I recently broke my own vow to myself and partook in the cinematic "event" that was "Avatar". I knew before I went in that it would be some sort of James Cameron vanity project, but the lure of 3D vision was too great. Those red and green lenses beckoned like sirens, propelling me back to the days of my beloved View Master. An aside: Sadly, my View Master was responsible for the slow and painful deaths of many a good man. The Beaverton factory where they were made was build atop a toxic waste dump . Fellow children of the 80s and possibly 90s WE HAVE BLOOD ON OUR HANDS!!!Beaverton blood, no less. Anyhoo, I went to my local theatre (Park Slope Pavillion, holla!), and was immediately disappointed to find that they had done away with my favorite Downs Syndrome ticket ripper. Now, just wait a goddamn minute Judgey McSneer. I didn't look down on this young man. He made me feel good. The joy he demonstrated upon each rip was an unparalleled delight in a service ...

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 e...

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...

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 risin...