Okay, people, the Smash finale has aired...I'm guessing most of you gave up on the show, right? I mean, I couldn't look away the whole time even though I didn't hear a lot of the dialogue because I was too busy screaming at the television screen for showing me something so bone-crushingly stupid, but I would imagine that a lot of people checked out around Episode 4 or 5 when it became obvious that the writers simply weren't going create an interesting story and about 50% of the cast was terrible (the other 50% is excellent...I'll name names if you want). I, however, stuck with it through thick and thin and am left a bit at a loss. Every episode, every single one, had at least one moment in it that was wonderful and interesting...it was just surrounded by a mountain of crap.
In any case, if you gave up, you're not alone. One of my good friends gave up early on and when she told me I gay-gasped and clutched my pearls. "You're missing EVERYTHING!" I cried. "Debra Messing's son looks like he's Renee Zellweger's long lost twin brother! People are running out in the middle of Broadway shows and bopping around Times Square in costume! Katharine McPhee has yet to register an emotion!" She looked at me skeptically (as if these were not things that would make her more likely to watch the show), so I took further action. I rushed home and composed the following test for her...all I asked was that she take the test and if it didn't make her want to watch the glorious train wreck, I would never bring it up again.
Here I present to you, The Smash Test. The rules are simple: below I have outlined four scenarios. Three of them ACTUALLY HAPPENED in Smash this season, one of them did not. Please, take your best shot...which one of them is the fake?
1) Julia (Debra Messing) is so overcome with attraction to Michael Swift, a co-star in the Marilyn Musical, that she tells her husband Frank that she's going for a walk, leaves their apartment in Cobble Hill, goes all the way to midtown and meets Michael in the rehearsal room (which he has somehow gotten open). For those readers who don't live in NY, a subway ride from Cobble Hill to midtown is an easy 40 minutes door-to-door. When she gets there, she very clearly says she does not want to sleep with him and only arrived to tell him that. Michael, obviously being someone who's mother should have read him a copy of No Means No, Charlie Brown when he was a child, proceeds to slowly but surely convince her to take off her top. Side-boob occurs, and they bang on the rehearsal couch (as someone who has used many rehearsal couches in his life, may I just say...ew). Julia then returns home from her "walk," which, unless she has conquered the space time continuum, took at least an hour and a half assuming she and Michael got the refusal, rape-y convincing and the resulting porking done in a flat ten minutes. Frank apparently does not notice anything odd, which means either a) it's convenient at this time for the writers to have him be a complete moron or b) Julia takes a lot of long walks.
2) Eileen (Anjelica Huston), after being dumped by her comically over-the-top d-bag husband, discovers dive bars and the Buck Hunter video game. Much time is spent with her obsessing over how wonderful the martinis are in said dive bar, which is odd because most dive bars I've ever been to would throw a pitcher of Bud Light in your face for ordering a martini. There is also much time spent killing fake deer, which might be a reference to Betty Draper going full on Hatfield on her neighbor's homing pigeons back in Season One of Mad Men, but is accomplished with about a twentieth of the subtlety. Over martinis and fake hunting expeditions, Eileen confides in her new favorite bartender about her money woes...after all, she only needs seven million dollars and she can't seem to raise it! Said bartender then pulls a stack of money out from underneath his bar and offers to invest in the musical. She refuses, so he introduces her to Randy Cobra (a Billy Idol-esque rock star and not, as you might have guessed from the name, a Ron Jeremy-esque porn star) who speaks to her for about 5 mintues gives her all seven million dollars, resulting in what I believe might be the first example of rock star ex machina in popular culture. At this point, she calls all of her former investors who were putting demands on her to the aforementioned dive bar and Randy Cobra lights their contracts on fire in a garbage can.
3) Ellis (Jaime Cepero) is among the most hated characters in the history of television. He's hated by the audience, by the other characters in the show and, I suspect, by the late Mother Theresa. In order to secure a movie star to open the show, Ellis (who has been presented as a heterosexual with a girlfriend) bangs the male personal assistant of Rebecca DuVall (Uma Thurman) and with his help signs Rebecca to star. Rebecca demonstrates little-to-no musical talent, and in her neediness tells her assistant to stop spending so much time with Ellis and focus on her. Ellis decides to grind up some peanuts, which she is deathly allergic to, and slip them into Rebecca's smoothie. Rebecca goes into anaphylactic shock in the middle of rehearsal and her throat closes up. In a possible homage to "Pulp Fiction," Karen (Katharine McPhee) takes the epi-pen she always carries with her for no good reason and jams it directly into Rebecca's chest saving her life and the show simultaneously. Rebecca then reveals that she was able to taste the peanuts in the smoothie, but drank it anyway because she was so scared to perform live that she wanted to self-sabotage the performance. She recommends Karen take over the role mere days before opening, while Ellis confronts Eileen and demands that he be given a producer credit because he took care of the Rebecca problem for her. Eileen, in a move heralded by every person that's every seen the show, fires him and he stalks off threatening retribution.
4) Eileen's daughter Katie (Grace Gummer) arrives and everyone rejoices because she is the most angelic person to walk the face of the earth, which the audience is subtlely informed of via her nickname: "Saint Katie." Eileen and the musical's director Derek (Jack Davenport) contact OneRepublic's Ryan Tedder and ask him to write new music for the Marilyn Musical behind the current creative team's back. Karen is drafted to take part in the sub-workshop and eventually puts on a surprise performance for Julia, Katie and company as a sexed-up, modern day Marilyn writhing on a bed, shrieking lyrics along the lines of "Touch me! I wanna feel you on my body, put your hands on me!" The audience reacts with appropriate horror and numerous altercations erupt, including Saint Katie dragging her mother outside and scolding her that she should know better than to go behind her creative team's back; after all, she's supposed to be a better person than her odious ex-husband. Saint Katie then returns to her mother's apartment, furnishes the entire place with what appears to be pieces from Pier One Imports and summarily departs to count salmon in Alaska. Because that's what GOOD people do.
I'm dying to know...can you pass the Smash Test? Full disclosure, my friend guessed wrong...but she watched the rest of the season.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Monday, April 2, 2012
The Ship Sinks
Is anyone else really excited for Titanic to return to theaters? I know I am; I figure once it finally returns in all of it's glorious 3-D-ness, I can happily return to pretending I didn't sit through it the first time and only be reminded by the soft-strains of it's formerly ubiquitous theme song when I'm caught in a Lite FM Hell like a doctor's office or a Duane Reade. I can't say I remember much about the movie other than being largely bored by it...the special effects were impressive, but I kind of doubt that they'll hold up to our post-Avatar standards. This is probably a good time to note that I haven't seen Avatar...but if I'm forced to see one Hollywood film this year starring blue people, I will choose to watch that over The Smurfs. My boyfriend, on the other hand, is completely pumped to go see this movie. Below, I will enumerate a few scenarios in which I might be convinced to actually attend.*
1) ABC Cancels Cougar Town. I expect that if ABC lowers the axe on my beloved cul-de-sac, I'm going to be in a deep enough state of mourning that I'll be able to be convinced of just about anything, so if Vinay tells me that we're going to see a Cougar Town movie I'll believe him because I'll want it to be true. The fact that more people are going to go watch Leo do his best ice cube impression in the re-opening weekend than watch my dysfunctional winos is just sad. If this does happen, and I do wind up at a screening, I reserve the right to stand up and scream "SIX SEASON AND A MOVIE!!" while wildly gesticulating with a bottle of red wine. It's what Jules and company would want.
2) I Screw Up Something REALLY Badly. I'd like to be clear here: I'm not talking about accidentally forgetting the milk or being late to dinner. I'm talking about something like Vinay winding up in the hospital and me screwing up the information on his forms and rather than getting his appendix removed he leaves the hospital a woman. Something on that level.
3) The Threat of Becoming a Tribute in The Hunger Games. Did you read the book/watch the movie? Shit gets real in that arena. My usual fighting technique of cutting people with words would provide about 15 seconds of snarky commentary before I was hewed down like an unwanted weed. "Oh, big man's got a SWORD, what are you compensating for any--" *dies*. Just to clarify, if Gary Ross would like to hire me to be killed as one of the tributes in the next movie, I'm in. Seriously, Gary, call me.
4) Money. Lots and lots of money.
I think that just about covers it. Other than that, I'm really just not interested in seeing Titanic.
*Management reserves the right to refuse to attend and/or leave this movie at any point up to and including Kate Winslet's orgasmic steamy window slap.
1) ABC Cancels Cougar Town. I expect that if ABC lowers the axe on my beloved cul-de-sac, I'm going to be in a deep enough state of mourning that I'll be able to be convinced of just about anything, so if Vinay tells me that we're going to see a Cougar Town movie I'll believe him because I'll want it to be true. The fact that more people are going to go watch Leo do his best ice cube impression in the re-opening weekend than watch my dysfunctional winos is just sad. If this does happen, and I do wind up at a screening, I reserve the right to stand up and scream "SIX SEASON AND A MOVIE!!" while wildly gesticulating with a bottle of red wine. It's what Jules and company would want.
2) I Screw Up Something REALLY Badly. I'd like to be clear here: I'm not talking about accidentally forgetting the milk or being late to dinner. I'm talking about something like Vinay winding up in the hospital and me screwing up the information on his forms and rather than getting his appendix removed he leaves the hospital a woman. Something on that level.
3) The Threat of Becoming a Tribute in The Hunger Games. Did you read the book/watch the movie? Shit gets real in that arena. My usual fighting technique of cutting people with words would provide about 15 seconds of snarky commentary before I was hewed down like an unwanted weed. "Oh, big man's got a SWORD, what are you compensating for any--" *dies*
4) Money. Lots and lots of money.
I think that just about covers it. Other than that, I'm really just not interested in seeing Titanic.
*Management reserves the right to refuse to attend and/or leave this movie at any point up to and including Kate Winslet's orgasmic steamy window slap.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Restaurant Etiquette
I'm not claiming to be Miss Manners, but having waited tables in New York City for about 6 years in my twenties I think I'm fairly qualified to hold forth on this subject. It pretty much all boils down to this: don't do anything that would inspire your waiter to hock a loogie into your food. We all know the basics, like don't be a dick and try to consolidate your requests, but a few of these things slip through the cracks. I'm here to let everyone know about a rampant problem in restaurants today: loitering.
Restaurant loiterers are really the worst people. As a waiter I would have rather dealt with someone being a dick than someone refusing to get the hell out of the establishment, and that's for one simple reason: money. Waiters work for tips. If you're camping out at a table after you've paid your check, you're costing your waiter money because no one else is sitting at that table running up a bill for them to be tipped on. Obviously, if the restaurant is empty they don't care, but in that case they're probably not making much money anyway.
This past weekend, Vinay and I were out with our friend Hung when we ran afoul of a group of loiterers in the West Village. We were planning on eating around 9, so naturally we went to the restaurant at 7:30 to put our names down for a table; for all you non-city dwellers out there, yes, that is a normal amount of time to wait for a table on a Saturday night in the West Village. You are correct, it is ridiculous. But, hey, we knew what we were getting into...we put our names down and headed out to a bar to kill some time. It's important to note that I had had lunch at approximately 1:30 pm that day, and not eaten since. Just keep that fact in the back of your mind.
In any case, the time flew by and we received a text message from the restaurant telling us our table would be ready in approximately 10 minutes. Off we went, and checked back in at approximately 8:45. At this point we were told it would be a few more minutes, which we accepted with a shrug and ordered a bottle of wine at the bar. At this point, everything was smooth sailing. Cut to 45 minutes later, at which point I had officially been drinking on an empty stomach for two hours, and the entire group is about ready to turn on each other and have a real life version of Alive. And what was the problem you ask? Loiterers.
Admittedly, the hostess made a tactical error in telling the three of us that the people we were waiting to get up were sitting directly next to where we were standing, calmly sipping their water a full 20 minutes after they had paid their bill. I was pissed. I was minorly pissed for the wait-staff, but I was majorly pissed for myself and my poor neglected stomach.
"Ugh!" I said. "Table of three get UP!"
Now I'll maintain to the day I die that I didn't intend for them to hear what I said. It was a noisy West Village restaurant, and since their conversation was so riveting that they were willing to inconvenience everyone in their general vicinity by not getting the fuck out, I assumed that they weren't tuned in. I was wrong. I calmly went back to speaking to Vinay, while the loiterers asked Hung if we were waiting for their table.
"Well, not your table SPECIFICALLY." Hung lied.
"Whoever said that was obnoxious!" the woman at the table complained.
"Well, it wasn't me." Hung said, and turned back to our conversation. Meanwhile, I was drunk enough to completely miss this entire exchange.
Another fifteen minutes ticked by, and at this point we had finished our bottle. I flatly refused to drink anymore until I had eaten since I wanted to enjoy my dinner and not spend it projectile vomiting, so I went over to the hostess and very politely told her that we had been waiting two-and-a-half hours and we're hungry, so those people needed to leave. And when I say politely, please believe me that I was extremely polite. She apologized and gave me the "I know, I hate them too, but I can't say it" face, then slid over a few minutes later to ask them if there was anything else she could get them or if they were all done. They stood up, and the woman left first...making certain to step on Hung's foot and grind her heel into his toes.
Hung is an angry drunk on the best of days...so if you add in an actual reason to be angry you are going to have one pissed-off, 100 pound Vietnamese alley cat on your hands. Said woman got an immediate body block off of Hung's foot, a quick titty-grab and an extremely insincere apology. At which point, the following exchange occurred.
Man: "Do you want to get smacked?!"
Hung: "Yes, please, smack me right here in the West Village."
Man: "You want to get smacked??"
Hung: "Be civilized, sir! Be civilized!"
The loiterers were then escorted out of the restaurant, and we sat down and finally ate.
Three things can be taken from this story. One, if you're going to be bitchy about waiting for a table, you should to it with Hung around because he's apparently going to be the scape-goat for everything you do. Two, if you are done with your dinner, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. And three, "Be civilized!" should definitely be a go-to argument phrase in some reality show before the year is out, because it's goddamn hilarious, especially when being spouted by a tiny Asian man doing his best sassy black woman impression.
Oh, and don't sit side-saddle. You know what I'm talking about, the couple who sits a table of four next to each other so they can canoodle and do God knows what else under the table. Just stop it. Your waiter and all your fellow patrons hate you.
Restaurant loiterers are really the worst people. As a waiter I would have rather dealt with someone being a dick than someone refusing to get the hell out of the establishment, and that's for one simple reason: money. Waiters work for tips. If you're camping out at a table after you've paid your check, you're costing your waiter money because no one else is sitting at that table running up a bill for them to be tipped on. Obviously, if the restaurant is empty they don't care, but in that case they're probably not making much money anyway.
This past weekend, Vinay and I were out with our friend Hung when we ran afoul of a group of loiterers in the West Village. We were planning on eating around 9, so naturally we went to the restaurant at 7:30 to put our names down for a table; for all you non-city dwellers out there, yes, that is a normal amount of time to wait for a table on a Saturday night in the West Village. You are correct, it is ridiculous. But, hey, we knew what we were getting into...we put our names down and headed out to a bar to kill some time. It's important to note that I had had lunch at approximately 1:30 pm that day, and not eaten since. Just keep that fact in the back of your mind.
In any case, the time flew by and we received a text message from the restaurant telling us our table would be ready in approximately 10 minutes. Off we went, and checked back in at approximately 8:45. At this point we were told it would be a few more minutes, which we accepted with a shrug and ordered a bottle of wine at the bar. At this point, everything was smooth sailing. Cut to 45 minutes later, at which point I had officially been drinking on an empty stomach for two hours, and the entire group is about ready to turn on each other and have a real life version of Alive. And what was the problem you ask? Loiterers.
Admittedly, the hostess made a tactical error in telling the three of us that the people we were waiting to get up were sitting directly next to where we were standing, calmly sipping their water a full 20 minutes after they had paid their bill. I was pissed. I was minorly pissed for the wait-staff, but I was majorly pissed for myself and my poor neglected stomach.
"Ugh!" I said. "Table of three get UP!"
Now I'll maintain to the day I die that I didn't intend for them to hear what I said. It was a noisy West Village restaurant, and since their conversation was so riveting that they were willing to inconvenience everyone in their general vicinity by not getting the fuck out, I assumed that they weren't tuned in. I was wrong. I calmly went back to speaking to Vinay, while the loiterers asked Hung if we were waiting for their table.
"Well, not your table SPECIFICALLY." Hung lied.
"Whoever said that was obnoxious!" the woman at the table complained.
"Well, it wasn't me." Hung said, and turned back to our conversation. Meanwhile, I was drunk enough to completely miss this entire exchange.
Another fifteen minutes ticked by, and at this point we had finished our bottle. I flatly refused to drink anymore until I had eaten since I wanted to enjoy my dinner and not spend it projectile vomiting, so I went over to the hostess and very politely told her that we had been waiting two-and-a-half hours and we're hungry, so those people needed to leave. And when I say politely, please believe me that I was extremely polite. She apologized and gave me the "I know, I hate them too, but I can't say it" face, then slid over a few minutes later to ask them if there was anything else she could get them or if they were all done. They stood up, and the woman left first...making certain to step on Hung's foot and grind her heel into his toes.
Hung is an angry drunk on the best of days...so if you add in an actual reason to be angry you are going to have one pissed-off, 100 pound Vietnamese alley cat on your hands. Said woman got an immediate body block off of Hung's foot, a quick titty-grab and an extremely insincere apology. At which point, the following exchange occurred.
Man: "Do you want to get smacked?!"
Hung: "Yes, please, smack me right here in the West Village."
Man: "You want to get smacked??"
Hung: "Be civilized, sir! Be civilized!"
The loiterers were then escorted out of the restaurant, and we sat down and finally ate.
Three things can be taken from this story. One, if you're going to be bitchy about waiting for a table, you should to it with Hung around because he's apparently going to be the scape-goat for everything you do. Two, if you are done with your dinner, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. And three, "Be civilized!" should definitely be a go-to argument phrase in some reality show before the year is out, because it's goddamn hilarious, especially when being spouted by a tiny Asian man doing his best sassy black woman impression.
Oh, and don't sit side-saddle. You know what I'm talking about, the couple who sits a table of four next to each other so they can canoodle and do God knows what else under the table. Just stop it. Your waiter and all your fellow patrons hate you.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Adventures in Baby-Sitting
There aren't many times in the world where I'm embarassed. Outside of the obvious "oops! I crapped my pants" variety of humiliations, I tend to avoid situations where I'm going to wind up red-faced with my pants down with a fair degree of success. So imagine my surprise when I was baby-sitting my two and a half year old nephew Joseph a few weeks ago and wound up nervously giggling while he looked blithely on, completely unashamed.
My nephew, and there's really no way to soften this statement so I'm just going to rip off the Band-Aid, is uncut. Au natural. As God, or whatever higher power you believe in, made him. As such, he requires a bit of extra cleaning downstairs. Now look, he's a kid and according to the doctors it's not as big a deal while he's younger, but nevertheless you want to try to instill strong hygiene habits on this kind of stuff from an early age. Joey, unfortunately, does not enjoy it when anyone attempts to roll back the turtleneck and clean underneath; in fact he hates it so much that he flatly refuses to do it. It's worth noting at this point that my other nephew, Jin (also two and change), is all about popping out to say hello, to the point where many a bath can degenerate into "Take pee-pee out!" and really lose focus on the whole cleaning aspect of the proceedings.
So cut to a few weeks ago when I'm watching Joey and bath time rolls around. My sister had already given me permission to give the kid some ice cream that night, so I bribed him into the tub by promising a surprise afterwards (I know, these are terrible choices for a parent, but I'm not a parent I'm an indulgent uncle) and started natural proceedings. At this point, Joey started asking me to get into the bath with him.
Now, I realize that there is nothing unnatural to the child in this request. There is, however, something incredibly weird to it for an adult. So I told him that I didn't need to take a bath. He countered with asking me if I wanted to be clean too. I told him I would get clean later. He wondered why I didn't get clean now. Realizing I was on the losing side of the argument, I took off my socks and rolled up my jeans and sat on the rim of the bathtub with my feet in the water, which actually appeased him for a few moments. I was foolish enough to think I had won.
The battle started up again when I asked him if we could wash under the crank cover. I was firmly rebuffed. I attempted a simple re-ask in hopes of a changed answer. He again pointed out that I should get into the bath. I balked, and told him it wouldn't hurt to look under the hood to make sure everything was working correctly. He balked and said in no uncertain terms that I was a liar and if I made a move towards his crotch cowl he'd kick me in the teeth .* He then played his trump card and said "You do it."
Well, that gave me pause. Again I realize that this request was not at all bizarre to him since he spends most mornings proudly shirt-cocking around the house, but in that moment I must say it was one of those moments for me where I was left speechless. For one thing, I don't want to overreact, jump out of the tub and cover my crotch with my hands while screaming "WHAT!?!? NONONONO!!" since that would very possibly a) make my nephew suspect that I'm a Never-Nude and/or b) set up a complex about nudity in him that would cripple him for the rest of his life, resulting in him becoming a Never-Nude. Nobody wants this. Secondly, was this a teaching moment? Was this something that I could help him understand and get over, since I was 99% sure I was the only male in his life that also sported the good hood? Thirdly, was his complete lack of embarassment enough to counteract the attack of nervous hysteria that was bubbling up inside me? I stood there in the tub opening and closing my mouth like a fish gasping for air while Joey's tepid bathwater lapped around my feet and my nephew looked up at me with a challenge for Naked Chicken in his eyes.
Ultimately, and I must admit right now that this is making me uncomfortable again just typing it, I decided that it might actually help him if I demonstrated that it wouldn't hurt. I tried to weakly bargain with him that if I showed him it wouldn't hurt, he would then clean himself. He stated an unequivocal no, but that he still wanted me to do it. I said maybe if I did it, he could at least try it. He looked at me with a mixture of scorn and pity. Finally I decided that if I was going to do this, I needed to just take the leap akin to jumping out of a plane to go sky-diving. I looked up to avoid any accidental eye contact took a deep breath and leaped. I have never had my underwear down and up so fast in my life. Joseph looked on, entirely unimpressed with my display and entirely unfazed by the uncomfortable sweat that was dripping down my forehead. He calmly returned to playing with his toys in the tub, let a few moments pass then looked up at me and commanded "Again."
Well, let it never be said that I don't know where to draw a line. Joseph was out of that tub and into pajamas in record time, as I was no longer confident in my ability to outflank him in a debate, particularly on the topic of his knob-warmer. I bundled him downstairs and we had ice cream and watched a not-so-vaguely racist episode of Thomas and Friends while I alternated between laughing about what happened and hiding my face in a pillow to mask how red my cheeks were. He calmly went to sleep and my sister has informed me that my attempt to teach has met with no success as he still passionately defends his right to keep his cobra fully hooded. Which means that the only good that can come out of this experience is the laughs it brings people, so I certainly hope that you enjoyed this.
*There is a chance that this conversation has been upgraded from baby talk for the purposes of humor. A slight chance.
My nephew, and there's really no way to soften this statement so I'm just going to rip off the Band-Aid, is uncut. Au natural. As God, or whatever higher power you believe in, made him. As such, he requires a bit of extra cleaning downstairs. Now look, he's a kid and according to the doctors it's not as big a deal while he's younger, but nevertheless you want to try to instill strong hygiene habits on this kind of stuff from an early age. Joey, unfortunately, does not enjoy it when anyone attempts to roll back the turtleneck and clean underneath; in fact he hates it so much that he flatly refuses to do it. It's worth noting at this point that my other nephew, Jin (also two and change), is all about popping out to say hello, to the point where many a bath can degenerate into "Take pee-pee out!" and really lose focus on the whole cleaning aspect of the proceedings.
So cut to a few weeks ago when I'm watching Joey and bath time rolls around. My sister had already given me permission to give the kid some ice cream that night, so I bribed him into the tub by promising a surprise afterwards (I know, these are terrible choices for a parent, but I'm not a parent I'm an indulgent uncle) and started natural proceedings. At this point, Joey started asking me to get into the bath with him.
Now, I realize that there is nothing unnatural to the child in this request. There is, however, something incredibly weird to it for an adult. So I told him that I didn't need to take a bath. He countered with asking me if I wanted to be clean too. I told him I would get clean later. He wondered why I didn't get clean now. Realizing I was on the losing side of the argument, I took off my socks and rolled up my jeans and sat on the rim of the bathtub with my feet in the water, which actually appeased him for a few moments. I was foolish enough to think I had won.
The battle started up again when I asked him if we could wash under the crank cover. I was firmly rebuffed. I attempted a simple re-ask in hopes of a changed answer. He again pointed out that I should get into the bath. I balked, and told him it wouldn't hurt to look under the hood to make sure everything was working correctly. He balked and said in no uncertain terms that I was a liar and if I made a move towards his crotch cowl he'd kick me in the teeth .* He then played his trump card and said "You do it."
Well, that gave me pause. Again I realize that this request was not at all bizarre to him since he spends most mornings proudly shirt-cocking around the house, but in that moment I must say it was one of those moments for me where I was left speechless. For one thing, I don't want to overreact, jump out of the tub and cover my crotch with my hands while screaming "WHAT!?!? NONONONO!!" since that would very possibly a) make my nephew suspect that I'm a Never-Nude and/or b) set up a complex about nudity in him that would cripple him for the rest of his life, resulting in him becoming a Never-Nude. Nobody wants this. Secondly, was this a teaching moment? Was this something that I could help him understand and get over, since I was 99% sure I was the only male in his life that also sported the good hood? Thirdly, was his complete lack of embarassment enough to counteract the attack of nervous hysteria that was bubbling up inside me? I stood there in the tub opening and closing my mouth like a fish gasping for air while Joey's tepid bathwater lapped around my feet and my nephew looked up at me with a challenge for Naked Chicken in his eyes.
Ultimately, and I must admit right now that this is making me uncomfortable again just typing it, I decided that it might actually help him if I demonstrated that it wouldn't hurt. I tried to weakly bargain with him that if I showed him it wouldn't hurt, he would then clean himself. He stated an unequivocal no, but that he still wanted me to do it. I said maybe if I did it, he could at least try it. He looked at me with a mixture of scorn and pity. Finally I decided that if I was going to do this, I needed to just take the leap akin to jumping out of a plane to go sky-diving. I looked up to avoid any accidental eye contact took a deep breath and leaped. I have never had my underwear down and up so fast in my life. Joseph looked on, entirely unimpressed with my display and entirely unfazed by the uncomfortable sweat that was dripping down my forehead. He calmly returned to playing with his toys in the tub, let a few moments pass then looked up at me and commanded "Again."
Well, let it never be said that I don't know where to draw a line. Joseph was out of that tub and into pajamas in record time, as I was no longer confident in my ability to outflank him in a debate, particularly on the topic of his knob-warmer. I bundled him downstairs and we had ice cream and watched a not-so-vaguely racist episode of Thomas and Friends while I alternated between laughing about what happened and hiding my face in a pillow to mask how red my cheeks were. He calmly went to sleep and my sister has informed me that my attempt to teach has met with no success as he still passionately defends his right to keep his cobra fully hooded. Which means that the only good that can come out of this experience is the laughs it brings people, so I certainly hope that you enjoyed this.
*There is a chance that this conversation has been upgraded from baby talk for the purposes of humor. A slight chance.
Friday, November 25, 2011
"Smash"-ing
So, it turns out that if I miss a month, people notice. I apologize, I wish I had an awesome reason for missing October, but in all honesty I think I just forgot. All the drinking is catching up with me. Or I'm just getting old. And as I look back, I realize that my post for last October was basically "nothing happened," so maybe October's just a bad month for this blog. In any case, let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?
This will be my second post in a row about television, and if you aren't into the medium I'm afraid you're in for a dismal read. That being said, I think I know my audience pretty well, most of you are TV geeks just like me and I believe you're all salivating at the thought of more posts about it. I'll just state up front that I'm currently reeling at the news that my beloved Cougar Town has been left off of ABC's mid-season schedule, fresh on the heels of NBC's announcement that Community was taking a knee come January as well. It's been a bad week for cult comedies (news of Arrested Development rising from the ashes like a phoenix not-with-standing). So let's talk about something completely different: NBC's upcoming Smash.
I am the target audience for Smash. It's true. It's a show about making a Broadway musical! As I often performed full productions of Broadway musicals in my bedroom growing up (my Pippin was truly something to behold), this show isn't going to hit my sweet spot; it's going to destroy it. It's going to follow a team of writers as they attempt to write a musical about Marilyn Monroe, complete with full production numbers each week. It's a TV show about New York that is actually filmed in New York! Jack Davenport's in it! Debra Messing's in it! Anjelica Huston's in it! And it's introducing Katherine McPhee! *record scratch*
Look, I've got nothing against Katherine McPhee. Don't know the woman. Never having been a fan of American Idol, I didn't catch the McPheever when she was on it; I know she sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" a lot and that she's real purty, which means she was probably Simon's favorite. I get that NBC is at the bottom of the ratings barrel, is desperate to come across any hit for their schedule and is probably hoping that there's some draw left in having a former Idol contestant headline their production. So I will do my best to give Katherine McPhee an honest-to-goodness chance to impress me with her performance. That being said, I'd like to kick NBC's advertising team in the taco.
They are not "introducing" Katherine McPhee. She got the job because she was the runner-up on American Idol. That may not be only reason she got the job, but it's a big one. Idol generally gets over 20 million viewers per episode and since she survived to the end, she was on every single live show her season as well as a lot of the audition episodes. I would say it's possible that more people in the target demographic of 18-49 that advertisers love so much know who Katherine McPhee is than know who Anjelica Huston is (I seriously just realized that fact, and it's making me a little sick. Everyone immediately go watch Addams Family Values or Prizzi's Honor and report back here when you're done). If NBC really wanted to "introduce" someone to the general public, there's only a couple hundred fantastic Broadway actresses that are completely unknown to America at large. Katherine McPhee's not one of them.
Again, I hope she takes this opportunity and proves to be excellent in the role so I can be completely lost in a Broadway musical once a week, cause my gay ass loves a good show-tune. But seriously, NBC? "Introducing Katherine McPhee?" Suck my left nut.
**As I was finishing this post, I was notified by Vulture.com that Harvey Weinstein is apparently stirring up rumors that he might mount a Marilyn Monroe musical on Broadway and wants Katy Perry to play Marilyn. Perhaps there was some memo sent around Hollywood that today was the day to try to give every New York Actor an aneurysm with one news story, because that's really the only excuse for this. I realize that the chances of this actually happening are basically nil and that Harvey's just trying to drum up business for his Marilyn movie with Michelle Williams, but seriously...I read that and almost burst a blood vessel. I'm lucky I don't have that bloody eyeball thing going on right now. Katy Perry headlining a Broadway musical...I think that might make me quit the business.**
This will be my second post in a row about television, and if you aren't into the medium I'm afraid you're in for a dismal read. That being said, I think I know my audience pretty well, most of you are TV geeks just like me and I believe you're all salivating at the thought of more posts about it. I'll just state up front that I'm currently reeling at the news that my beloved Cougar Town has been left off of ABC's mid-season schedule, fresh on the heels of NBC's announcement that Community was taking a knee come January as well. It's been a bad week for cult comedies (news of Arrested Development rising from the ashes like a phoenix not-with-standing). So let's talk about something completely different: NBC's upcoming Smash.
I am the target audience for Smash. It's true. It's a show about making a Broadway musical! As I often performed full productions of Broadway musicals in my bedroom growing up (my Pippin was truly something to behold), this show isn't going to hit my sweet spot; it's going to destroy it. It's going to follow a team of writers as they attempt to write a musical about Marilyn Monroe, complete with full production numbers each week. It's a TV show about New York that is actually filmed in New York! Jack Davenport's in it! Debra Messing's in it! Anjelica Huston's in it! And it's introducing Katherine McPhee! *record scratch*
Look, I've got nothing against Katherine McPhee. Don't know the woman. Never having been a fan of American Idol, I didn't catch the McPheever when she was on it; I know she sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" a lot and that she's real purty, which means she was probably Simon's favorite. I get that NBC is at the bottom of the ratings barrel, is desperate to come across any hit for their schedule and is probably hoping that there's some draw left in having a former Idol contestant headline their production. So I will do my best to give Katherine McPhee an honest-to-goodness chance to impress me with her performance. That being said, I'd like to kick NBC's advertising team in the taco.
They are not "introducing" Katherine McPhee. She got the job because she was the runner-up on American Idol. That may not be only reason she got the job, but it's a big one. Idol generally gets over 20 million viewers per episode and since she survived to the end, she was on every single live show her season as well as a lot of the audition episodes. I would say it's possible that more people in the target demographic of 18-49 that advertisers love so much know who Katherine McPhee is than know who Anjelica Huston is (I seriously just realized that fact, and it's making me a little sick. Everyone immediately go watch Addams Family Values or Prizzi's Honor and report back here when you're done). If NBC really wanted to "introduce" someone to the general public, there's only a couple hundred fantastic Broadway actresses that are completely unknown to America at large. Katherine McPhee's not one of them.
Again, I hope she takes this opportunity and proves to be excellent in the role so I can be completely lost in a Broadway musical once a week, cause my gay ass loves a good show-tune. But seriously, NBC? "Introducing Katherine McPhee?" Suck my left nut.
**As I was finishing this post, I was notified by Vulture.com that Harvey Weinstein is apparently stirring up rumors that he might mount a Marilyn Monroe musical on Broadway and wants Katy Perry to play Marilyn. Perhaps there was some memo sent around Hollywood that today was the day to try to give every New York Actor an aneurysm with one news story, because that's really the only excuse for this. I realize that the chances of this actually happening are basically nil and that Harvey's just trying to drum up business for his Marilyn movie with Michelle Williams, but seriously...I read that and almost burst a blood vessel. I'm lucky I don't have that bloody eyeball thing going on right now. Katy Perry headlining a Broadway musical...I think that might make me quit the business.**
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Oh, Just Film in New York, Would You?
Ah, Fall TV Season. 'Tis one of the best seasons of the year, up there with Baseball Season, Rabbit Season (Duck Season!) and, my personal favorite, Margarita Season. Fall TV Season is always a crap shoot; what new pilots will be canceled right after you fall in love with them (R.I.P. Lone Star)? What horrible pilots will inexplicably find an audience and continue on ad infinitum (Rules of Engagement, airing this year on Saturday night)? What new city can CBS put a carbon copy crime drama in (Tulsa)? But the most burning question I have every year is what fresh, hellish portrayal of my beloved New York City is going to be forced upon me by television producers. Dear Readers, I give you: 2 Broke Girls.
Let me say upfront that I actually enjoyed the pilot of 2 Broke Girls (the second episode not so much). It was reasonably funny and, given that it was on CBS, pretty risque. That being said let's go over how the sitcom, which takes place in Brooklyn, proceeded to get everything completely wrong about it's setting.
1) The "New York Subway"- The generic set that Max (Kat Dennings) and Caroline (Beth Behrs) meet up on during the morning commute was incorrect in just about every way possible. First of all, I know it's fun to think of New York as a disgustingly dirty pit, but that fact of the matter is that our metro system is no longer covered in graffiti. The set looked like it was from Coming to America...I half-expected Eddie Murphy to pop out and started talking about his royal penis. Secondly, if Max and Caroline are riding the subway during rush hour there would be a crush of people on that train so strong that they would be unable to move. Thirdly, if Caroline, as implied by the script, slept the night on the subway train there is no possible way she wouldn't have been woken up by someone sitting so close to her that her personal space bubble would have been forever violated.
2) The "New York Apartment"- The series is called 2 Broke Girls. At the start of the series, one of the titular Broke Girls lives in an apartment with her slacker boyfriend who does not appear to contribute to the rent. Said apartment that the girl (who you must remember, is broke!) is paying for all by her lonesome is a one-bedroom, with a separate living room and kitchen and...drum roll please...a backyard. Yeah, not so much. Not unless "broke" is code for "independently wealthy with a trust fund."
3) The "New York Smell"- I know New York smells. Among the things it smells like are street meat, roasted peanuts, the homeless, garbage, fresh coffee, fresh bagels, fresh danishes and urine. It does not, I repeat does not, smell like horse crap. The only time New York smells like horse poo is when you are walking directly behind a mounted cop. In any case, the second episode of the show repeatedly posits that Caroline's horse, which they're keeping in the backyard...oh, wait, did I forget to mention that the backyard is big enough to hold a horse? Guess what! The backyard is big enough to hold a goddamn horse. And naturally, the horse is leaving little gifts all over the luxurious outdoor space, which the characters have decided smells like Brooklyn. It. Does. Not.
Look, I get that this kind of stuff bothers essentially nobody. But it makes me nuts, and it's my blog so I can bitch about whatever I want.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, Prime Suspect? Yeah, I'm looking at you, Annual-Unnecessary-Adaptation-of-a-Far-Better-British-Original. 20th Street and 4th Avenue doesn't exist. 4th has already become Park that far north. You're welcome.
Let me say upfront that I actually enjoyed the pilot of 2 Broke Girls (the second episode not so much). It was reasonably funny and, given that it was on CBS, pretty risque. That being said let's go over how the sitcom, which takes place in Brooklyn, proceeded to get everything completely wrong about it's setting.
1) The "New York Subway"- The generic set that Max (Kat Dennings) and Caroline (Beth Behrs) meet up on during the morning commute was incorrect in just about every way possible. First of all, I know it's fun to think of New York as a disgustingly dirty pit, but that fact of the matter is that our metro system is no longer covered in graffiti. The set looked like it was from Coming to America...I half-expected Eddie Murphy to pop out and started talking about his royal penis. Secondly, if Max and Caroline are riding the subway during rush hour there would be a crush of people on that train so strong that they would be unable to move. Thirdly, if Caroline, as implied by the script, slept the night on the subway train there is no possible way she wouldn't have been woken up by someone sitting so close to her that her personal space bubble would have been forever violated.
2) The "New York Apartment"- The series is called 2 Broke Girls. At the start of the series, one of the titular Broke Girls lives in an apartment with her slacker boyfriend who does not appear to contribute to the rent. Said apartment that the girl (who you must remember, is broke!) is paying for all by her lonesome is a one-bedroom, with a separate living room and kitchen and...drum roll please...a backyard. Yeah, not so much. Not unless "broke" is code for "independently wealthy with a trust fund."
3) The "New York Smell"- I know New York smells. Among the things it smells like are street meat, roasted peanuts, the homeless, garbage, fresh coffee, fresh bagels, fresh danishes and urine. It does not, I repeat does not, smell like horse crap. The only time New York smells like horse poo is when you are walking directly behind a mounted cop. In any case, the second episode of the show repeatedly posits that Caroline's horse, which they're keeping in the backyard...oh, wait, did I forget to mention that the backyard is big enough to hold a horse? Guess what! The backyard is big enough to hold a goddamn horse. And naturally, the horse is leaving little gifts all over the luxurious outdoor space, which the characters have decided smells like Brooklyn. It. Does. Not.
Look, I get that this kind of stuff bothers essentially nobody. But it makes me nuts, and it's my blog so I can bitch about whatever I want.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, Prime Suspect? Yeah, I'm looking at you, Annual-Unnecessary-Adaptation-of-a-Far-Better-British-Original. 20th Street and 4th Avenue doesn't exist. 4th has already become Park that far north. You're welcome.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
I Survived Hurricane Irene, and All I Got Was Scurvy, Rickets and Generalized Malnutrition
Before anyone panics, let me assure you that I have not contracted any diseases that were stomped out a few hundred years ago. But come on, that's pretty damn good title. Hyperbole is the soul of blogging. Or at least of this blog's title.
In any case, I'm sure that everyone knows at this point that Hurricane Irene was actually Tropical Storm Irene in NYC and it was basically a non-event for us. A lot of anticipation for a really un-momentous climax. Like virgins having sex. I realize that it was awful in other places, and my sympathies to those people who were negatively affected. Is that enough? Have I acknowledged others sufficiently that I can go back to talking about myself now? Fantastic.
As I have told many stories on this blog about my current workplace, I'm sure I don't have to refresh loyal reader's memories that I work in a hotel in Manhattan that is run by what essentially amounts to an arrogant, moronic garden gnome and a cheap, evil ogre. In response to the forecast for the weekend, Gnome and Ogre decided that employees would have to stay over in the hotel in order to keep the place running; mind you, Gnome and Ogre were running back to their homes to stay with their families and take care of them. It was the little peasants that would be required to stay at work the whole time. Let me say now that I don't really have a problem with Gnome and Ogre staying at home; their presence could only have gummed up the works further, as neither one of them has managed to make an effective decision in their entire tenure. Getting one of them to do something useful is like trying to flush a floater: a waste of time and resources.
As I'm sure you can tell, I was one of the employees who stayed at the hotel. I actually didn't have a huge problem with this, as my boyfriend was stranded in LA due to flight cancellations and I obviously wasn't going to be able to do much with a hurricane raging through Brooklyn. However, the crux of the problem arose when I brought up the idea of the hotel providing a per diem for the affected employees. After all, since I was going to be away from my home during this time and would be unable to get food in the area, I thought it was reasonable that the hotel provide some sustenance for it's 30 workers that would be keeping the business up and running during a natural disaster. The hotel could either give everybody a small per diem and we could go get food to bring along, or they could provide food for us.
Well, Gnome and Ogre were having none of the per diem idea. GIVING money to WORKERS?? That's just insane! The hotel, of course, would provide food as it always does. Luckily, I was aware of the worth of a promise from the establishment and wound up packing food for two days and a wine supply. Let's jump ahead to 3 o'clock on Saturday. At this point, all stores in the area have closed, as the MTA shut down operations at noon. Most employees who are on the evening shift have arrived early, as the only way into work was the train and bus system. Cut to the hotel cafeteria, which would not be receiving any further shipments as, again, there was an act of God occurring outside. The hotel has thoughtfully provided the following for it's 30 employees for 4-6 meals each.
-Two (2) Ten Ounce Campbell's New England Clam Chowders
-Three (3) Maruchan Instant Ramen (Beef Flavor)
-Six (6) Two and a Half Ounce Velveeta Mac & Cheese
-Six (6) Hot Dog Buns
-The Bottom of a Crate of Tootsie Rolls
-One (1) Italian panini
-One (1) crate of apples (containing approximately 60 units of fruit)
I realize I should no longer be surprised by this place demonstrating a complete dearth of managerial skills. Yet, somehow, hope springs eternal. I think to myself "Self...I know that these people are the dregs of humanity and the fact that they make exponentially more than you is unfair in the extreme given their incompetence, maliciousness and generalized idiocy. But Self, even THEY have to eat! Even THEY understand that you can't have employees at work for 36-48 hours and not provide food!"
Surprise! They don't understand this! As I said, I had food with me (I didn't expect them to provide GOOD food) and I was fine, but I hope everyone else working there had the same instincts. I wrote an angry letter to the HR Department, the final paragraph of which I will reproduce for you below:
No response as of yet! Let's see how long it takes before they acknowledge anything happened at all...I'm guessing I never hear a peep.
In any case, I'm sure that everyone knows at this point that Hurricane Irene was actually Tropical Storm Irene in NYC and it was basically a non-event for us. A lot of anticipation for a really un-momentous climax. Like virgins having sex. I realize that it was awful in other places, and my sympathies to those people who were negatively affected. Is that enough? Have I acknowledged others sufficiently that I can go back to talking about myself now? Fantastic.
As I have told many stories on this blog about my current workplace, I'm sure I don't have to refresh loyal reader's memories that I work in a hotel in Manhattan that is run by what essentially amounts to an arrogant, moronic garden gnome and a cheap, evil ogre. In response to the forecast for the weekend, Gnome and Ogre decided that employees would have to stay over in the hotel in order to keep the place running; mind you, Gnome and Ogre were running back to their homes to stay with their families and take care of them. It was the little peasants that would be required to stay at work the whole time. Let me say now that I don't really have a problem with Gnome and Ogre staying at home; their presence could only have gummed up the works further, as neither one of them has managed to make an effective decision in their entire tenure. Getting one of them to do something useful is like trying to flush a floater: a waste of time and resources.
As I'm sure you can tell, I was one of the employees who stayed at the hotel. I actually didn't have a huge problem with this, as my boyfriend was stranded in LA due to flight cancellations and I obviously wasn't going to be able to do much with a hurricane raging through Brooklyn. However, the crux of the problem arose when I brought up the idea of the hotel providing a per diem for the affected employees. After all, since I was going to be away from my home during this time and would be unable to get food in the area, I thought it was reasonable that the hotel provide some sustenance for it's 30 workers that would be keeping the business up and running during a natural disaster. The hotel could either give everybody a small per diem and we could go get food to bring along, or they could provide food for us.
Well, Gnome and Ogre were having none of the per diem idea. GIVING money to WORKERS?? That's just insane! The hotel, of course, would provide food as it always does. Luckily, I was aware of the worth of a promise from the establishment and wound up packing food for two days and a wine supply. Let's jump ahead to 3 o'clock on Saturday. At this point, all stores in the area have closed, as the MTA shut down operations at noon. Most employees who are on the evening shift have arrived early, as the only way into work was the train and bus system. Cut to the hotel cafeteria, which would not be receiving any further shipments as, again, there was an act of God occurring outside. The hotel has thoughtfully provided the following for it's 30 employees for 4-6 meals each.
-Two (2) Ten Ounce Campbell's New England Clam Chowders
-Three (3) Maruchan Instant Ramen (Beef Flavor)
-Six (6) Two and a Half Ounce Velveeta Mac & Cheese
-Six (6) Hot Dog Buns
-The Bottom of a Crate of Tootsie Rolls
-One (1) Italian panini
-One (1) crate of apples (containing approximately 60 units of fruit)
I realize I should no longer be surprised by this place demonstrating a complete dearth of managerial skills. Yet, somehow, hope springs eternal. I think to myself "Self...I know that these people are the dregs of humanity and the fact that they make exponentially more than you is unfair in the extreme given their incompetence, maliciousness and generalized idiocy. But Self, even THEY have to eat! Even THEY understand that you can't have employees at work for 36-48 hours and not provide food!"
Surprise! They don't understand this! As I said, I had food with me (I didn't expect them to provide GOOD food) and I was fine, but I hope everyone else working there had the same instincts. I wrote an angry letter to the HR Department, the final paragraph of which I will reproduce for you below:
Bitch probably needed a dictionary to read that one.How [the food provided] is expected to keep a 35 person staff fed and healthy for at least another 36 hours is a mystery to me. I can only hope that most people had the foresight to pack food from home. However, I cannot help but feel as if this blatant disregard for a hard-working staff's time and health is anything but indicative of either a deep ignorance of the situation or a complete lack of caring. As I know the problem was brought up to the Executive Committee on Friday, with plenty of time to implement a course of action to avoid such negligence, I don't see how anyone could reasonably claim ignorance. Whatever the reason, the result is unacceptable and I, for one, feel as if the powers that be at this hotel owe their employees compensation and a heartfelt apology.
No response as of yet! Let's see how long it takes before they acknowledge anything happened at all...I'm guessing I never hear a peep.
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