...about this video that brings me so much joy. Maybe it's the whole grown man crying thing.
Dedicated to my friend Becky Yamamoto, who, as far as I know, has never had any inappropriate relations with any 17-year olds. 13-year-olds, sure, but 17? That is just sick.
Also, I'm watching the saddest show about a little baby named Archie who weighs 84 pounds, and has something named "Momo Syndrome." I'm weeping, but then they say Momo Syndrome, and I crack up. Climb aboard the Discovery Health Rollercoaster Folks.
Yes, it's true. Mother is in town. Dog sitting for a Jack Russel mix named Ziggy on the Upper East Side for the month of July.
Ziggy, clearly coked out of her brains.
And while she may always repeat the mantra "Do what you want, I'm not bothering you," she will usually follow that up with "So what are you doing tonight? Tomorrow? Maybe I could swing by the office, meet you for lunch? Howsabout tomorrow at 6 am, we have a quick bagel and catch a matinee before work? There is a great Gerard Depardu movie at Lincoln Center..." By this point it's usually too late, as I've hung myself from the rafters in my bedroom, Shawshank Redempy stizz.
Not actually true -- I've managed to squeeze in a number of Mommy-Daughter dates so far. Just this Saturday, we went to see Superman Returns on the Imax, where my Mom chose to wait for the quietist, most serious moments to stifle funeral-worthy laughs, and apply lipstick no less than 3 times during some key plot moments. The Daughter then must become the Mother, chiding her for such behavior, then feeling guilty, offering her a piece of gum, and secretly wishing she had never given birth to this 58-year-old menace.
Today, Mother came to the apartment to help me organize a Pizza-the-Hut-style clothing pile on my floor. Beforehand, we took a short detour to St. John the Divine, the largest Gothic Cathedral in the world, and around the corner from my apartment, the smallest Gothic Cathedral in my building. St. John's is stunning -- but what really makes it in my opinion is a little garden behind the church, next to where the priest resides. Away from the street, full of wildflowers and manicured topiaries, it's a fantastic mini-break from the city.
Making me believe in Jesus a little more evr'y day. (Note to new readers: I'm a Jew. But an easily converted one.)
But what made the trip extra special? Two things.
1. We saw two peacocks while perusing the premises. One was a beautiful blue male; the other, a startling albino peacock! We were having a time looking at them, until some little bastard children ran up to the albino and scared it away. Following my mother disciplining the little rats as though they were her own, we followed the bird down a little pathway, cooing and complimenting it as though it were our own.
It looks delicious.
2. At one point, my mother points to a pretty patch of yellow flowers and says "Uch! Those are my favorite flowers! I think they're called "Lazy-Eyed Susans".
Don't be fooled. The flower wasn't the more commonly known "Black-Eye Susan." It was, in fact, a lazy-eyed flower.
Clearly, my brain is fried from the weekend antics. However, if interested in seeing the inimitable dynamic between Mother and I, head down to the Rejection Show at Mo Pitkins (34 Avenue A) tomorrow at 7:30 pm, where I'll be confronting her, live on stage, about various rejections she put me through in my childhood. You can't miss us -- we'll be the Lazy-Eyed Susans fighting loudly by the bar.
Back in high school, I used to stay up into the wee hours of the night in order to watch some of the dumbest programming available on television. One local Miami affiliate, WBZL Channel 33, used to show Perfect Strangers and Head of the Class at 4 in the morning -- and high school began at 7:30. My schedule went something like this: Wake up at 6 am to make the bus, get home at around 3:30, sleep until 9:00 or 10:00, stay up to watch Balki, fall asleep at 4:30, wake up again at 6. I found that I was much more productive during those nighttime hours -- the streets empty, parents asleep, I was able to watch nighttime television uninterrupted. Was it worth it? Why don't you ask me to recount the episode where Balki overbid on a bottle of wine at some sort of wacky wine auction to find out for yourself. (The answer is yes.)
One show that I was certainly addicted to was on the old school Cartoon Network (I think...), and it was called "O Cananda". This half-hour show would feature two or three short animated movies straight outta our friendly neighbor to the North. Some of them were terry, the types of cartoons you would watch in 3rd grade when your teacher had her period and couldn't mosey about the room.
But some were amazing. And now many of them are online! Check them out on the National Film Board of Canada's website. My personal faves are Bead Game (mesmerizing), George and Rosemary (from the same animators who brought you Bob and Margaret), Notes on a Triangle (make sure you're high beforehand), and the following two videos, so good in fact, I'm posting them here directly: The Big Snit (love this one!!) and The Cat Came Back (which will no doubt be in your head for the next millenium or so.) Enjoy, it brought back a lot of memories for me.
My father, apparently a hotbed for unsubstantiated internet rumors, just instant messaged me at 3:30 pm to say that Castro is dead. When I asked for a source, he literally directed me to Free Republic, only the biggest conservative, Jew-hating, Klan-surfed website on the net.
I was like "Oh, yeah, I also meant to tell you, the Holocaust never happened.... PAYCE!"
(Update: A reader writes in to tell me that Free Republic is only conservative, and not necessare Klan-sponsored... MY B!)
But seriously... I looooove totally made up, fictional rumors about Castro dying. It takes only one small rumor to turn Miami from a humid, crime-ridden city into a humid, crime-ridden city with bottle rockets aimed at baby's faces in celebration. This Castro dying thing has seriously given me a new lease on my afternoon.
Update: 4:36 pm: Father says that news radio in Miami is reporting the Venezuelan News Agency, or EFE, just confirmed Castro's death... Lord, I haven't felt this much anticipation coming out of Havana since Cuba Gooding Jr. was nominated for an Oscar!
Other title ideas: "Animal in the Zizou", "Zizou See That?!" and "Making a Stink Out of the Head-Butt".
I had big plans for the World Cup finale yesterday. And when I say "big plans", I don't fuck around. We're not talking heading to a bar to watch the game with a bunch of average-salary earning plebes. We're talking hanging a plasma screen from the inside of a hot air balloon, while sitting on a cashmere-lined loveseat, with a bowl of Pirate's Booty in my lap, while flying over Ralph Lauren's pad in the Hamptons. I was excited, and like the Mannequin theme song, nothing was going to stop me now.
Then my 25th birthday party happened on Saturday night. And this year would be special, as I had the brilliant idea of inviting my parents to the bar so they could meet all my wonderful friends. They arrived at around 11, my ultra-glamorous mother, and my sweet father, who shares a birthday with me, and was turning 60. The day already got off to a rocky start when my mother called me to say that she was bringing about 4,000 Pepperidge Farm cookies to the party to feed my friends. My brain switched from kind, quarter-life crisis girl to snobby, bitchy 15 year-old in 2 seconds. "Mom! I don't want you bringing cookies to the party!! Why don't you just show up riding a pony side-saddle while a circus clown molests me with his horn on the bar?" (Rough translation obviously.)
She agreed not to embarass me and leave the cookies at home. Cue my mother walking in with an orange Hermes bag brimming with all the delicious pastries grown on the world's fattiest farm. "I BROUGHT COOKIES!" she screamed, and began handing entire bags of Chessman and Chantilly's to my friends. While I slowly crumbled to the ground in horror, I could hear people's reactions. "Awesome! Cookies!" yelled one unfamiliar looking girl. "Wow! Thanks, Mrs. C!" yelled the child actor from the Stove Top commercials.
What does this mean? It means that throughout the night, I had to put up with my mother saying in her Americanized Israeli accent "See? The cookies were a BIG hit. Everybody LOVED THE COOKIES. Right? Didn't you like the cookies? See, she LOVED the cookies. What do you say?" I then pulled out an Acme brand shotgun, put it to my head, and pulled the trigger to reveal a little flag that said "Thank you."
My parents' presence at my party also meant that I could not really relax and enjoy myself, as I wanted to make sure that they were a. having a good time, and b. not humiliating me. As usual, they were a big hit, my mother holding court like The Divine Miss M at a gay bathhouse, and my father small-talking friends about the wonders of baggage handlers, which sounds like a euphamism for something, but he literally was just talking about airline luggage.
It also means that when they left at around 1, I made it my duty to get SHIZZ. TANKED. I was already fairly tink-tanked when they left, but I turned into an effing slut-bot who needed booze poured straight down her throat. Within an hour, I downed 2 more martinis and did another shot. I don't quite remember the cab ride home, but I definitely remember coming home, derobing, and laying on my bed eating Baked Cheetos with my eyes closed and thinking "Is this what 25 is about?"
The answer is: Clearly.
Which brings me back to my World Cup plans. Which were ruined, as I woke up at 1 pm with a headache...
So instead of comfortably chaising in a hot air balloon with a box of Cracklin Oat Bran, I slumped in my roomate's bed with a Vitamin Water, bottle of Ibuprofen, panini, and a death wish.
But of course, the game was UNBELIEVES. I was rooting for Italy, as I felt a connection with their on-field behavior, histrionically speaking. The biggest thrill of the game wasn't so much the edge-of-seat shootout that was the deciding factor in Italy's victory. Moreso the insane, uncalled for, extreme head-butting incident that occurred between the French captain, Zinedine Zidane (or "Zizou") (no relation to Billy Zidane), and Italian player Marco Materazzi, in the 110th minute of the game. If you missed it, here's the clip:
My roomate and I could only imagine what words went down between these two. I combined the only two words I know in Italian to assume that Marco spat out "Va fon-gool-eh too-eh mad-reh!" Zizou was thrown out of the game, and France ultimately lost (although he was still voted Best Player), but his rash headbutting got me to thinking...
Then it got me to thinking about head-butting. Not the most normal fight move. When two drunk dudes have an altercation at a bar, they don't automatically Pamplona each other in the chest -- chances are they'll sloppily punch each other in the face for a coupla minutes, until the whole thing ends up boiling down to some borderline homoerotic bear hugging.
"I am totally gonna kick your ass, bro. P.S. you smell great."
But of COURSE a soccer player would head-butt someone -- these are men trained not to use their hands. Their heads and feet are all they got, kind of like a land-bound, ball-hungry Daniel Day Lewis. Maybe this Zizou character doesn't even know how to punch someone, or even make a fist! Maybe he's such a finely tuned machine, he doesn't use his arms at all.
What is a day in the life like for that cray-cray Zidane "the Zizmeister" Zizou?
At the ATM machine.
Playing the piano.
Making love to his wife.
I am dyyying to know what Marco said to him to provoke such a reaction. How would an Italian sound saying "I hope your children die of cancer", I wonder? Probably sexy.
Zidane, taunted with hundreds and hundreds of waving hands, at a press conference today.
World Cup Aftermath: Soccerplayers + Overtime = Sweaty Hotness
I gotta admit -- I wasn't too involved in the World Cup madness that's paralyzing the rest of the world. It's very hard for me to watch a sport with any interest unless it's a playoff or finale of some sort, where everything matters and it's all or nothing. So I didn't protest this Tuesday when friends wanted to watch the World Cup Semifinal between Italy and Germany at a local Irish bar in Portland, Maine called "Re Ra." I'll pause so you can repeat that name a couple times. Roll it around, get comfortable with it. Done? Great.
There we were at Re Ra's, with prime seating in front of the plasma screen. I was more jazzed about the possibility of meeting a lonely, homesick Irish fisherman looking to score -- soccerly speaking of course -- but would settle for a couple of dirty martini's (yes, still drinking them) and eating artichoke dip with my fingers (which I did with style and grace) (JK I looked like a monster).
The game was aaaaabsolutely amazing. I wasn't sure who I was rooting for. On the one hand, I love touring both countries, and even though I have a couple of tiny issues with Germany, the teams cancelled each other out, fascist-history wise. I kind of went into the game deciding to root for the underdog, but not knowing who was the underdog, ended up rooting for Germany...
...If only because I was in love with their coach, Jürgen Klinsmann, which translates loosely into Jeremy Irons. If you say shit about his resemblance to Michael Bolton, I'll find you, and then kill you.
One thing that became very obvious early on was that Italy's team was very very dramatic. Like a tiny German elbow to the face would cause nearly an hour of kneeling on the field, sobbing, waving your arms at God, then at the German team, cursing in Italian (seriously, we could see their lips utter "Fongul" a number of times), pounding the ground with their fists, then shaking them again at God. This happened roughly 384 times. It never got any less amusing. Especially when they brought out to the field Italy's best known soccer player, Roberto Benigni.
"I love you! I want to make love to you! Mia madre! I want to make love to all of you!! From a-behind" -- Roberto Benigni's last words in the Italian soccer locker room.
My celebrity analogies do not end there, people. One Italian player named Mauro Camoranesi was a preeeeetty big asshole. He would refuse to help a German up, nor would he accept help off the ground from an opposing player, and pretty much looked like he was gonna murder every single person in the stadium. He also wore his hair the same way I did every day in seventh grade: The half-pony tail/half-bun look.
Then it hit me: He looks like someone. Someone I know. Personally or otherwise.
He's the spitting image of Uma Thurman.
I told my friends, and they enthusiastically agreed. This is how Mauro Camoranesi came to be known in my inner circle as "Bunuma." If you watch the game on Sunday, be sure to refer to him that way. Bunuma. It did occur to me later that Mauro Camoranesi actually looks a lot more like wildman guitar player G.E. Smith, but as there were no catchy nicknames, I decided to keep this tidbit to myself.
The best part of the game? No doubt watching the limber acrobatics of the athetic world's most flexible men.
Print these out, make a flip book, and by God I swear, you have yourself "The Slater Dance."
It's the first shimmy that literally has me laying on the floor, clutching my womb and crying.
IN OTHER NEWS:
If you're in New York Monday night, you must must must check out Nick Kroll and John Mulaney's show "Oh Hello" at the UCB Theater. Seriously, you haven't laughed in like years. You look ashen.
THE OH, HELLO SHOW! 79th Street Television, WOLO TV, presents The Oh Hello Show, a monthly talk-show/sitcom hybrid broadcast live from the Upper West Side apartment of George St. Geegland (John Mulaney) and Gil Faizon (Nick Kroll): two divorcees in their mid fifities who have a new lease on life and a deep love of Alan Alda.
Special guests include a box of After Eight Thin Mints, Gil's son Joel and of course legendary New York rock/pop-jazz artist Boogie Weinstein. New drink recipes are always included! All this and not much else. Indoor show features rest rooms and air conditioning.
Starring: Nick Kroll & John Mulaney Featuring: Dave Hill & Bobby Moynihan
They look like swastikas for a reason folks. Not my current office, which should be obvious, as the Kapos would never allow heart-shaped balloons into the barracks.
If you're a frequent user, abuser, and sometime peruser of my innermost psychotic bloodthirst here, you may have noticed that the last couple of weeks have been a little sparse. There are a few reasons, between vacations, work, comedy-related things, etc... but there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Which is that in just a matter of days (like, around 7), I'm going from spit-on secretarial garbage to full-time blogger for VH1's Best Week Ever. So, yes, less dogs and more celebrities, which I think is a step in the right direction, that direction being NNE to Sanity.
Details to follow, of course, but just wanted to say I haven't forgotten about you, I love you -- yes YOU! -- and I'm -- no I swear, I LOVE YOU -- I'm incredibly excited to take this leap from casual, daily, non-paid blogger to intense, scoop-hungry, fast-talking blogger.
Also, this blog will still be alive and kicking like a baby in a toilet on promnight. I would never, ever kill you my darling one.
xoxo Creeptown Sally
ps A fun flickr search: Pictures containing the word creepy. Although I don't think any picture could possibly rival the creepiness of the baby featured on Flickr's main page:
It's like Grover mated with Jeffrey Dahmer, I swear. Also, I have no idea why this post is so twisted... I just got back from Maine, maybe all that L.L. Bean-like wholesomeness is squeezing the final tinges of hate from my bloodstream. Oh dear God, I hope not.