The all-time best Looney Tunes cartoon EVER MADE is on YouTube. It's called Feed the Kitty, and while I've tried explaining to people how amazing and funny and wonderful it is, you really have to see it to know what I mean. When it was originally shown some 50 years ago, audiences ran out of the movie theaters crying. God bless the person who posted this thing!
A big thank you to all the people wondering where I've gone for so long... fret not. I'm am actually BLOGGING EVERY DAY NOW. Yes, it's true. BestWeekEver.tv
Nick Kroll: Comedian, talent will be OFF THE CHARTS. Laura Dawn: Cultural Director, Moveon.org, talent will be singing Andres de Bouchet: Comedian, will be singing Gabe Liedman: Comedian, will be giving a haircut Mandy Stadtmiller: NY Post Columnist, will be doing stand-up comedy Julie Klausner: Comedian, will be singing and might dance a little
...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.
Two e-friends working on Wall Street say rumors are running around that he's bought the big one. I find nothing on the wires.
Wait... I work on Wall Street! And I just opened my window, stuck my head out, and heard nothing, so it can't be true. Anyway, if he's really dead, Miami is gonna be soooo looooud tonight.
ps I taped another Best Night Ever last night for VH1... check it out!
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...
This big.
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.
Playing ping-pong.
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.
