Eric Sims

[California Seething] Eric Goes to Camp

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : August 29, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:bar mitzvah, BASIC, Bob Dylan, camp givah, Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia, led zeppelin, nerds, Soylent Green, sports camp, Star Trek

Look- I know this is going to come as a huge shock to many of you- but I was a gigantic nerd in Middle School. I know, I know- it’s practically inconceivable. I bet you’re all thinking:

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But it’s true. I was one of the great nerds of all time. Just picture me as a young Bill Gates with no potential for greatness only through some baffling accident of Ashkenazic eugenics I was both short and lanky at the same time with a prehensile teen moustache and a gigantic hairy mole on my face so that I looked like I fell asleep early during a slumber party on the USS Enterprise and woke up with half a tribble glued to my face (Sulu and Chekhov were giggling uncontrollably but Spock was all “I do not understand why you call these ‘practical jokes’. There does not seem to be anything practical about them. Fascinating.’ And Kirk was all ‘Jesus Christ, Spock, lighten up already. I liked you better when you had Pon Farr. Now I’ve gotta wait like, what, six more years for you to pull that enormous rod out of your ass and fight me to the death with it while all the big brain dudes are sitting around us like ‘5 million quadrooles on the white guy.’’#mixingmyepisodesup #sosueme #nerd)

Anyhow- when I wasn’t obsessively video taping Star Trek marathons which is totally something I absolutely never did and there’s no way that you or my recent Google search “Converting VHS to digital files free software” can prove otherwise, I was cruising the Open Bar Mitzvah scene of upper-middle class suburban Albany (you know- Niskayuna GE middle manager rich- not like, la-di-da cardiologist’s daughter Loudonville rich) drowning my sorrows in extremely tiny cups of Manischevitz and trying to score a pity slow dance to La Isla Bonita with the freakishly tall girl so I could discreetly nudge her boobs with the top of my head.

All things must come to an end, though, and eventually I graduated from my little private Jewish middle school and entered the big, bad public high school in my neighborhood, Bethlehem Central High School (in point of fact- neither big nor bad. More like West Beverly High without the token black kid carrying a backpack in the background.). At this point- things really started to turn around for me! Or, rather, I started to turn around every time someone yelled “faggot!” in the hallways because that was evidently my new nickname. In fact, it wasn’t til I was in high school that I realized how good I actually had it in middle school. I mean, in middle school I was invited to parties, I was talking to girls, I was even playing basketball. Hell, compared to High School Eric, Middle School Eric was the love child of Kevin McHale and Fonzy (Jewish on Fonzy’s side.) In High School, though, I was cut from the Freshman basketball team- a decision which the coach recently described as “hands down the easiest of my entire career. Seriously- I agonized more about cutting the blind kid” and I would have been a pariah, if the other pariahs had let me eat at their lunch table. The only highlight of the year was getting cast as an FBI agent in You Can’t Take it With You. While this tragically inspired me to pursue a career in theatre rather than law enforcement, I doubt I would have made it out of the Police Academy cause I don’t like shooting black people. They may leave that little aspect of police academy training out of the Steve Gutenberg movies- but let’s keep it real- the first time Michael Winslow busted out his super-realistic machine gun noises, he would have been gunned down by Darren Wilson for sure, especially if he was wearing a hoodie. #mixingmyraciallymotivatedkillingsup #sosueme #honkey.

And, I’m pretty sure that high school would have just kept right on sucking for four solid years like Obama’s second term if I hadn’t gotten a job during the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year at Camp Givah, a Jewish Day Camp in the Helderberg, ahem, “Mountains” just south of Albany between a patch of woods, a swamp and a smallish marijuana field. Now I know when you hear “Jewish Camp” a lot of you get all Arbeit Mach Frei but there was nothing at all Auschwitzy about this place. For one thing, nobody was trying to murder all of us there and also we didn’t have working showers. I mean, this wasn’t some fancy La-di- Dachau type fancy pants camp- just a small little hippie Jewish camp in the woods.

I should be clear, also, that this wasn’t my first experience with Camp Givah- my parents actually sent me there as a camper the summer after fourth grade- the first summer I spent in the US after moving back from Israel. They chose to send me there after an absolutely disastrous two weeks at the local Jewish Community Center Sports Camp where I learned how to be picked last in a wide range of exciting sports. It’s true- whether we were playing baseball, kickball, soccer, basketball, dodgeball, football, floor hockey or water polo- I could always count on being chosen after Down Syndrome Girl and the blind kid. (Damn that blind kid! My athletic nemesis! He was the Magic to my Bird in the sense that I had no real athletic ability and he threw a great no-look pass.) Now, some would say that being chosen last like that would build character- and I suppose that’s true, if the character in question is Richard the Third cause when I wasn’t being humiliated for my physical deficiencies I was plotting sweet, sweet revenge.

Camp Givah, though, was way more chill. Sure, I still got picked last, but at least everyone laughed at my jokes about it. To really understand Camp Givah- you have to understand the 80’s. I know that we now like to think of the 80’s as the decade of conspicuous consumption but there was more to this era than slicked back hair, shoulder pads, cocaine and Swatches. Because, you see, there was a flipside to the Hateful Rich- and that was the Loveably Broke- for every Bette Midler and Danny DeVito there was a Judge Reinhold and Helen Slater; for every Mr. Burns there was a Homer Simpson; for every Molly Ringwald in Breakfast Club there was a Molly Ringwald in Pretty In Pink and for every JCC Sports Camp there was a Camp Givah (Givah is Hebrew for “Goonies”.) The JCC had sparkling clean locker rooms fully equipped with hot and cold running water and showers – and lockers! Camp Givah had a dilapidated shed (dilapidated shed was the dominant architectural style of the camp) split by a partition into Boys & Girls changing rooms fully equipped with splintering benches, ancient carpet with appearance and aroma of rotten eggplant, and a covert hole drilled in the partition between the Boys and Girls sections by skeezy Russian immigrant counselor Alex whose mission in life was to be a disturbing cautionary tale for the horrors that would occur when we got the Soviet Jews out of Russia #becarefulwhatyouprotestfor. The JCC Sports Camp had heated indoor and outdoor Olympic size swimming pools. Camp Givah had one smallish outdoor pool which was so cold in the morning that it could easily be used in viral videos to raise money for ALS but thankfully was warmed by sunshine and urine in time for the afternoon. Hell- all you really need to know to understand Camp Givah was the Camp Song that we sang enthusiastically every morning on the decommissioned prison bus that carted us up there: “Machaneh Givah- Ha Yoter Tovah Bekol America” – or, in English, “Camp Givah- the Better Camp in All America”- not the best or anything- just “better”. Better than what? Who knows! Grammatically incorrect? Who cares! All we had to know what that the bus didn’t break down and the driver was sober enough to get us to camp- LET’S SING! The JCC Sports Camp might have had the Albany Jewish community’s collar up and cardigan preppy elite- but Camp Givah was a place for….the rest of us. I didn’t learn to be cool at Camp Givah, I learned I didn’t have to be. And I learned a whole bunch of other stuff, too- things like:

No Matter How Late You Stay Up- the Kids are Still Gonna Show Up in the Morning

Although Givah was a day camp, they instituted a program where the Counselors in Training and Junior Counselors could stay overnight a couple of days a week with limited supervision. The called this program, Bogrim which is a Hebrew word for “YOU’RE LETTING THE COUNSELORS IN TRAINING AND JUNIOR COUNSELORS STAY OVERNIGHT A COUPLE OF DAYS A WEEK WITH LIMITED SUPERVISION????? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND??????”” (It’s weird that Hebrew has a word for that. Very succinct language. There’s also a word for “we’re not committing genocide- they are”.) Well, if you know teenagers or have teenagers or remember your teenage years (I’m pretty sure you’re not a teenager if you’re reading this because there’s no possible way you could have read this far) you know that if you leave a bunch of teenage misfits to their own devices they’re gonna stay up all night lying with their heads in each other’s laps solving every one of the world’s problems except how to get to second base. The one thing they sure as shit aren’t gonna do is “sleep”. Well, we did stay up all night. And it was awesome. And the next morning, at 8 AM sharp, busloads full of children showed up ready for us to Counsel them and no matter how tired we were, we had to do it. And guess what? We did! I mean, sure, we didn’t do it well– I’m sure that “fruit loop necklaces” “extended nap time” and “let’s run in circles until everyone vomits!” were not the highlight of any kids’ summer- but, the important thing is that we got our jobs done. And that’s where I learned a valuable lesson that would serve me throughout my adult life- it’s totally cool to stay up all night and be completely irresponsible as long I can drag my sorry butt into work and do a half assed job the next day. Hurray!! Let’s hear it for being responsibly irresponsible! It’s what made me the hungover slacker I am today. And by “today” I mean- right now. Crap. Is it time for work already?

Of course we weren’t left entirely to our own devices. The Camp directors weren’t that crazy (I’m kidding, of course. They were that crazy. Fucking certifiable). There were always a couple of adults with us, if by “adults” you mean college kids who couldn’t get hired at Ground Round. And my favorite of these “adults” was our lead counselor. His name was Steve- but we all called him by his Hebrew name “Peace”…..or “Hello”- depending on how you choose to translate it (just don’t call him Annyong). “Peace” (Shalom) (Shloey to those of us pretended we were cool enough to know him well) was my Hippie Yoda. He is the one who inspired me to grow my hair long (although it just turned into a giant unruly Jewfro), play guitar (even though I have absolutely no musical talent) and wear wire rimmed glasses (even though my skin is allergic to the metal and I developed a weird rash #worsthippieever). He also taught me one of the other really important lessons I learned at Camp Givah- namely

All the Lyrics to Leaving on a Jet Plane, I Know You Rider and Cat’s In the Cradle.

Look, when I was in high school, you were defined entirely by the music you listened to- sort of like today, it’s all about your peanut allergies and how autistic you are. And when I entered Camp Givah I had no real allegiances. My musical tastes were sort of “preppy agnostic” – I figured Kasey Casem knew what he was talking about, generally supported Michael Jackson and knew all too well the tragedy of grandma getting run over by a reindeer. At Camp Givah, though, my mind was expanded- and I’m not just talking about the night we drank a bottle of Manischewitz smoked all the oregano in the kitchen-although, admittedly that was pretty fantastic despite a bad case of pizza lung. No- I’m talking about Classic Rock. Every meal-time, after singing the blessing (long version, bitchez!) and the obligatory song about how the world is a narrow bridge, so stop being such a fuckin’ pussy about it (those are the words- look it up!) he would take out his guitar and school us in the ways of the Great Rabbis: Reb Garcia, the Venerable and Holy Rabbis Simon and Garfunkel, Rebbe Robert “Bob Dylan Sounds Less Jewey” Zimmerman of Minneapolis and, of course, the Holy Trinity: Crosby, Stills, Nash…and Young. Sometimes. Crap. Holy Quadrangle. Whatever. What’s the damn problem with Y anyhow? Sometimes it’s a vowel, Sometimes Neil Young is involved- it’s like the goddamn College Freshman of the alphabet. One night it’s shaving it’s head in the bathroom at an Ani Di Franco concert and the next it’s pledging a sorority and blowing lacrosse players in the bathroom of an Ani Di Franco concert. I mean, sure, I know everybody loves Ani DiFranco- but make up your mind, Y!

It wasn’t just Shloey and his guitar, though. Much as the traditions of our ancient forefathers were passed down orally from one generation to the next, distorting and changing slightly with every generation, dating all the way back to Mount Sinai- so were the tapes of the Classic Rock Masters passed down to me, copies of copies of copies distorting and changing with every recording dating all the way back to some dude’s older brother who got his Dad’s record collection after his folks split up in ’85 and his Dad didn’t have room for records or children at his new condo in Phoenix with Shirleen. The Who, The Stones, The Dead and Zeppelin – oh God, Zeppelin. It’s like my whole life I had been eating Soylent Green and Star Trek style blue green cubes plopped out by the Replicator (they say it tastes totally like Bajoran Groatcake but you can totally tell) and Led Zeppelin plopped down a great big bloody slab of prime rib with a bottle of whiskey and let me gorge myself at the trough of awesomeness. It was music I could listen to with my crotch- which was all the more significant as it was the only action my crotch was seeing. I even wrote a poem about how Classic Rock made me feel. It was called “Orgasm of Rock” and it was rejected by my High School Literary Magazine in a decision which the editor would later describe as “hands down the easiest of my entire academic career. Seriously, I agonized more about making the blind kid co-editor. That kid can write” DAMN YOU BLIND KID!!! I’d give you the finger if you cared.

Anyhow, the point of all this was that Camp Givah was where I discovered my musical subculture. I entered the Camp as a lost little Lacoste wearing wanna-be preppy lamb and emerged a full blown Classic Rock Hippie- complete with guitar I couldn’t play, Jew-Fro I couldn’t comb and wire rimmed glasses that were slowly turning my face green. I had arrived! I wasn’t one of those pathetic trend following sheep any more. No sir! I was a true individual – just like all the other hippies!

But finding a musical subculture to belong to wasn’t the most important thing I got out of Camp Givah. No sir! Hell, I could have learned about classic rock from any marker sniffing degenerate dating my sister. No- the real lesson I learned there- and the one that saved my adolescence from misery and despair (not the fun kind of adolescent misery and despair, but the real stuff) was the ancient Jewish proverb:

Find Yourself a Dungeon Master and Make For Yourself A Friend

A couple of years ago I turned 40 and, while that is kind of depressing, as any Ebola sufferer will tell you, it beats the alternative. To celebrate this milestone, there was only one thing I wanted to do. Well, that’s not exactly true- there were a whole bunch of things I wanted to do but they were all illegal, medically dangerous or required me to learn how to drive. Shudder. Anyhow, I chose to celebrate by gathering the closest friends I had made at Camp for a reunion at a rented house in the desert. It was, hands down, the easiest decision in my Birthday Celebrating career- even though I didn’t invite the blind kid (Dude’s not on Facebook- not my fault. Plus his job as an internationally renowned tenor keeps him hoppin’.)

Anyhow, we hadn’t seen each other much in recent years and our paths had all diverged somewhat over the years- but when we got together it – well, I can’t exactly say nothing had changed – that’s like saying nothing changed with Mark Hammill’s face between Star Wars and Empire. We were old and fat and bald and stressed- more Homer than Bart and well on our way to Grandpa. Still, there was a connection there- after all, we weren’t merely camp friends- ours was a brotherhood forged in battle. And I’m not talking about Desert Storm or Kosovo or any of the other random little wars of the 90’s (Ahh Kosovo. Adorbs) I’m talking about real battle – battle with aboleths, kobolds, draconians and orcs (did we really fight orcs? God that seems so cliché. What a poseur monster- it’s like the Automatic for the People of monsters. ) For two years, starting at camp, we engaged in a practically non-stop D&D campaign. It wasn’t even a game- just an endless conversation that lasted for two years interwoven between inside jokes, “deep” philosophizing, deep dark secrets (mine always sucked), wonderfully idiotic plans for the future, and long sessions drinking our parent’s liquor strategically so they wouldn’t notice how much was gone. Ahh, so many mornings I remember getting up early to clean puke off the carpet before anyone else was up. Southern Comfort and Resolve is still the drink of my youth. The point is, though, that when I was with these guys, for the first time since coming back from Israel, I felt like I was home. And when we saw each other two years ago and again earlier this month- well, that, was everything visiting home should be and almost never is.

To be clear, we didn’t actually play D&D when we got together. Our erstwhile Dungeon Master’s wife has informed him that if he plays D&D again, she’ll add another D to the game- “Divorce”. So, yeah, Cards Against Humanity it was- which was still pretty awesome. Finally my strategy of using pedophilia jokes in card games paid off! I can’t tell you how many rounds of Go Fish I lost at Michael Jackson’s slumber parties (Woody Allen’s clarinet lessons is also an acceptable punch line.)

So- yeah- if you live in the Greater Albany Area (or Capital Region as everybody in Albany wishes you would call it already) and you have a super cool kid like that braid guy at the Emmy’s whose got tons of friends and is great at sports- by all means send them to something like the JCC Sports Camp. You can say hi to the blind kid when you pick up your son. But if your kid is, well, not so much- then I think you know where to send them – Machaneh Givah the Better Camp in all America.

Alright. That’s enough living in the past. Time to get real and get back to living in the present- the Every Simpsons Ever Marathon is on. Doh! Oh well- at least I’ll have something to write about for my next post. Woo Hoo! Now THAT is hands down the easiest decision of my blogging career.

[California Seething] Sharknado 2 Makes Citizen Kane Look Like a Steaming Pile of Crap

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : August 4, 2014

It took Richard Linklater 12 years to film Boyhood. Every year he would gather the company together for a few weeks and they would film a bit of the movie. By the time he was done the entire cast had all aged 12 years in real time, even those actors playing smaller roles, and background actors. Can you imagine the type of vision it takes to embark on an artistic journey like this? The sheer persistence and dedication required to follow it through to completion? It’s truly a singular and admirable accomplishment in cinema and I have nothing but genuine respect for Linklater for making it happen. It’s just a shame that he wasted 12 years of his life because Sharknado 2 has made all other movies obsolete. (Sorry, Richard- maybe you can film yourself walking around in circles with Ethan Hawke babbling about how you used to be relevant and call it Before Sharknado. I mean, no one will come see it – but you should be used to that! #shoudlhavequitafterdazedandconfused #canyouandethanhawkejustfuckalreadysowecanstophavingtoseeterriblemovies #please??)

In fact, if you are currently engaged in making a movie- I suggest you halt production immediately, sell your equipment and go to ITT Tech stat (I’m hearing good things about the School for Criminal Justice) so you can save yourself the embarrassment of trying to compete with Sharknado 2. Because if cinema was pinball Sharknado 2 would be Tommy- blind to the limits of taste, deaf to nuance and subtlety and dumb. So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully DUMB. So just quit now. (NOTE: If you are involved in the making of Fast & Furious 7 or any future Fast and/or Furious sequel- this does not apply to you. Please proceed. Paul Walker would have wanted it that way. Moment of silence for Paul Walker……….and we’re done.)

Now, I know that you’re probably saying to yourself “Listen Harry Horsecock (can I help it if that’s what you call yourself? Grow up already.) How is it possible that Eric is saying Sharknado 2 is the greatest movie of all time? Has he not seen Citizen Kane? Has he not seen Casablanca? Is he some sort of Philistine?” Well, let me tell you something Harry Horsecock- I know cinema. Sure, I’ve seen Citizen Kane and Casablanca- have you seen Battleship Potempkin? The Grand Illusion? Breathless? Out of the Past? The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover? The original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? BASKET CASE ONE, TWO AND/OR THREE?????? Cause, I have. Do you have an eighth favorite Coen brothers movie? (Hudsucker Proxy. Come on, son) Did you say “Oooooh! Thelma Ritter!!” as you were looking through the TCM website to see who was featured on EVERY SINGLE DAY of Summer Under the Stars? (August 9. William Powell day. Leave me alone. DO NOT FUCK WITH ME WHEN I’M GETTING MY THIN MAN ON and if I wasn’t so progressive and forward thinking I would add #nohomo to that because never has a statement screamed out for it more #notthattheresanythingwrongwiththat). Bottom line, Harry Horsecock- I know film and I’m ready to stand by my opinion that Sharknado 2 just won cinema. Let me break it down for you.

Plot

I really thought they were going to ease into it. I had a whole Martin Brody Jaws 2 style arc for Fin Shepherd worked out in my head. He’d be haunted by what he’d experienced, seeing flying sharks everywhere, warning anyone who’ll listen about the coming Sharknado only to encounter mockery and ridicule at every turn- until, finally, disaster strikes- and he has to rescue those who once laughed him from certain destruction. My wife and I were both pretty sure of this. In fact, during the pre-title sequence, when Fin’s plane was attacked by sharks, my wife turned to me and said “Surely, this must be a dream sequence” and I said “Of course it is. And don’t call me Shirley” and she said “Sorry, Mr. Horsecock”.

But it seems that the creators of Sharknado 2 decided to follow the words of visionary Zionist Theodore Herzl “if you will it, it is no dream”. Only- they weren’t referring to the state of Israel, but to a passenger plane being attacked on all sides by murderous creatures irrationally determined to killing every single innocent person on board even if it means their own demise- or, as I like to call it- the State of Israel! I’m amazed that shark rights activists haven’t accused Fin Shepherd of war crimes. I mean, if his name was Shepherdstein, they’d be burning synagogues for sure.

The point here is- Sharknado 2 doesn’t have time to dick around petty little foreshadowing dream sequences or bullshit dramatic questions like “Will Fin be able to convince the doubters and skeptics that he is not crazy and overcome the traumatic memories of the horrors he experienced in LA in time to save the great city of New York from certain annihilation?” Fuck that noise. This movie’s got way bigger narrative fish to fry (so to speak)- and tackles the IMPORTANT dramatic questions like:

“Where is Fin Shepherd going to find a chainsaw in Manhattan?“
“How will Tara Reid transform the stump of her severed hand into a high-powered buzz saw shark killing machine?”
and, most importantly- “How can you have an entire movie with Mark McGrath and not have him say ‘I just wanna fly’ right before he’s sucked up off the ground into a Sharknado??”
I mean COME ON- that’s like casting Billy Ocean in a movie as a police officer who patrols nightmares and not having him say “For the last time- I’m warning you- Get out of the dream and GET INTO MY CAR” or putting Huey Lewis in a Jonah Salk biopic and not including a scene where a lab tech runs up to him and says “What are we going to do- we’ve tried every medication we have to fight polio and nothing works” so that Huey can respond “I WANT A NEW DRUG!” I mean- COME ON. This is COMEDY GOLD HERE, PEOPLE.

For, you see, Sharknado 2 isn’t a movie that starts at 1 and goes up to 11- NO, SIR- this is a movie that starts at 11 and goes to HOLY SHIT THAT’S MATT LAUER AND AL ROKER KILLING A SHARK WITH AN UMBRELLA- FUCK YEAH!!!!!!! But, what’s truly great about Sharknado 2– and what separates it from the other films in the sharksploitation ouvre is that, like a creepy Christian men’s group in the 90’s, Sharkando 2 keeps its promises. Writer/director Thunder Levin (real name- Thunder Levine) puts his MFA (Master of Fucking AWESOMENESS) to good use as he ties up every single loose end and delivers a satisfying punchline to every set up.

It’s like- when Fin goes up to the roof of the Empire State Building and Tara Reid is left on the ground, feeling all helpless and shit because her hand was bitten off- and she looks over and just happens to see a spare blade for a rotary saw. And an electric motor. And some wiring. So she crinkles her face all up into that thinking position she learned in Face Yoga (Deeply Thinking Blonde) and she calls over her nephew to help her with an idea she just had. And me, as a viewer, I’m just sitting at home wishing and hoping and thinking and praying- could it really happen? Could this really be about to play out the way I think it’s going to play out? COULD LIFE REALLY BE THIS BEAUTIFUL? And then- ooh ooh ooh- and then, Fin is up on the roof and this shark is coming right at him and he he he he he can’t get his chainsaw to fire so you think he’s in a big fat huge mess of trouble but then BOOM out of nowhere Tara Reid appears and, before I see it, I hear the sound of a rotary blade spinning and then I see her stump with the motorized spinning blade attached it and then and then and then KER-CHOPO!!! She slices the shark in half and I think yes, Yes, YES – LIFE CAN REALLY BE THIS BEAUTIFUL!!!! Sniff…Sob. …Sorry… I just….I just need a moment here…talk amongst yourselves. I’m all verklepht. She chopped through that shark like butter.

I mean, clearly, you have to acknowledge that Thunder Levin is a structural genius. No writer in history has ever more rigorously followed Anton Chekhov’s famous maxim “Yes, keptin. Phasers on stun.”. Wait, no sorry- wrong Chekhov- I was thinking of this famous maxim: “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. “ Only in this movie the gun isn’t on the wall, it’s in Tara Reid’s hand while she’s firing into the mouth of an oncoming shark – and when that gun is introduced later- well, then we get into a different area of Sharkando 2’s cinematic superiority. Romance.

Romance

Surely you’ve seen Sleepless in Seattle (blah blah blah blah blah blah calling me Shirley.) Annie (Meg Ryan) is on the observation deck at the top of the Empire State Building and is about to give up on Sam (Tom Hanks). Just then she spots Jonah’s (whatshisface- that kid who grew up ugly and hasn’t worked since 2006) backpack on the ground. She reaches into the backpack and pulls out a teddy bear. Sam and Jonah come back out to the observation deck looking for the backpack. Annie sees Sam. Sam sees Annie. They are transfixed. She returns the backpack and teddy bear to Jonah. Sam says they have to go. He invites Annie to join them. He takes her hand. Music swells. Camera pulls back. The lights of the Empire State Building form the shape of a heart. It is, without doubt, the most romantic ending of a movie to ever take place on the roof of the Empire State Building. Until now.

Tara Reid (Tara Reid. I refuse to acknowledge her by character name because that would imply that she is actually able to ‘play a character’ – which would, in turn, invalidate the entire art of acting and make my entire adult life meaningless. I’M HANGING BY A THREAD, HERE, PEOPLE. DON’T FUCK WITH ME. I haven’t had a crisis of faith like this since Denise Richards played a “nuclear physicimacicist”) and Fin Shepherd are on the observation deck at the top of the Empire State Building. They are all out of weapons and just about to give up. Just then, Fin spots the shark that bit off Tara Reid’s hand on the ground. He reaches into the shark’s mouth and pulls out her hand with the gun still clamped in it. BLAM BLAM BLAM – he shoots down all the sharks that are flying right at them. Fin looks at Tara. Tara looks at Fin. They are transfixed. Fin takes the wedding ring off the severed hand. He gets down on own knee. He proposes. She eagerly puts the ring on her remaining hand. He stands. They kiss as the sun begins to set over New York and the last of the sharks rain gently from the sky. Music swells. Camera pulls back. Fin declares “I love this City!” And, I think you’ll agree- it is without a doubt now THE most romantic ending of a movie to ever take place on the roof of the Empire State Building. So long Sleepless in Seattle. Hello Limbless in Sharknado. Fin Shepherd and Tara Reid- now that’s what I call an Affair to be Severed.

Casting

Sure, there were a lot of amazing action sequences and crazy athletic maneuvers throughout Sharknado 2– but the best stunts of all were pulled off by the casting department. Judd Hirsch driving a cab, Robert Hays (dude from Airplane. It’s ok – I had to Google that, too) flying the plane, Jared Fogle eating Subway ON THE SUBWAY (mind. goes. BOOM)- the list goes on and on. In fact, there were so many amazing cameos that it’s actually easier to come up with a complete list of the cameos that weren’t included in the movie, namely:

Spike Lee as a flight attendant on the plane at the beginning, wearing a red uniform. When the plane is attacked by sharks, he starts complaining about how he’s certainly going to be the first to be eaten by a shark because he’s black and wearing a red shirt right before he gets eaten by a flying shark because ….well, he’s black and also wearing a red shirt. So…yeah…what did he expect>

Aviva Drescher as a fellow patient in the hospital in the amputee ward with Tara Reid. As they are fleeing the hospital , Aviva throws her leg at a shark that’s flying right at them. Tara high fives her with her one good hand and a shark flies out of nowhere and eats Aviva’s good leg.

Tony Danza is driving a cab when he sees a shark flying of the sky headed right for Danny Pintauro and Judith Light. He pulls over, puts on a pair of boxing gloves, punches the shark in mid-air and shouts “WHO’S THE BOSS NOW?” right before he’s eaten by a flying shark.

Woody Allen as an elementary school clarinet teacher inviting a promising young Asian student up to his attic for “special tutoring” right before he’s eaten by a flying shark (named Dylan).

Chris Christie as a traffic cop trying to close the George Washington Bridge right before he is eaten simultaneously by two flying sharks.

Salt. Cause Pepa is already in the movie- and that’s just fucked up. Why you gotta be hating on Salt, yo?

Jimmy Fallon as himself saying “this band coming up. I just love them so much. If you like good live music, you’ll love these guys. Good friends of the show. Here to perform ‘The Ballad of Sharknado’ My pals- QUINT!” right before a shark flies into the studio headed right for him to eat his head- until Questlove KILLS IT by throwing his Metrocard bowtie like a ninja flying star RIGHT INTO HIS EYE. IS THERE NOTHING THE ROOTS CAN’T DO?? Actually- come to think of it WHY WASN’T THIS IN THE MOVIE??? And, more to the point- why don’t The Roots have a series called “Rooting For Justice” where they fight crime and in every episode Questlove stops the bad guy by throwing his bowtie as a ninja star right before they sing Funkadelic covers??? Because, I have to tell you, if that was a real show I would never ever ever watch anything else. Except Sharknado 3. I’M NOT MADE OF STONE.

Rudy Guilliani coming out after the Sharknado is all over with to take credit for saving everybody even though he did absolutely nothing right before being eaten by a flying shark.

I think that’s about all of them. Any other cameo you could possibly imagine was already included in the movie. Al Roker & Matt Lauer actually ended up with more screen time than Tara Reid, most likely because, unlike Tara Reid, they can actually do a credible impression of a “human being”. They savagely killed a shark like it was Ann Curry or something, and kept up a steady stream of totally believable inane patter about the terrifying and bizarre weather conditions facing the City. In fact- it was their continual commentary about the weather that provided a lot of the film’s Social Commentary.

Social Commentary

When the first Sharknado happens, everyone kind of freaks out about it. People are all like “there’s no way sharks can be raining down from the sky! It’s absolutely impossible for a shark to attack in Beverly Hills! What do you mean there’s a shark in my swimming pool?? You’re craz…..aaarrghh!!!! Help!!!!!!” Chomp Chomp Chomp Blood Blood Blood. Dead.

The second time around, though, things are a little different. It’s not as much “oh dear God- how is this happening??” as it is “Oh crap. Not this again. Now they’re gonna cancel the Mets game.” Hell, they don’t even call it a Sharknado- it’s an “EF5 Sharknado” – and they even have little Sharknado graphics to show the progress of the storm on the weather maps. And, I’ll admit at first, this was hard to take- how is it possible that people can just accept something as totally insane as a tornado full of sharks??? Seriously- a “sharknado”? That’s preposterous! I mean, it’s not like it’s some normal, run of the mill, every day weather condition- you know, like a “polar vortex” or a “mega-drought” or a “super storm” or a “snowpocalypse.” Huh. Never mind. The only thing really preposterous about sharknado is imagining that there are enough living creatures still left in the ocean to actually make it dangerous. If we really did have a massive water spout over the ocean, it would have, like, five mercury poisoned sharks, three turtles with cancer and 600 billion Dasani bottles.

Anyhow, this is where Roker and Lauer come in- their conversation and commentary throughout the movie reminds us just how good we’ve gotten at normalizing the unthinkable. A comfy set, some guys in suits, the right computer graphics and pseudo scientific jargon and even something as crazy as a tornado full of sharks can seem just as every day and routine as Ebola virus, collapsing ice sheets and giant Siberian craters. You know, the simple things. Not rain in LA in July, though- cause THAT’S JUST FUCKING NUTS. MOTHER FUCKER!!! I just washed my car.

Alright- well, clearly you can see now why Sharknado 2 is the greatest movie ever made. That all being said, I do have a couple of teensy-tiny itty btty niggling little concerns:

Why just sharks? Assuming that there are actually any living creatures left in the ocean- why would sharks be the only things scooped up in a tornado? Wouldn’t there be a whole cross-section of sea creatures picked up at the same time? I mean, sure, I get it- Sharknado is a much cooler term than “Hurriclam” or “Tunami” but technically, they’d all be in there flying around. All of which is to say, that if there were a giant water spout filled with sea life- it wouldn’t actually be all that scary – kind of like a really fast moving version of the Boston aquarium that crushes houses. Which, ok, I guess is sort of terrifying- but not as bad as a “twister with teeth”. Which- actually brings up my other itty bitty little petty concern- namely.
Even if it was just full of sharks, a Sharknado wouldn’t be any more dangerous than a normal tornado. I believe I mentioned this in my previous Sharknado post- but, if you do find yourself in a situation where sharks are flying out of the sky at you, the best way to defend yourself is not to use a chainsaw, but to take one small step to the left. Cause the shark’s gonna hit the ground, and it’s gonna die and then really the only thing you need to worry about is cleaning up shark guts. Now- I know you’re saying – ok Harry Horsecock- what if I’m in mid-air and the shark is flying right at me? Well- in that case, most experts would strongly recommend that you duck. Or, again, you can use aforementioned evasive maneuver and take one small step to the left so it flies right by and hits a wall. Or, hell, you can just stand there and let it hit you. Because it’s dead. And it won’t bite you. That being said, nobody likes getting hit in the face with a big dead shark (unless, you know, that’s your thing- which is totally cool, who am I to judge? Get down with your bad icthyologist self)- so it’s probably better to just duck.
It would actually be much more terrifying if, instead of sharks, a tornado was full of jellyfish- because those sticky sons of bitches are a lot harder to avoid and they would probably stay alive long enough to bite when they land on you. Unfortunately, no matter how much I wracked my brains, I couldn’t think of a really good jellyfish related weather pun, so, alas, that movie will remain forever unmade. (Jel Nino? Jel Stream? Smuckernado? All terrible.)

So, yeah, Sharkando 2. Sure it’s based on a fundamentally asinine premise that makes absolutely no sense- but so is Birth of a Nation and that’s still considered a great movie by racist fucks. I’m not really sure how that helps my case, but shut up.

I guess what I liked most about Sharknado 2 is that it reminded me of my own recent return to New York. The way the City gets in my blood- and no matter how long I stay in LA, the minute I return, I’m a New Yorker again- cheering for the Mets, complaining about the trains and fighting off flying sharks with an enormous chainsaw- ok, well maybe not that- but definitely getting pizza.That’s way it was so perfect that they cast Kari Wuhrer in this movie because going back to New York is just like seeing her face- it looks vaguely familiar from the 90’s – but, God, there’s been SO MUCH work done.

So, yeah- definitely the best thing about Sharknado 2 is Fin’s return to New York. No, wait, that’s completely wrong- definitely the best part of Sharknado 2 is when Tara Reid turns her stump into a mechanized buzz saw shark killing machine. Oh yeah- and Will Wheaton getting Ehaten. And Ian Ziering riding a shark in the air. And Kelly Osborne getting eaten. And Judd Hirsch driving a cab. And Judd Hirsch getting eaten. And Quint’s totally awesome fake Ramones sounding “Ballad of Sharknado” theme song. And Downtown Julie Brown getting eaten. Wait- did she even get eaten? Who cares??? She should have been eaten and that’s the important thing and THAT’S why Sharknado 2 is such an amazing movie. Does that make sense? No? Who cares?? Let Richard Linklater worry about making sense. All I know is that he spent 12 years making one movie and Thunder Levin could make 12 perfectly good Sharknado movies during that time. So, surely that means Thunder Levin is the superior film-maker- doesn’t it?

Yes. It does. And, yes, Yes, YES I’m gonna fucking stop calling you Shirley already. But only if you call me Thunder Sims- which, I think, you’ll agree is a way cooler name than Harry Horsecock. Seriously – is there nothing that isn’t awesome about Thunder Levin? (There isn’t anything- and stop calling me Seriously.)

[Best Of California Seething] Are Israeli Contractors Worse than Flying Sharks? Discuss

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : July 28, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:bathroom, Ian Ziering, Illegal Immigration, Israel, Sharknado, Sharknado 2, sharks, Tara Reid

Look, the world is a terrible place and there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do about it.

Drought, famine, war, diminishing resources, rising extremism and the ticking time bomb of climate change- it all just sucks. Most of the time I feel as helpless as a stewardess on Malaysian Air, just passing out little packets of salty humor as we cross into Ukrainian airspace. And I’ve been thinking for a while that I should say something IMPORTANT about all of it- I mean, it’s not like there is a shortage of ridiculous things for me to comment on. Like the sheer absurdity of Americans urging anybody to “show restraint” in the face of repeated terror attacks, considering the way we responded to being attacked just that one time. It’s like being told by Rob Ford to take it easy on the lattes or told by Jimmy Fallon to take it easy on the Rob Ford jokes. Hell, we Americans load kids up on buses and throw rocks at them – and they don’t even hate us (yet)! If this is what we do to the people that like us, can you imagine what we would do if there was actually a threat? One rocket flies in over the border towards San Diego and God help everybody from Tijuana down to Rio. So perhaps we should show a little restraint when it comes to giving helpful advice.

Anyhow, like I said, I’ve been thinking a lot about what to say about it all and in all my deliberation about the woes of the world I fear I lost sight of what’s really important. Namely- that this Wednesday is the world premiere of SHARKNADO TWO ON SYFY!!!! Who needs peace and social justice when you’ve got sharks and chainsaws! And Ian Ziering! And Tara Reid! And flying sharks! AND CHAINSAWS!!!! If Sharknado Two isn’t the answer to your problems- THEN YOU’RE NOT ASKING THE RIGHT QUESTIONS! So, in honor of this world changing occasion- I’m reposting last summer’s Sharknado “blogumn” – which was actually the last thing I ever posted on the late, great, Fierce and Nerdy, almost one year ago today. And next week, I’ll post my review of Sharknado Two.

Of course, you may notice that I am also somewhat critical of Israeli contractors in this “blogumn” – but, it’s worth noting that- while Israeli contractors may be bad, at least they don’t steal all the concrete that’s provided for infrastructure and humanitarian purposes and use it to build tunnels to smuggle weapons unlike some militants I could mention.

Anyhow- that’s all I’m gonna say about it. No need to add more words to a “blogumn” that’s already 500 words longer than the script of Sharknado and 1000 words larger than Tara Reid’s vocabulary. So- here goes- enjoy!

Originally Posted on FierceandNerdy.com- July 30, 2013 – hence the incredibly outdated references

I really meant to write about my bathroom renovation this week – offering witty insights and wise advice to anyone brave and foolish enough to trust an Israeli contractor with their money and a wet saw. Something other home owners could read, relate to and maybe even learn a little something from. But then I figured, fuck it, I’ll just write about Sharknado which, I think we all agree, is the finest LA movie since Chinatown. Maybe even better – as we can see from the comparison below:

	Sharknado	Chinatown
Flying Sharks	Yes	No
Ian Ziering	Yes	No
Chainsaw	Yes	No
Complex and thought provoking noir tale of rapacious greed, boundless ambition and unthinkable depravity set against the fictionalized backdrop of LA’s Water Wars.	No	Yes
IAN ZIERING FIGHTING A MOTHERFUCKING FLYING SHARK WITH A GODDAMN CHAINSAW!!!	Hell yeah	Not so much.

I mean, it’s kind of a no brainer. Maybe if Roman Polanski had been just a little bit more imaginative – like, let’s say – instead of finding a dead hobo in the dried up LA river bed the cops found a blond in a bikini with HUGE BAZOOMMBAS (clinical term) who’d been bitten in half by a flying shark with one or possibly TWO HEADS.

Or maybe instead of cutting Jack Nicholson’s nose with an itty-bitty knife, Roman Polanski could have CHOPPED IT OFF WITH A CHAINSAW and as all the blood gushed into the LA River, there would be a close up on a super-intelligent CGI shark in the water smelling the blood and turning its head as if to say “Oooooh, something suddenly smells simply delectable. Is that a hint of Private Detective nose I’m getting? I simply must go investigate” ‘cause you know that’s a real fucking thing sharks do, and then the shark could jump out of the water and BITE ROMAN POLANSKI’S NOSE AND WHOLE FACE OFF, cause that’s what qualifies as “irony” in these movies, as well as DEVOURING the blond in a bikini with the HUGE GAZONGAS (technical term) who inexplicably accompanies Polanski to all of his important nose cutting jobs – which is particularly surprising since she’s over 14.

So, yeah, maybe if Polanksi had just been a little bit more imaginative or tried just a little bit harder he could have made a movie as awesome as Sharknado – but he didn’t – so forget it Roman, L.A’s Sharknado’s town.

Which is appropriate, because Sharknado’s got every bit as much to say about LA as Chinatown. The asshole New Yorker on the freeway who gets eaten alive by a shark on the 405 right after complaining about stupid Californians who freak out when it rains; the substitute teacher from Wyoming who came out to LA to be an actor and was killed by a flying letter from the Hollywood sign; a shark crashing into the cement outside Mann’s Chinese Theatre and leaving it’s own “footprint”; the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica pier coming loose and crashing right through the iconic sign on the pier – thereby destroying all future “hey, look, moron, if you didn’t fucking realize it already, we’re in LA” montages during Laker game broadcasts.

I mean, who needs some boring old incredibly brilliant and thought provoking social commentary about water rights in the San Fernando Valley directed by a borderline child molester when you’ve got sharks devouring New Yorkers stuck in traffic on the freeway, which, let’s face it, we’ve all fantasized about a little on the 405 during rush hour (IDEA FOR A SEQUEL: Sharknado vs Carmageddon – Seriously, We Mean It – Stay Off The Roads This Weekend).

Of course, you could argue that none of this shark biting stuff is truly necessary for quality filmmaking and may, in fact, be detrimental to art of cinema. And, of course, you’d be absolutely right. Well done! Nicely argued Mr. Barista with $100,000 in film school debt.

It’s too bad that bitch of an Assistant Manager isn’t impressed by your knowledge of cinema and hipster mustache and insists on riding your ass about coming in late and not restocking the cups. What a Fascist! She’s worse than Hitler and Harvey Weinstein put together. She totally just resents you cause she knows she’s still gonna be stuck working at Starbucks while you’re accepting your Best Original Screenplay Oscar for AmericKKKan KKKoffee Shop. Wait til she sees that scene where the mean assistant manager gets tied to the bed by the shy, nerdy film maker who blindfolds her with his black polo and spanks her with a copy of Save the Cat until she screams out “You’re right. Geniuses shouldn’t have to refill the creamer. Hit me again with your scathing insights about the state of contemporary independent film financing.” Ha! The joke’s really going to be on her then! If only your mom would just donate to your Kickstarter already, you could really get this film made.

But the problem with your argument, oh Wise Mr. Barista Man, is that Sharknado is a SyFy Channel movie and SyFy doesn’t care about quality filmmaking or doing things the “right” way. Hell, they don’t even care about spelling “Sci Fi” correctly, do you really think they give a shit “story structure” and “character arc.”

And, you know what – good for them. Who needs quality filmmaking anyhow? What has that gotten us lately? Before Midnight? SPOILER ALERT – growing up sucks- NEXT! Fruitvale Station? SPOILER ALERT – America sucks – NEXT! Elysium – what is that anyhow? Some dystopian allegory about economic inequality and environmental destruction? SPOILER ALERT – HUMANITY SUCKS – stop whining and bring on the flying sharks – and get me my fucking iced latte already! If you’re such a good writer why can’t you spell my name right on the cup? Get it right or I’ll talk to the Assistant Manager again. She just can’t wait to take another shark-sized bite out of your bratty, entitled little worthless millennial ass.

SyFy, you see is carrying on a proud tradition of B-Movie making in this country. And, as the Russ Meyer of Basic Cable Channels – SyFy understands that you can’t spell B Movie without Shark Bites, Bosoms and Buckets of Blood, Baby!

Plus- they understand the 3 basic rules of B-Movie Making:

1. More is More

Look, strictly speaking, Ian Ziering didn’t need to fight off a flying shark with a chainsaw at the end of Sharknado. In fact, most contemporary ichthyologists agree that if a shark does come flying at you out of a tornado with its mouth wide open, the best thing you can do is take one step to the left and let it HIT THE GROUND AND FUCKING DIE. IT’S A FISH. IT’S NOT GONNA MAKE IT ON LAND. I mean, it’s not like the shark is going to crash into the ground and suddenly transform into a Grizzly Bear and maul you – not in Sharknado, anyhow. I mean, sure, maybe if you were starring in Grizzly Shark vs SharKoala Bear – but that’s a whole different movie. It’s a good one, though:

A shy, nerdy scientist (Dustin Diamond) working in a secret lab in Cancun (which looks an awful lot like Oxnard) is manipulated by an evil American politician (Brian Austin Green as “Senator Silver”) into creating a genetic hybrid of Great White Shark and Grizzly Bear to be used to protect Alaska from Russian invasion at the secret request of President Palin.

The Grizzly Shark gets loose, though, right at the height of spring break and starts mauling coeds in bikinis with huge tetongas (Spanish technical term). The only way they can stop it is to bring in the sexy female, brilliant-but-reckless Australian scientist (Kylie Minogue) who has developed an experimental Great White Shark / Koala Bear genetic hybrid for…some reason, along with grizzled old Aussie hunter (Paul Hogan in the “Robert Shaw Memorial Grizzled Old Guy Who Dies Pointlessly, Like, Literally Five Minutes Before the Shark is Killed Just to Make Some Fucking Point About Hubris, I Guess“ Role) who has a five minute monologue about how his father was killed by a shark and his mother was mauled by a bear and then gets bitten and mauled like, literally five minutes before Grizzly Shark gets killed to make some fucking point about hubris. I guess.

Clearly you see my point. Killing a shark with a chainsaw is in no way necessary. It’s not even a good idea. What it is, though, is, to quote Adam Richman “Awesome”. And unlike cheese fondue, tequila and reality shows about white trash idiots doing random jobs that you can’t possibly believe anybody actually does (“on a brand new American Crapfest, Dickface and Steve get hired to build a custom toilet for NASCAR legend Dale Earnhardt Jr. – but when the job gets backed up and delays start hitting the fan – will they be able to pull another successful job out of their butts or will the whole company go down the drain?”) – awesomeness is one good thing you can never get enough of.

So, let’s go, pile on the awesomeness!! A shark devouring an annoying TV reporter live on camera? AWESOME! Ian Ziering shooting sharks out of the sky with a handgun to protect his son’s helicopter as he flies into a shark infested tornado to drop a bomb into it? AWESOME! An opening sequence on a boat where an Evil Ambiguous Asian buying sharks illegally for shark fin soup from an Evil Ambiguous Latino both get devoured by flying sharks in a hurricane which has ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING whatsofuckingever to do with the rest of the movie?

AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME! MORE MORE MORE!! IT’S ALL FUCKING GOOD!!!!

2. Kitsch is King / Karma is a Killer

Look, I hate to tell Ian Ziering this but they didn’t cast him for his great acting. They cast him cause they thought it would be funny to have a washed up, beach bum Steve Sanders racing back to Beverly Hills to heroically rescue his blond bimbo trophy wife and estranged kids- and it was! It’s the best use of Ian Ziering in a movie since Steve Sanders played the Pizza Guy in the porno that was shot at Brandon’s house.

The fact that he turned out to be the best actor in the movie is kind of a bonus – it’s like that time I went to see Rick Springfield at a casino in Atlantic City so I could laugh at all the secretaries in leopard skin Spandex and ended up kind of liking the stuff off his new album. I mean, sure, being the best actor in a movie starring Tara Reid is like being the best Quarterback on a Jets team with Mark Sanchez or being the best pass receiver on a Patriots team with Hernandez, Gronkowski, and Welker, but still.

By the way- here’s a little riddle – what do two of the best Patriots pass receivers from last season have in common? They’re both wearing Orange uniforms this year – HA! Oh, and they’re both getting ass raped in the shower #peytonsdirtylittlesecret #helikeshisendstight.

It’s important to keep in mind, though, that Kitsch casting is an art- you can’t just put some washed up old star in a movie and ASSUME it’s going to be entertaining. Look at Mega Piranha as an example – sure they cast Tiffany – but they had her playing a dowdy scientist who takes everything all seriously and worries about the fate of mankind. I mean, what were they thinking? Why on earth would they cast Tiffany in what was clearly a Gabrielle Carteris role???

In Mega Python vs Gateroid they got it right.

Tiffany plays a voluptuous sheriff hell bent on the destruction of Debbie Gibson who has lines like “I think we’re alone now – there doesn’t seem to be anyone around” – BRILLIANT! A masterpiece of kitsch casting rivaled only by the casting of Ian Ziering as Fin Shepard in Sharknado and Anthony Wiener as Eliot Spitzer in Dumb Shit New York Democrats II: The Revenge of Carlos Danger.

According to a Fox News poll, btw – while 60% of Americans disapproved of Wiener’s sexting – 85% disapproved of the fact that he chose a “Goddamn Mexican sex name – and not a good solid American name like John Hardcock or Jimmy Bob Boner.” As Megyn Kelly Tweeted “First Mark Anthony at the All Star Game, now Carlos Danger? What’s America coming to? #obama”

Then, of course, there is SyFy B-Movie Karma. Traditionally, Karma is defined as:

“The force generated by a person’s actions held in Hinduism and Buddhism to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person’s next existence.”

In SyFy movies – Karma is defined as:

“’Are you out of your mind, there’s no possible way that a shark could make it all the way up here to Beverly Hil…AAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHH, HELP, SHARK!!!!!!!!!’ bite, chomp, blood spatter, dead douchebag.”

This brings up a very important safety tip – if you do find yourself in the midst of a shark infestation – DO NOT DO the following:

Swim in murky waters
Splash around and draw attention to yourself
Say anything disparaging or insulting about sharks or their ability to attack you, no matter how far-fetched it may seem that they could do it. Sharks FUCKING HATE THAT SHIT. Seriously, dude, it’s a shark. Show some goddamn respect and you might just survive this attack. Otherwise, SyFy Movie Karma’s gonna get you before you can say “Sharks? Coming out of the sand in Las Vegas? Don’t be rediculou….AAAAAARRRGGGGGH, HELP, SHARK!!!! Bite, chomp, blood spatter, dead you.

3. Logic is for Losers

OK – pop-quiz time – which of these roles do you think presents the greatest acting challenge?

Hamlet
King Lear
Fin Shepard in Sharknado (Hey – his name is Fin – I just got that – HA! This movie just gets better and better!)

If you answered A or B you’re dead wrong. Any Freshman theatre major with a pair of tights can rock out a halfway decent “Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I” or stand out in the rain bellowing “Seriously, dude, I can’t believe my daughter’s such a royal BEYOTCH!!!!!!” or whatever the fuck King Lear says anyhow #laziesttheatrestudentever. But it takes a true thespian of Zieringesque proportions to deliver a line like “a tornado can pick up marine life and drop it hundreds of miles from the coast line” like that’s a real fucking thing that we should seriously be concerned about. Cause, at the risk of being karmicaly (and comically) being devoured by a flying shark – it’s not.

I mean, sure, I suppose a tornado could pick up a buncha sharks and drop them on land but they wouldn’t exactly come flying out of the sky with mouths agape ready to devour and destroy everyone in their path who dares defy them. No. They’d be dead. There would be a giant rain of dead sharks and the only movie you could make about it would be an extremely tedious documentary about how Global Warming created a freak storm which obliterated thousands of animals from an endangered species. And while I’m sure that An Inconvenient Tooth would be an important film, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as Sharknado.

SyFy B-Movies, you see, are like the lies you tell your parents as a teenager. They’re not about what’s “real” but about “what you can get away with making someone believe” as determined by the following simple equation: T = D x WTB – or Truth = Delivery x Willingness to Believe.

I mean, look, your parents want to believe that you were hard at work at your unbelievably shitty book store job all day – not that you played hooky to drop acid and go to an amusement park. So when they confront you and say “Hey, your job called today and asked where you were” – they want you to lie to them – as long as you can deliver the lie with a straight face. If you can say “Oh yeah, I got there early so I started counting books and I totally got locked in the storeroom and nobody found me there for hours” with a straight face even though your mom’s face is melting and you’re seeing trails every time your dad moves his hands – then do it, go for it – they totally want to believe it – so it’ll end up being the Truth.

Same with Sharknado – we want to believe that there might just be some tiny little thread of logic in this movie so that we’re not total idiots for wasting our time watching it, so just give us some kind of totally half-assed absurdly implausible scientific crap and say it with a straight face and we’ll fall for it like a couple of parents who are convinced that the little baggie full of green stuff in their son’s room is really just basil for the pesto he was gonna make for a surprise Mother’s Day dinner. Surprise! Sure, it’s unusually pro-active of him to have bought it in November – but, you know, he sounded so sincere when he said what it was that he couldn’t possibly have been lying. I mean, he’s good – but he’s no Ian Ziering.

Of course, when it comes to telling outrageous lies that people want to hear, nobody beats an Israeli contractor. Like, for instance when they say “This job take one to two weeks maximum” when the truth is “You stupid bastards are still going to be showering with a hose in the backyard six fucking months from now cause it takes us one day to painstakingly put up one fucking piece of tile and then we’ve got to take it down the next day and do it again cause we’re morons.”

Or when they say “I’ll come back tomorrow to finish.” when the truth is “I have absolutely no idea when I’m coming back here but I do know for goddamn sure that it ain’t gonna be tomorrow”. Or the biggest Israeli lie of all “Don’t worry. This renovation is not problem” when the truth is “WORRY. WORRY NOW. WORRY A WHOLE FUCKING LOT. THIS IS THE WORST IDEA YOU’VE EVER HAD!!!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T RENOVATE!!!!! THIS IS A BIG PROBLEM!!! THIS IS VERRRRY BIG PROBLEM!!!!!RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!! AAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!“

Now I know how Bill Clinton felt when Rabin told him “Two state solution? Don’t worry. That is not problem. We finish in one, two weeks maximum. I come back to Camp David to finish negotiations tomorrow.”

So – hey, how about that? I ended up writing about my bathroom renovation anyhow. And the best part is, now I’ve got images of sharks devouring my Israeli contractors. Wait, wait, hold on a second, let me enjoy this. Aaaaaahhhh, that’s the stuff. This gives me a great new idea for a sequel – Sharknado 2: Shark Attack is Not Problem in which Ian Ziering and Tara Reid get back together and rebuild their house which was destroyed in the first movie – only their incompetent Israeli contractors accidentally link up their sewer to a secret underground shark tank overseen by a dowdy scientist who takes everything all seriously and is worried about the future of mankind (Gabrielle Carteris – duh), and thousands of sharks start gushing out of their toilet devouring every Israeli in their path (oooh, that’s like heroin).

I mean, sure, I know it’s far fetched – let’s face it, there’s no possible way that a shark could EVER come out of a toilet, it’s just redic….. AAAAAARRRGGGGGH, HELP, SHARK!!!! Bite, chomp, blood spatter. End of blogumn. Good bye

[California Seething] My World Cup Runneth Over

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : July 14, 2014

How big a deal is the World Cup? Well, when Costa Rica won their first game or “match” as the pinko commie Hilary Rodham Stalin types would want you to call it, the British announcer- possibly Ian Darke or Steve McManamanananananananman declared that it was the greatest moment in Costa Rica’s history. Not their soccer (or “football” as it’s known in poor deprived nations where they don’t have real Football) history or even sports history- but the history of the whole damn country. Now, admittedly, this is Costa Rica’s history we’re talking about, and moments 2 – 10 are all House Hunters International episodes. In fact, the win vs Uruguay displaced the episode with the retired fireman and his family who lost their home in Southern California and had to move to Costa Rica so they could live on his pension. You know the one- it’s the episode where they wanted a place that had historic charm and character but was also fully renovated with brand new appliances and that was right on the beach but also had a pool and an amazing view. Remember- there was that CRAZY twist where- get this- SHE had super high standards and wanted to make sure she got everything she wanted regardless of cost but HE – and this is the crazy part- HE was all obsessed with the budget and making the numbers work. Wild right? I bet you never saw THAT coming.

Later on, Costa Rica played Greece in the “knockout round”, after beating soccer powerhouse Italy (Mamma Mia! That’s a spicy upset!) and playing England to a 0-0 tie. Yeah, that’s right- a 0-0 tie- (or “nil-nil” as they say in poor deprived nations where they don’t have the word “zero”) . That’s like, a thing, in soccer. No wonder Ann Coulter says this sport is un-American – I mean- two teams beating up on each other under the sweltering sun for an interminable length of time with nothing to show for it??? We expect that kind of futility from our wars but NOT from our sporting events. Anyhow, the fact that Costa Rica and Greece had to play each other is one of the things I love about the World Cup. Isn’t it amazing that the World Cup can take two countries, thousands of miles apart, who’ve had almost no historical contact with each other (Google Greece- Costa Rica relations and you’ll go straight to Tindr) unite them on a global stage through the majesty of sport and teach them to loathe and despise each other? Yes! It is amazing! Thank you for asking! It’s like some crazy zoo, where the giraffes and penguins have to wrestle for food while thousands of fans cheer them on. (I oppose cruelty to animals in all its forms. Except, I mean, for eating them cause let’s not go nuts here.)

Just think about how much these two countries learned about each other. Why, I bet you that two weeks ago, the Costa Ricans had no idea that the Greeks were a bunch of lazy, obnoxious, chain smoking mamma’s boys (according to Google, anyhow) and the Greeks couldn’t begin to guess that the Costa Ricans were a bunch of…highly literate, extremely polite, lovely individuals (don’t look at me- ask Google). I know this may not seem weird to you – I mean, learning to hate far away countries for no reason is nothing new to us Americans- hell, it’s the corner stone of our foreign policy. At least in sports, we don’t have to spend a fortune rebuilding the countries we beat, cause if we did, we’d buy Team Iraq the best cleats in the world and they’d use them to run off the field as soon as ISIS got the ball.

And of course, for the Greeks, being hated is no big deal. Everybody seems to hate them. Don’t believe me? Well- here are the some of the search results for “reasons to hate the Greeks”:
Why do Turkish People hate the Greeks?
Do Germans really hate the Greeks?
Why do Albanians hate the Greeks?
Jews hate Greeks
The Dutch hate Greeks even more than Germans
Why do so many people hate the Greeks?
Why do I hate the Greeks?
I hate Greeks

And can you blame them? Greece is Europe’s drunken uncle. You know – the one who pretty much invented Western Civilization back in high school, like 4,000 years ago, but now he’s just a ruin of his former self, showing up late at night reeking of smoke, in that old Varsity toga that doesn’t fit over his gut anymore, to borrow money that you just know he’s never gonna pay back. And sure, you think he’s fun at first because he’s always sunny and stays up all night, but then you catch him in the kitchen drinking vanilla extract (or, worse yet, ouzo) and you realize what a mess he’s become.

But Costa Rica? Nobody hates Costa Rica. They’re like the Jimmy Fallon of Latin America. If ever there was a country that could “Mom Dance” with Michelle Obama one day and “Dad Dance” with Chris Christie the next- it would be Costa Rica. Seriously, Jimmy – you can’t love EVERYBODY “This next guy, I just love him so much. He’s a good friend of the show, from the Khmer Rouge-we’ve got the architect of the Cultural Revolution himself- – POL POT (Roots play funky version of Holiday in Cambodia. Jimmy and Pol play “Counterrevolutionary Beer Pong” and the winner guns down everyone in the audience who wears glasses).

Still- despite their disgusting likability- the Greeks still managed to work up a frothing, violent, seething hatred for Costa Rica. And why? Seriously-have you not been paying attention? CAUSE IT’S THE MOTHERFUCKING WORLD CUP, PENDEJO! It’s the SUPERBOWL of sporting events….that aren’t, you know, already the Superbowl! It’s like the Winter Olympics if they just did biathalon and the whole world was Norway and wouldn’t that make an awesome Will Farrell movie?? (no) It’s games without frontiers, war without tears- and if looks could kill- THEY PROBABLY WILL!! It’s like a gigantic QUIDDICH tournament if I actually knew what the fuck that meant and wasn’t just saying it to suck up to the millenials I lost with a RANDOM AND SLIGHTLY OBSCURE PETER GABRIEL REFERENCE!!! It’s the love child of World War Three and March Madness with Brazil as Kentucky, Germany as Duke and the US AS FLORIDA GULF COAST UNIVERSITY! IT’S THE PINCHE WORLD CUP, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!

Now, for those of you that still have no idea what I’m talking about- and if you think the word above is pronounced “ghoul” – than you’re who I’m talking about- here’s a breakdown of why this is the world’s greatest sporting event. Or, at least, the best one in June & July.

It’s the most dramatic

A couple of weeks ago, I watched the U.S. – Belgium game with a bunch of co-workers as part of a Work Approved Morale Building Activity. It was awesome. We prayed and screamed and gasped and sighed. For 90 terrifying minutes we held our breath as our boys withstood wave after wave of attacks from the ferocious Belgians (wow- nobody has said that sentence since the reign of King Leopold II- or at least since Bloodsport) and we screamed in frustration as the US came within INCHES (or “millimeters” as they say in poor deprived nations where they have to use the metric system. Shudder. Twitch. Shudder.) Throughout the game, our viewing party grew and grew as co-workers would stop in to see what all the hubbub was about and find themselves transfixed by the action, unable to move, frozen in place like ancient Greeks in the glare of Medusa or the Greek goalie trying to stop a Costa Rican penalty kick DAMN! OH NO I DIDN’T! The company ground to a halt- for 90 minutes phones went to voicemail, emails went unanswered, meetings were missed (on the other hand – morale surged by 8.6% – up to its highest level since Proposition 8 was overturned. We are a theatre company after all.) And as the clock wound down- or, up whatever on the game, and it became clear we had survived the worst the Belgians had to throw at us (at least, the worst since Universal Soldier: Regeneration) we sat back, untwisted our guts and prepared for Extra Time. Oh- and what was the score at the end of Regular Time? 0 – 0. That’s right. Nil-Nil, Zilch-Zilch, Bupkiss-Bupkiss, The Number of Valid Scientific Reasons for Not Vaccinating Your Children vs the Number of Seconds I Would Respectfully Wait before Laughing my ASS Off if You Told me Jenny McCarthy had Polio. Like the audience of a Beckett play, we had just sat mesmerized for 90 minutes watching some weird foreign drama we didn’t understand in which nothing actually happened. Unlike, Beckett, though, in the knockout round of the World Cup, they do keep playing until the game is decided- and wouldn’t Waiting for Godot be like a million times more satisfying if it was resolved with penalty kicks?
Is Godot a metaphor for God? GOAL!
Is he ever going to come? NO GOAL!
Is the world simply a meaningless void of despair where hope is an illusion, human endeavor is doomed, and life is a pointless, undignified, agonizing interlude between cradle and grave? GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLL!!!! Also you should hang yourself now with your belt.

Of course, some of the drama and excitement of World Cup soccer, (or futbol as it’s called in Spanish speaking countries because evidently there’s no Spanish word for “foot” or “ball” so they have to come over here and take our words which is just so typical) is due to the announcers. Now I know everybody loves to talk about the histrionic GOOOOOOL screaming dramatic flair of the Telemundo commentators- but I’ve grown very fond of the British announcers with their bizarre Cockney rhyming slang bastadizations of 1940’s American tough guy lingo and the rat tat tat Tommy Gun “live from the front” delivery of a Wold War II radio broadcaster commenting on the Blitz. These guys could make anything sound amazing:

Ian Darke: And the blue paint on the living room wall is starting to be a little less shiny. This is a critical point here. If anything goes wrong here we could have a crack in the paint and have to start all over again and that would spell CURTAINS for our living room renovation. And- wait- I see a bubble. Is that a bubble? That could be a bubble. A bubble could be trying to pull of a daring flood light robbery the new blue paint. This could be the end RIGHT HERE. THIS COULD BE IT. No. Just a bump in the wall. It looks like the blue is getting dry around the edges. This is a critical time. Just a few more minutes. Anything could happen here. A piece of dust. An unsupervised dog. A kid with peanut butter on his fingers walks by and IT’S LAST CALL AT THE LAST CHANCE SALOON FOR THE LIVING ROOM WALL. But no. it’s almost dry. We’re into stoppage time now. It’s drying. It’s drying. We have a result. It’s… (change channel to Telemundo)

Telemundo Announcer: DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!”

But you can’t blame the announcers for being dramatic- the game is relentless – they don’t even stop for commercials- and with the stakes as high as they are in the World Cup at every second of play- it’s bound to make you a little crazy. It’s like a horror movie with only one killing but dozens of cats that wait until the perfect moment when everything is quiet and you let your guard down and then JUMP OUT OF THE BUSHES AND SCARE THE CRAP OUT OF YOU FOR NO GOOD REASON. Or creepy, laconic stringy haired janitors who sneak up behind you in absolute silence and then, when you least expect it TAP YOU ON THE SHOULDER AND ASK YOU IF EVERYTHING’S OK CAUSE THEY SAY THEY HEARD A NOISE.

So- go ahead. Grab a snack. Take a leak. Check your email. I dare you. I double dare you. Cause, you just know, you just know that the SECOND you look away KER-SLASHO the hockey mask wearing serial killer will come leaping out of nowhere and BRUTALLY CHOP UP THE OVERSEXED TEENAGER WHO SAID “I’LL BE RIGHT BACK” WITH A CHAINSAW INTO TINY LITTLE BLOODY BITS. Or- you know, somebody’ll score a goal. Either way- you missed it. And now- it’s nothing but cats for the rest of the game.- or “match”. Whatever, HILLARY.

Plus- like any good horror movie- it’s never over when you think it is. Just when you see the clock hit 90 and you think- ok, it’s fine, we made it, we’re through, we beat Portugal- BAM! The referee puts 3 extra minutes on the clock, Renaldo scores a last second goal to tie the game and the SERIAL KILLER JUMPS OUT OF NOWHERE COVERED IN BLOOD right behind the idiot policeman who never believed the kids who said they were being chased by a killer and thought they were all whacked out on Angel Dust and KER-SLASHO!!!! THE SERIAL KILLER HACKS THE POLICEMAN TO PIECES before somebody inexplicably blows him up with an oxygen tank and a lighter. Now THAT’S SOCCER! Or “football”. Whatever HILLARY.

It’s a great time to be an American!

Look, it’s not easy being an American. Wait- sorry, let me rephrase that- it’s absurdly, disgustingly obscenely easy to be an American- it’s just hard not to feel like a dick about it – except during the World Cup. Aside from the aftermath of a terrorist attack- there’s simply no better time than the World Cup to feel great about America! Because, while the US is way ahead of the world in pretty much every area, we’re still not great at soccer. Sure- we’ve got super goalie Tim “The Congressional Republican” Howard (he never lets anything pass) but in the grand scheme of things- we’re pretty much on par with Ghana. How exciting is that? We’re neck and neck with a nation with the GDP of Tulsa. Awesome, right? What fun to slum as a scrappy underdog! We’re that bloated record executive in the mosh pit at Coachella with fake hair on his head and real hair on his ears whooping it up with all the kids, losing ourselves in the exuberance of the young nation we once were and not the purple faced sclerotic ruin we’ve become. Plus, come on- nobody chants like the American fans. We may be middle of the pack in soccer- but – when it comes to chest-thumping face-painting hat-wearing jingoism- WE BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN! WE BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN!

It’s actually been a lot more fun to be the US at the World Cup than to be Brazil. This time, we get to be the wacky upstart BRIC style nation celebrating after a 1-0 LOSS to Germany and they have to be the aging superpower in shocking decline. It’s a glimpse into the future of American mediocrity and it’s glorious. Let somebody else solve all the world’s idiot problems for a change- time for us to be the Jamaican bobsled team- just happy to be here – enjoying the world’s ride downhill!!! Weeeeeeee!!!!

Of course, the other possibility, is that soccer is yet another thing the US is getting progressively better at and that pretty soon we’ll be the same domineering douchebags at the World Cup that we are at everything else. So- hey- Win-Win or us! I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN-WIN! I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN-WIN!

And the US isn’t the only country whose fans paint their faces and wear stupid costumes. Why, every participating nation from Argentina to Uruguay had fiercely proud contingents of fans decked out in their nation’s colors looking like idiots. And this is another great thing about this tournament – no matter how powerful a nation or dignified it’s history- the World Cup makes Oakland Raiders fans of us all. I’d say more about how awesome it is when teams lose and their costumed fans look sad, but Mandy Ratliff already rocked that subject here– so I’ll just include what is perhaps the greatest sad fan photo of all time.

Hug that trophy, my friend. Maybe if you hugged your children that way, they’d still be talking to you and you wouldn’t have to face defeat so alone. Maybe not.

Have you seen Baseball?

Let’s keep it real for a second- the World Cup takes place in June & July. All of the real sports are over by June. After that, it’s pretty much just World Cup or Baseball- and have you seen baseball?? If World Cup soccer is a thrilling horror movie that you watch through your fingers at the edge of your seat then baseball is a Kevin Costner movie- corny, sentimental, earnest and agonizingly dull (and I’m not just saying that because Kevin Costner actually made a movie about baseball that was corny, sentimental, earnest and agonizingly dull but because everything Kevin Costner makes is corny, sentimental, earnest and agonizingly dull.) Hell, baseball’s not even a sport- it’s a “pastime”- it’s like stamp collecting for steroid enthusiasts. I mean, the average soccer player runs like 7.5 kilometers (or “a bunch of miles”) over the course of a game. Prince Fielder’s barely run 5 kilometers in his entire career, and most of that was chasing the ice cream truck. I mean, sure, Yasiel Puig looks like he works out –but that’s just so he can fight off those Mexican smugglers he owes money to. I sure hope those guys don’t decapitate him- or, if they do, at least they can wait til after Bobblehead night.

And the baseball announcers don’t help matters any. If soccer announcers can make boring stuff interesting, baseball announcers can make even the most exciting events seem painfully dull:

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1: And it’s a beautiful night here over Tokyo. The stars are out, the moon is bright, and Godzilla is stomping through the Shibuya neighborhood crushing cars and buildings and devouring train cars full of tourists. Heh heh. He sure is a big fella, isn’t he Ralph?

Old White Man Baseball Announcer Who’s Evidently Named Ralph: You got that right!

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1: And now – I think we’re starting to see just a little bit of fire come out of his mouth. Yup. That’s fire alright. And there goes the American embassy. Up in flames. How about that?

Old White Man Baseball Announcer Who’s Evidently Named Ralph: That sure is something.

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1: And this is the most damage done to a City by an artificially enlarged mutant lizard since Jose Canseco left Oakland in 1992. Of course most of the damage he did was to the game of baseball.

Old White Man Baseball Announcer Who’s Evidently Named Ralph: Heh heh. You said it.

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1: Oh- it looks like Godzilla is headed for the heavily populated Shinkuju neighborhood. And we’ll be right back to see what kind of destruction he perpetrates after this message from Pep Boys.

It’s like death- except death comes with suspense of wondering what’s going to happen after death and the only suspense in baseball is wondering WHEN IS IT GOING TO END ALREADY? And the other summer sports aren’t much better- here’s a post I wrote about just how much I hate all of them. Read it, if you want, or just take my word for it that the World Cup is soooo much better than all of them combined. Actually, forget that- definitely read it. I need the validation.

Well, the World Cup is over. Germany beat Argentina 1 – “nil” in the final game. It was a match up that would prove extremely difficult- both for the players and fugitive Nazi war criminals trying to figure out who to cheer for. Like the product in his hair, Lionel Messi worked hard right up until the end- but unlike his hair, Messi’s efforts fell flat. Still- Messi was awarded the “Golden Ball” for his efforts as the best player, the German goalie received the Golden “I’m Grabbing My Own Tit” Award,

and the German team was presented with the surprisingly teeny World Cup Trophy by the flight attendants of Emirates Air.

Oh, that’s not a joke BTW- those are actually the flight attendants from Emirates Air, one of the primary sponsors of the World Cup, presenting the trophy. I know. It’s disgusting. Roger Goodell is already on the phone with Southwest about Superbowl XLIX as we speak, though I don’t think it’ll be quite the same:

God help us all.

Anyhow, it’s over now. And I’m terrified. I’m not really sure how I’m gonna make it until August 3^rd when Pre-Season Real Football begins. Still, it was great to see so many Americans getting wrapped up in the World Cup and learning what the rest of the world calls “football”. And I think that we all learned that we’re not so different after all. They had 11 men on the field and we have 11 men on the field. They have passionate fans who paint their faces to show pride in their nation’s colors and we wear Styrofoam cheese on our heads. FIFA doesn’t give a crap about concussions and the NFL just pretends like it does. We’re all so similar! We’re like one big happy brain damaged family!

But maybe the next few weeks won’t be so bad. Hey- I can use this time to catch up on important world affairs- like- oh I know- the war in Gaza, or- maybe the war in Iraq, or….hey- maybe the immigration and deportation crisis – that’s a good one- or the catastrophic drought right here in Southern California! That could be…..fun? Huh. Hey- wait- isn’t the Home Run Derby on tonight? Alright! Let’s hit some dingers! Or…you know, whatever they say in poor, deprived areas of the world where they only have baseball. Maybe this baseball thing isn’t so bad- better than dealing with reality, anyhow. Maybe they just need the right announcers:

Ian Darke: Yasiel Puig steps up to the plate. It’s a critical time here. This could be last call at the last chance saloon for the National League team. Here’s the pitch. Here’s the swing. It’s going, it’s going it’s

Telemundo Announcer: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!!!!!!!!!

And so is the World Cup. See you in Russia for the first game in 2018. Or, “match” WHATEVER, HILLARY.

[California Seething] Tonight, On A Very Special California Seething

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : June 24, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:Andy Dick, Danny Zuko, Death, Dirty Harry, Empire Records, Fred Sandford, I Love Lucy, In & Out, ISIS, Jehovah's Witness, New York City, Pa Rapper the Rapper, Ski Bar, Slauson Blvd, Stuart Little, Upper East Side

If you want to find out how badly I react to death, just ask my wife to tell you about her first trip to my apartment and Dempsey the Free Range White Mouse.

The year was 1998 and the apartment was located on 94^th St. between 1^st & 2^nd– the Upper-Upper-Upper East side, (the Manhattan real-estate equivalent of Off Off Off Broadway) in an area fashionably known as SoSpHa (South of Spanish Harlem) by me- and, ok, only by me. Conveniently, it was only six blocks south of a charming little video store that sold weed and also, I’m told, though I never witnessed this personally, actually rented videos. I think there was one copy of Quiz Show by the register which was passed around to all the Dominican families on the block who wandered in there desperate and starved for entertainment because the nearest Blockbuster was on 86^th Street, which might as well have been Mars or New Jersey. My desolate stretch of 94^th Street was known primarily for its proximity to Ski Bar- an unpleasant, sloppy, drug infested mess of a D-Level meat market (the Andy Dick of frat bars) with the slogan “We’re the first step on your walk of shame!”.

Also, my desolate little stretch of 94^th street was noteworthy for the wildly excessive volume of human feces lining the sidewalks. Seriously – it was the most full of shit thing I’d ever seen- and this was during the Clinton years (ahhh Bill. How I miss voting for that liar. He left such an indelible mark on all the blue states.) Now, some of you may be saying “Golly, Eric. Wouldn’t any amount of human feces on the streets be considered excessive?” – and, yeah, sure- I can see how you might say that if you’re some backwoods Duck Dynasty hick from the sticks and you’ve never actually lived in New York. But if you have, you know better- cause it’s a city where everyone is pissed off and everything’s been pissed on, and while the City never sleeps- it is often Pooped. But 94^th Street was special- it was like New York won the Superbowl for being the filthiest city in America, and 94^th street was the dung encrusted ring (this is, of course, before Bloomberg ~~ruined~~ saved New York.

But the really disturbing thing about this situation (assuming that you don’t consider giant piles of shit on the street to be really disturbing) is that we never actually saw anyone on the street crapping. I mean, you would have thought there would just be a non-stop parade: drunks, junkies, Danish tourists, bums, Dutch squatters, Trustafarians with blond dreadlocks and suspiciously well fed dogs, fucked up Finance frat boy fuckers, Salvadoran bar backs with a long PATH train ride ahead of them, more Dutch squatters, Bridge & Tunnel Club Kids, CHUD, and tragic victims of IBS who just couldn’t make it to the nearest Starbucks- a pilgrimage of poopers from all corners of the City descending on 94^th street like Muslems on Mecca (Wow. Seriously, don’t tell ISIS I said that. I’m already in a fight with them. Thanks to their stupid jihad I can’t wear my favorite hat. Come on, FX, I understand a little product placement- but what’s next- the Sri Lankan Bob’s Burgers Liberation Army? You’ve gone too far.) But- in fact, we never saw anyone- in an urban mystery worthy of the great Don Wildman, the poop just appeared like Ted Cruz- a squat brown lump that comes out of nowhere to stink everything up.

The apartment itself was a good sized one bedroom- big for New York, small for Anne Frank. My friend Sean got the bedroom since he booked a major TV ad campaign for Starburst that year. (Sigh. I love you YouTube.) I slept behind a folding screen in the living room- which was a huge upgrade for me since I spent the year before, in an apartment in the Village, sharing a room with the bathroom sink, and so my standards for privacy were as low as my tolerance for poop in the streets was high. Basically, any apartment where my roommates didn’t have to step over my flatulent, beer soaked carcass on their way to the toilet was like a luxury fucking suite at the Ritz (If I’m honest I think my former roommates were also relieved, though they were too polite to say so. OK, they said so A LOT.)

Anyhow, it was the bacheloriest bachelor pad in all the land, and Sean and I wallowed in our unmitigated dudeness like pigs in shit (have you noticed the weird fecal theme in this post? What’s up with me today? Is the Citrucel not working? Cause if so GOD HELP US ALL.) We lived on white bread, ketchup and American cheese “pizzas” (what, you thought Subway invented the Flatizza?) and the occasional package of shoplifted cold cuts (Starburst money only goes so far.) Sean would sit in the living room majestically, resplendent in his inflatable easy chair from Urban Outfitters, slugging down wine coolers like his gay dads were Bartles and Jaymes, and playing the all the free games on the demo disk that came with his Playstation (dude fucking CRUSHED Pa Rapper the Rapper.) Meanwhile, I lounged in semi-private luxury on my inflatable mattress behind the screen, surrounded by the Great Works of Western Literature I never returned the SUNY Albany library proudly displayed in milk crate bookshelves, while the faces of the Spice Girls beamed beatifically upon me from the wall (seriously don’t ask). We were like the Odd Couple with no Felix, surrounded by half empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays and half empty bottles that had been re-purposed as overflowing ashtrays- living large and riding high on cushions of compressed air until one day our bad housekeeping caught up with us when we broke a bottle and our furniture, and spirits, slowly deflated. Things were never the same again.

But, I digress- because before we got to that point- there was Dempsey the Free Range White Mouse. Dempsey was a pale little mouse that Sean got from his pale little girlfriend. We’ll call her Christy- not because that’s her name but because, seriously, who gives a fuck? Christy was a dance student, and she and her freaky-deaky NYU experimental cohorts had incorporated Dempsey into a performance art piece. After the show- they weren’t sure what to do with the mouse, and since Sean had a soft spot for the little white fluffball (and also liked the mouse) he adopted the little rodent, named it Dempsey, brought it into our home and totally got laid off of it (the man was a goddamn professional). Naturally, it was ill befitting to our dudeness to keep our new little dude locked up in a cage, plus buying a cage would have required a modicum of (gasp) effort and possibly (double gasp) a trip to the boroughs, so we just let him roam free around our pad. And for a short while- it was glorious- Sean on his chair, me on my mattress and Dempsey dashing in and out of the shadows and scaring the LIVING SHIT out of anyone who saw him and jumped to the crazy conclusion that our apartment was infested with mice, when really it was just infested with friends. Who were mice. Oh my God we were gross. Let me tell you- Christy’s replacement Kristy was particularly freaked out. Sigh. Good times.

Anyhow, the point of this whole story- is that the first time I brought my wife, then girlfriend, over to the pad, we opened the door to discover Dempsey dead. How he died, I’m not sure. I can tell you that, in the more advanced stages of my professional career as an arts professional I’ve spent a lot of time and money trying to kill mice and rats and have never had one just drop dead as easily as Dempsey. Regardless- there he was- in the middle of the floor, clutching his tiny heart like Stuart Little doing an impression of Fred Sanford. And I handled it… perfectly- with utterly impeccable stoic manly man-ness. I was John Wayne. I was Gary Cooper. I was motherfucking Clint Eastwood in there- all “Looks like Dempsey didn’t feel so lucky. Punk” and I quickly and efficiently disposed of the carcass before my girlfriend even knew what was happening like an astronaut cowboy in shining armor.

So- great. Fine. No problem- why am I bothering to tell you this story? Because everything I just said above is a complete lie. When I saw Dempsey I freaked the fuck out- less Dirty Harry, more I Love Lucy. I screamed, I hyperventilated, I think I actually said “let’s just leave and come back later”- even though Sean was out of town for a week. I guess I was hoping that the Dead Mouse Fairy would be stopping by to pick up the corpse and leave us a shiny new quarter in its place. It was my girlfriend who efficiently settled me down, disposed of the corpse and, for some utterly baffling reason that I’m still totally grateful for, actually married me later. I mean, like a couple of years later- not later that day- that would have been disrespectful to Dempsey.

And why am I telling you this? Well, like I said when I started- I don’t deal well with death. And the proof of that? It just took me over 1400 words to tell you a story I could have put into 140 characters (“Pet mouse died. I freaked out. Girlfriend tossed corpse #notclinteastwood #gotsomesplainintodo #dempseyrip”) and why did it take me so long? Well, OK, sure, it takes me 1400 words to order a burger at In & Out (“Could I get that Animal Style- that’s the one with the onions? Right, the grilled onions? Which doesn’t really make any sense when you think about it- I mean- are there really animals out there that are grilling onions? Except for humans of course, I mean, sure humans are a kind of animal and, yeah, sure we grill onions- but if I ordered my burger ‘human style’ you would think I was some sort of cannibalistic serial killer and you’d call the BAU and they would have to fly out in their G6 and search through Bartlett’s quotations for the perfect thoughtful quote for catching a cannibalistic serial killer, like maybe something from the Donner Party- which, by the way- can I just say- Worst. Party. Ever (except maybe the Republican Party). I mean, I don’t know the Donners- but if you’re gonna have a party, the least you can do is buy some fucking Chex mix or something to keep people from resorting to cannibalism- because, honestly, once you get that Chardonnay flowing- you don’t want a bunch of hangry guests on your hand trying to cook the first guest who passes out on the couch.) but, still, in this case, I was clearly procrastinating because, well, like I said, earlier, I don’t deal well with death.

Of course, the funny thing about death is that it doesn’t really care whether you deal well with it or not- it finds you anyhow. Ha! That is funny! Wait, no, no it’s not. Anyhow, last week, death snuck into the theatre without a ticket (or even the Stage Door code) and took away one of my staff. Someone that I really liked- perhaps even loved. Wow. You have no idea how long it took me to write that sentence. I went through a million different permutations: “someone I really cared for”, “someone I was quite fond of”, “someone, you know, super neat” – all terrible. Even when I finally did decide to include the “L” word, I did it hesitantly, with qualifiers, hedging my bets- the idiotic middle-school, Danny Zuko playing it cool in front of the other T-Birds instincts kicking in to protect me from mockery by assholes like…uhm…well…me. The woman who passed away, Bonita, had no such compunctions. She told me she loved me when we spoke on the phone during her illness,when I told her not to worry about her job- just to focus on getting well. And she told me she loved me during her long recovery from surgery when I assured her she could come back whenever she felt ready. And then she told me in person during her brief return to wellness and to work, before she got sick again. Love for her wasn’t a currency to be invested prudently for minimum risk and maximum reward, it was a gift she couldn’t wait to share with the world- a shiny red bicycle she could ride through the neighborhood beaming with joy. It was a gift she couldn’t help sharing, even when she didn’t say the words. She shared it with her smile, the attention she paid, the way she remembered names, the little corners of shared interest she found with co-workers. As the emails poured in responding to the announcement of her passing, each person brought up something new that they shared with her- classic movies, Miami Vice, fashion, the Snoopy dance- the stupid little stuff that makes life worth living, the silly string that ties a community together, the little gifts she shared with all of us every day.

At her funeral, we could see the extent of her impact in the number of people that came to honor her from all areas of her life. Much like weddings, whenever I go to a funeral, I’m always struck by just how little I know about the person who is the focus of the event. At weddings, it makes me a little sad- like here I thought I had some special bond with a particular person, and it turns out I’m just one more well wisher waiting in line for a cursory hug. At funerals, though, it’s reassuring to see how many people show up- like, it’s great to see just how well loved the person was. Which, I suppose, is exactly the same way I should feel during weddings, but, you know, happiness has a way of making people douchey whereas with grief comes largesse. This is why every person should have the opportunity to attend their own funeral, like Deb did, just so they can see how well liked they are.
Also, every person should have the opportunity to sing lead on a verse of “Sugar High” with a kick ass 90’s band on the roof of the record store where they work, like Gina,

every person should have a drum set at work which they play angrily while they blast “If You Want Blood” to blow off steam when a big evil corporation tries to take over their family business, like Joe,
and EVERY DAY SHOULD BE REX MANNING DAY.
(Seriously, YouTube- I don’t care if video did kill the radio star- I still love you.)

It was a Jehovah’s Witness funeral, BTW- the first one I had attended. I was a little embarrassed when I realized that the event was BYOB (Bring Your Own Bible)- but I was still able to follow along to pick up the major points they discussed:

The world as we know it is an imperfect and wicked place.
The good news is that when we die, we simply go to sleep until we are resurrected by Jehovah into a perfect world.
The bad news is that when exiting the Kingdom Hall parking lot, traffic is really bad, so we shouldn’t even TRY and turn left on Slauson.

Cause, you know- even though you’re probably gonna be resurrected and all- they’d just as soon you didn’t go to your long sleep WHILE PULLING OUT OF THE PARKING LOT. Also, and I’m not sure anyone’s thought of this- if you think traffic on Slauson is bad now- just imagine what it’s gonna be like AFTER the resurrection. Cause not only are there gonna be way more cars on the road, but dead people are like the worst drivers ever. I mean, not to be prejudiced, but, come on- you know that you do not want be on the 405 in rush hour behind some dead guy in a Prius. Seriously, dude, when you see that “my other car turned left on Slauson” bumper sticker on the back of the car- you might as well call into work right then- cause you know when they say “the late”, they’re gonna be referring to you.

And, of course, Death never shows up alone. No siree Bob. He always has his bratty little sister, Regret trailing along. Because, while Death stands silent and aloof all decked out in black listening to Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me on his Discman (Death is old skool), Regret is trailing behind him in pigtails and a party dress and she’s just saying the darnedest things. Things like “Golly, Eric. If you liked her so much- why didn’t you try harder to find out what was goin’ on with her after she went out of work that last time?” and “Boy- I bet you feel prettttty dumb for saying ‘I’ve gotta call Bonita this week’ while she was out and then not doin’ it. Huh? Dontcha?” and “Gosh, I bet she would have really loved if you would have gone to visit her and brought her a great big bunch of flowers. Butcha didn’t! You’re in big trouble, mister!” And that all brings me back to me first point- which is- that I deal really badly with death. I sort of ignore it for as long as I can until it’s right in my face and then fold like a $3 umbrella in a light drizzle. So- I guess my procrastination was foolish form of optimism- like if I acted as though there was plenty of time, there would magically be all the time in the world. It was dumb. Fortunately, Bonita was smarter than I was. The last time I saw her, I was at the theatre on a Sunday for some annoying reason that I totally don’t remember (I’m just assuming it was annoying.) She was at Stage Door and I was lurching through the building, trying to get out of there and bellowing random instructions at her from around the corner. Well, she wasn’t having any of that. She stopped me in my tracks, called me over, and we talked for a while about this and that- nothing of any major importance. Just catching up. She hugged me and told me she loved me and I said I loved her too, smiled, and walked away. So while that doesn’t shut Regret up completely- it helps to remember.

So yeah, Death- fuck that guy. Hate him. I’d say he’s not welcome in my theatre any more, but, sadly, it’s not up to me. He shows up when he wants to show up and takes who he wants to take and whether it’s a free range little white mouse or a big hearted woman that everybody loved- there’s not a damned thing we can do about it. Huh. Wow. What a terrible ending for a post. OK- let’s try something else.

So- yeah, Death- fuck that guy. Hate him. Takes everyone. But then there are weddings, new babies, conversations in the hallway, birthday cake in the break room, arguments over Fargo, March Madness pools, World Cup games in the lobby, gossipy phone calls, accidental Reply Alls, giggling fits during meetings, new interns, impossible projects, lunchtime therapy sessions, inside jokes, and the million forgotten moments that add up to a life surrounded by people- and Death doesn’t get to take those. Those we can keep- at least til Death takes us. So live your life, share your love, keep in touch with your friends, send Regret to her room. Oh, and be careful pulling out onto Slauson. There’s a lot of traffic out there.

[California Seething] Getting Room Service at the Hotel California

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : June 12, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:Ann B Davis, Art Garfunkel, Eliot Smith, Hotel La Jolla, Innerspace, Lord Grantham, Nirvana, Room Service, Sam the Butcher, Smells Like Teen Spirit, teenagers, Terminator

We were picking up our car up from the valet at the Hotel La Jolla when I noticed that our dog’s name, Lenny, was not written among the “Very Important Pets” on the small bone shaped blackboard by the entrance. I pointed this out to the valet who agreed it was a grave oversight.

“Oh no!” He said

“I’m afraid so. And it’s making him very sad” I pointed to my dog who was clearly inconsolable but trying to keep up a brave façade as he sniffed a patch of ground intently looking for the most inconvenient possible place to poop.

“I’ll take care of it right away, sir”

“Oh good. Thank you. That’ll make him very happy” I pointed to my dog who was clearly overjoyed by this new development but playing it cool as he sniffed a patch of ground intently looking for the most inconvenient possible place to poop.

“No problem, sir. Anything for Lenny” We had a little chuckle at the absurd little improv we had just performed about hotel guests and their absurd requests. Complaining about the dog’s name on the blackboard? How droll! What could possibly be of less consequence? Ridiculous! Ha!

Anyhow, it’s a good thing Lenny’s name was on the board when we got back or that little pissant valet would have been out on his ass.

BTW- when was the constitutional amendment passed that all things dog related had to be “bone shaped”? And why specifically the shape of a human femur? Was it popular for owners once upon a time to give their dogs human femurs to gnaw on? Was that like, a thing, back in the day? You’d go to Sam the Butcher for a pot roast and a pound of hamburger meat and he’d throw in one of those human femurs he was saving in the back as a special treat for Tiger? What kind of sick fuck was Sam the Butcher anyhow that he had this stockpile of femurs just sitting in the back of his shop. Was this to be Alice’s grisly fate? She would wake up one morning and be nothing but hamburger meat, a couple of femurs, a blue uniform and a smile? I mean, I guess it’s true that you just can’t get quality service like that from the butcher counter at Vons- I mean, good luck just finding someone to ask if they have any brisket let alone getting a femur thrown in for your dog- but still- the humanity. Oh the humanity. Crap. Now I’m hungry- I should call room service for burgers- ooh- or may brisket- can I ask for brisket? Of course I can! The best part of staying at a great hotel is asking for unreasonable shit and having a really good chance of getting it. (BAD TASTE NOTE: I wrote this before Ann B. Davis died so I’m not an insensitive prick who makes fun of dead people, I’m an insensitive prick who’s too lazy to rewrite the part in which I make fun of a dead person. Big difference. My thoughts and prayers go out to her family.)

Cause that’s the thing about fancy hotels- it’s not about renting a room, it’s renting a higher social class. It’s Aristocracy by the Hour. Well, ok- not by the hour- by the night. By the hour suggests that it’s one of those roadside hooker-killing hotels with flower print comforters that look ever so innocent by daylight but shimmer under a black light like a planetarium’s ceiling where the Big Dipper is made out of mucus and cum and there’s enough blood to justify a CSI spin off in every room of the inn (I wonder what cheese ball they would get for CSI America’s Best Value Inn Room 101– maybe Billy Baldwin or- oh I don’t know- Ted Danson or somebody. Wait- what? He is? Replacing Laurence Fishburne? Are you shitting me? That’s like, oh I don’t know, putting Christian Slater in a quirky crime drama! What what? Mind Games? What the fuck is a Mind Games? How the hell is anybody supposed to satirize a world this dumb??? I’m as clueless and lost as…oh I don’t know- Kevin Bacon, FBI Agent. And, yes- I know that’s a real show, too- DON’T SAY ANYTHING TO ME ABOUT THE FOLLOWING. I’ve finally quit that incomprehensible crap fest cold turkey and I’m not about to fall off the shlock wagon again. Phew. That’s better. I wonder what that scamp James Purefoy is up to. Sigh.)

The point here is that the mark of a great hotel isn’t the plushness of the robes or the softness of the bed but the willingness of the staff to accommodate the infantile caprice of their idiotic guests and to do it as though they truly appreciate being asked. Like- they’re all “ooooh, thank you sir. I’m so very glad you gave my life meaning by calling to order a dog bed and the after getting the dog bed, calling to order a fluffier dog bed. Thank you ever so much for giving this humble servant some small crumb of purpose to his otherwise barren existence. Is there anything else that I can do for you so that I may retire tonight with a cold bowl of gruel, content with my place in the universe?” And I’m all like “Get me a fruit cup, motherfucker- but hold the melon and pineapple. Daddy’s getting his blueberry on.” And they’d better goddamn well be grateful to get it. Seriously, if I don’t feel like Lord Grantham when I get room service- I’m not tipping.

So- yeah- staying somewhere nice is totally my preferred means of recreation when I have a couple of days off. Can you blame me? My whole fucking life is air conditioning and anti-bacterial soap and actresses – and that’s just the “A’s” – there are 25 more letters of totally irritating crap to put up with (well, 24 so far- but it’s only a matter of time before Helen Hunt shows up with her pet Zebra or we get Zooey Deschannel in the building. Can you imagine? This place was built in 1947 for Christ’s sake- there’s no way it’s been retrofitted for her level of twee. One strong ukulele blast and the whole fucking thing comes tumbling down and THEN WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH THAT FUCKING ZEBRA??? HUH??? RIDDLE ME THAT, ZOOEY??? I know you’re all excited about doing 500 Days of Summer: The Musical here but we’re just one manic pixie dream girl away from total collapse- both as a building and a civilization so STAY THE FUCK OUT. Phew. That feels better. Thank you.

Anyhoodles- my point here is that a week ago I had the pleasure of spending a lovely and relaxing weekend at the Hotel LaJolla with my wife. And I’ve had plenty of time to reflect over the past couple of days about just how lovely and relaxing it was as I’ve been on lockdown at the theatre with over 200 screaming, screeching, sweating, singing, sulking, sobbing, sax playing, sculpture making, short film shooting, sex crazed, sarcasm spewing, sanity busting , sprawling students as we’ve been hosting the annual fundraiser showcase shindig hoo-hah for our friendly neighborhood arts magnet high school (you know it’s bad if I resort to alteration. Shudder.)

And it would be hard to overstate just how shocking it is to go from one experience to the next. I mean, one minute, I’m in a plush leopard skin robe, looking out over the beach, resplendent in my swarthiness like a Middle Eastern dictator or Ron Jeremy’s manager (it’s actually the same guy- he must get up very early in the morning. It’s all forced labor camps, shopping for peacocks and screaming about the contract rider for 22 Hump Street) and the next minute I’m trapped in my office and I can’t leave because right outside the door is a moist-eyed, gnat sized folk singer.

He’s got blue hair and he flips it out of his eyes every 24 seconds like he’s on a shot clock as if to say “I’m so annoyed that my super cool totally awesome floppy blue hair keeps falling in my eyes all the time. It’s such a drag having super cool totally awesome floppy blue hair like this. Do you see how I keep having to flip my super cool totally awesome floppy blue hair out of my eyes all the time. Do you? Do you? Please? So lame.” He’s calling all the female dance students over one at a time- and I’m he’s like “Hey Kelsi, come here. Come here. You know how, like, I usually write sad songs. Cause, you know. I’m sad. Well, last Wednesday I had this really good day and I wrote my first happy song every. You wanna hear it?” And I’m in my office silently pleading Kelsi with all my might to please say no, please say no, please say no because I’ve already heard Blue Hair’s Happy Song like 10,000 times and if I have to hear it one more goddamn time, I’m going to bust out of my office and take Blue Hair’s bullshit little traveling guitar and shove it where the sun don’t shine- which, on the bright side, will pretty much guarantee that this little Eliot Smith wannabe won’t be writing another happy song anytime soon. Actually I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to be Eliot Smith because he was like 5 years old tops when Eliot Smith stabbed himself in the chest, which is a thought so depressing it makes me want to do the same. I really have no idea who the hell kids want to be these days, except I’m pretty fucking sure it’s not me because every time they see me lurching by in my sweat encrusted Celtics cap carrying a wrench with a look of determination in my eyes like I’m about to club a chicken (oooh- Chicken Club!) they look at me with pity and terror like I’m Oedipus gushing blood from my eyes or the one legged Vietnam veteran janitor Karl who doesn’t react so well to loud noises and Asian exchange students. Also, I just spoke at a panel discussion about careers in theatre to a bunch of these kids and every question they asked was like “do you have any regrets?” and “what’s the worst mistake you ever made?” and, I could be wrong about this, but I’m pretty fucking sure are not the questions they ask when Eli Broad or Harry Stiles show up for Career Day. Hey- Harry Stiles! That’s someone the young people like- although I’m pretty sure not Blue Hair, because his music sounds nothing like One Direction- and I know exactly what his music sounds like because, of course, Kelsi says she wants to hear the song- just like Kelcey and Kelsey and Kcelssey did before her and I’ve got to hear him play it for the 10,001st motherfucking time. Oh…and as a bonus- after he plays his Happy Song- he gets all deep with her and starts digging into his catalog of Sad Songs which are utterly indistinguishable from each other and UTTERLY INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM THE HAPPY SONG except he lets his hair stay in front of his eyes a little more while he’s playing the Sad Songs cause, you know, he’s sad. And he won’t stop. He never stops. He’s like the love child of Art Garfunkel and the Terminator and he absolutely will not stop singing ever until I am DEAD. Or his mom picks him up. That, too.

Anyhoodles- KIDS. What’s the matter with kids today? Actually nothing. Or, you know- nothing that hasn’t been wrong with them all along. The problem is me- I’ve structured my life pretty nicely to avoid excessive contact with the next generation of humanity and find myself woefully ill prepared to deal with them when I’m required to. And, in case you find yourself in the same position- here are a few helpful things I’ve learned:

Kids today are exactly like we were except with way stupider names. They still play guitar to get girls! They still dye their hair stupid colors to get girls! They still play D&D- despite the fact that it prevents them from getting girls! See- they’re just like us except they’re named Tennessee and Kelsey and nobody mocks them for it, as they should. Look, I get it. You like Tennessee. That’s cool. Maybe you like Jack Daniels, or Dollywood or slavery. Whatever- it is- there’s no reason to name your kid Tennessee unless you’re raising him to be an old time blues signer or pool shark. Same is true for all place names- Brooklyn, Reno, LaCienega- whatever- none of these are names that a human being should have. That’s why it’s great to grow up in Upstate New York- there’s absolutely no place you could ever be possibly proud enough of to name your kid after – I mean, seriously- Schenectady Schwartz, Coxackie Cohen, East Greenbush Washington- NEVER GONNA HAPPEN. And that’s just one of the great reasons it’s great to grow up in Upstate New York (the other one is Freihofers. Oooh Freihofers. I wonder if I could order some cookies from Room Service. Probably not because I left the hotel almost two weeks ago but SHUT UP I’M LIVING THE DREAM.)
And it’s not just place names that are the problem. Can we please just pick a gender for Dylan and stick to it. It’s exhausting. And do we really want to live in a world where teachers have to distinguish between all the different Kelsey’s in the class by using first initials? “Kelsey- pay attention!” / “I was paying attention” /”Not you Kelsey P, Kelsi R – stop talking to Dylan and Kelci T, turn around and listen. And that goes for you too, East Greenbush – don’t think I don’t see you over there flirting with Boy Dylan. ” East Greenbush, btw is a boy- but that’s no big deal anymore- which brings me to my next point.
Kids today are wayyyyyy ahead of us at their age or even now. When I was in high school, I wasn’t only involved with theatre, I was also President of Students for Peace and Survival (I know! Theatre AND leftist politics. No wonder I was voted “Most Likely to Default”.) Anyhow, one of the things I did at SPS was to organize the very first “Gay Awareness Week” at my Deeply Republican high school (aahh- dear old GOPHS- our mascot was an Eagle shitting on Gorbachev). Now, when we first brought this idea up to the principal, Dr. Right Wing Fascist Pig Dog Homophobe Asshole (I know, I know. I should have made up a fake name) he told us that, if we had a Gay Awareness Week, we would have to have a Straight Awareness Week, too. Now, I tried to politely and calmly explain to him that we already had a Straight Awareness Week and it was called EVERY SINGLE WEEK EVER SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME, but he failed to understand this point. It wasn’t til our facility advisor referred his position as “Neanderthal” that the principal relented- I think because he was afraid he might have to spell that and he couldn’t even spell “potatoe”.
I thought of this a couple of years ago during one of these student shows when the theatre department, as their senior project did an original project about a student learning to accept and take pride in his own gay identity- and understanding that there is a wide continuum of sexual and gender identities- all deserving of equality and respect. They performed this in front of their fellow students, faculty, parents , school administrators and donors- and the audience l loved it. I was thrilled and delighted- not only by how much progress had taken place since I was in high school, but by imagining just how much Dr. Right Wing Fascist Pig Dog Homophobe Asshole would have hated every fucking second of it. What a Neanderthal.
And it’s not just tolerance and equality- you should see these kids recycle. Oh My God! (or OMG as my mom tells me the kids say). Plastic, glass, paper- not a scrap of recyclable material made its way to the waste stream. It’s like a poem written with refuse. They recycle with passion, with gusto- like their very lives depend on it…..which they do. Cause we ruined their planet. Uhm. Yeah. Sorry about that. Heh heh. Awk-ward.
Teenagers don’t inhabit a space- they infest it. Look, I know I was just saying how amazing and progressive and wonderful all these kids were- and that’s certainly true, but when you’ve got 200 of them crammed in the building, they’re like fucking cockroaches with blue hair and zits and guitars in their butts. For one thing, they have an absolutely uncanny ability to be in absolutely the wrong place at the wrong time and they are utterly incapable of sitting in chairs. Grown ups may be a bunch of planet destroying intolerant bigots- but if you give them a dressing room –THEY STAY IN THEIR DRESSING ROOM. They don’t lie sprawling across the hallway, body parts linked together in a sinewy throbbing mass of hair and face and legs and crotch until they are utterly indistinguishable from each other as human beings and merge Voltron-like into one enormous multi-headed hydra that won’t get THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR WAY when you just need to walk down the hall angrily with a wrench. MOVE ALREADY! That chicken’s not gonna club itself (Can somebody please get me a Chicken Club already. Anybody? Anybody? Hello?). And, sure I get it- I know- being a teenager is the single most exhausting condition known to humanity- what with all the going to school and not working for a living and texting and having shit bought for you all the time- phew- I’m plum tuckered out just thinking about it- so yeah, I understand- it’s medically necessary for them to remain in a practically horizontal position for as much of the day as possible, like adolescence is a trip to Jupiter and they’re in a medically induced coma. Plus- we all know that they have to remain in physical contact with each other at all times or they explode. I’m not exaggerating here- physical contact is the Dilithium Crystal that keeps the matter of Self Importance and anti-matter of Self-Loathing that fuel their little brains from coming in contact and blowing shit up. Don’t look at me- I cannae change the laws of physics, Captain. And- the worst part- THE WORST PART is that I know that every single Goddamn thing that I’m saying about could absolutely have been applied to me as a teenager so that means that even though I’ve avoided having kids, I haven’t avoided the Universal Gypsy Curse that some day I’ll have kids who do EXACTLY to me what I did to my elders- SO HA HA HA VERY FUCKING FUNNY UNIVERSE I GET IT- but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying when I throw open the door to the rehearsal room where we’re holding all the kids and it’s all sprawled out bodies on the ground, heads in laps, limbs akimbo in all sorts of bizarre and unholy positions like a Young Adult Hieronymus Bosch painting or the Teen Nick’s new historical drama iCaligula. And they get into every little nook and cranny. Hell, I’m not even sure we got them all out of the building. Every time I turn on a light, I’m terrified I’m going to see that Blue Hair scrambling for the corner leaving little angst droppings behind, impressing the other rats with the Happy Song.
And then there’s the smell. OH MY GOD THE SMELL. 200 teenagers in suits and dresses gushing out anxious flop sweat from every pore of their overheated carcasses. It’s like half locker room- half prom. Walking through the building, I felt like Dennis Quaid flying into Martin Short’s sodden armpit. If this is what Teen Spirit smells like, it’s no wonder Cobain offed himself.

So based on everything you’re saying- which weekend do you think I enjoyed more? The lovely weekend in a beautiful hotel overlooking the sparkling coast of the Pacific or the nightmare episode of Glee in Smell-O-Vision that was my last weekend at work? Well, if you guessed the beautiful weekend in the hotel- you’re right. HOLY SHIT ARE YOU RIGHT. I mean, seriously dude- if this was an election- it wouldn’t be Obama vs Romney, or even Reagan vs Mondale, it would be Bashar al Assad vs Getting Dragged from Your Home and Shot. Still- if I have to spend a weekend at work- spending it with a gangly mob of smart, talented, dedicated and (and this is my least favorite word here) inspiring (icky, yucky, gross, gag, spit, get it off me GET IT OFF ME) young people- the kind of young people who actually make me think there might be more the future than just environmental calamity, random violence and championships for the Miami Heat- well…you know. It doesn’t suck.

And that being said, it would be so fuckin’ sweet to order up some Room Service right now. Maybe I can get the dog to get me a fruit cup? Nah. Ever since he got his name on the board, he’s been all uppity. Look at him all haughty and arrogant acting all aloof as he sniffs a patch of ground intently looking for the most inconvenient possible place to poop. He’s just as bad as that fucking zebra. I swear, she’s the worst black and white diva since Mariah Carey. When can I go back to the Hotel La Jolla already? Just look at that view. Sigh. I guess I’ll make my own fucking Chicken Club.

[California Seething] When Smart Phones Happen to Dumb People

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : May 23, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:AutoCorrect, BlackBerry, Culver City, donald sterling, IPhone, plunge, pool

As all of us who live far away from their parents know, there comes a moment in every visit to them when they bring up the Box in the Garage. That is to say- the box of your childhood treasures which they’ve been lugging around like the placenta of your adolescence ever since you left home. It’s a tricky situation for me- on the one hand- everything in that box is precious and laden with historical significance- so there is no way that any of it should be thrown out. On the other hand- what am I gonna do with all that crap? Have you seen the size of my place? I bring home that box- where’s the dog gonna sleep? Plus, let’s keep it real- how much difference is it really gonna make to clean out one box from that garage? It’s like trimming the Elephant Man’s toenails or the sum total of all US efforts to address Global Climate Change so far. Seriously- if Congress can’t even be bothered to save the human race from extinction then what is the fucking point of having them there? We should just disband the fucking thing so we can shut off the A/C in the Capitol – at least then we would know that we’re making a difference.

Anyhow, the point is, I don’t want to deal with the Box in the Garage so when the subject comes up, I rely on the magic of Passive Aggression to make it go away. Seriously, have you tried that shit? It’s like pixie dust, just sprinkle on annoying tasks and watch them disappear in a cloud of silent resentment.

Still, there comes a time in everyone’s life when one has to get off the endless Merry Go Round of “I’m totally gonna take care of that box on this trip” / “Golly, I really hope we have time to clean out that box while I’m here” / “OK- NEXT TIME-I’m TOTALLY gonna take care of that box” – and face up to one’s past like a man (Or woman. Or whatever.) Most developmental experts agree that the best age for this is 25, although 29 is considered “acceptable”, 32 is considered “pushing it”, and 41 is considered “A fucking embarrassment. Seriously, dude- are you kidding me?? You made your parents schlep a box of your shit to Albuquerque??? You should be ashamed of yourself” – and, I suppose I would be ashamed of myself if shame was an emotion I was capable of feeling- though, as you can see from the accompanying photo- it’s clearly not. Still, the time finally came- and I went through The Box.

And, oh- what treasures did I uncover! A one legged Han Solo in a winter jacket like he just had a grisly snowmobile accident on Hoth, a high school chemistry notebook so extensively covered in doodles that my boredom could be seem clearly from space and handwritten instructions for my mother for using the VCR. I can say without fear of contradiction that these instructions were among the most condescending pieces of writing the world has ever seen- right up there with Everybody Poops, Jonathan Livingstone Seagull and, of course, Paul’s famously lost “Letter to the Co-Worker who Keeps Eating my Food” – “Love is Patient. Love is Kind. So, I’m kindly and patiently asking you to please not take my Lean Cuisine meals out of the freezer. Cause I don’t know if you’re seeing my Mandarin Chicken through a glass darkly but my name is clearly written on it so please don’t touch . Thanks!!! :)”

I won’t include the full text of my instructions- suffice it to say that they started with “Turn on TV and VCR” and ended with “Pull the head off a live chicken, drop its bleeding carcas (sic) in a pentagram drawn on the floor and dance around it on one leg holding the head in your right hand, over your head”. Hah! How witty! How droll! Look at teenage me- Oscar Wilde with a denim jacket and a pornstache! I’m so very very clever for a person that can’t spell carcass. How simply absurd it was that my helpless mother even needed instructions to do something so painfully intuitive and obvious as using a VCR. Why, if it wasn’t for my help, she never would have even been able to set the time and the clock would simply have blinked 12 for eternity.

Anyhow, I wasn’t exactly sure why my mother kept those instructions in the Box all this time until I told her I got a new iPhone. Suddenly, she got excited because she regularly FaceTimes with my sister’s kids and she realized that she might be to FaceTime with me as well:

“Does your new phone have FaceTime?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Great! That means we can FaceTime each other!”

“Great! Can you FaceTime me?”

“Oh. Uhm. I don’t know how, Rachel and Claire always call me. Can you FaceTime me?”

“Sure. Well. Actually not. I don’t know how either.”

“Oh”

“I guess I could call Rachel.”

Suddenly- it all became clear. I understood exactly why she held on to those instructions for all of those years- and my headless chickens had come home to roost. (SHAMELESS HACK ALERT: I stole that joke from my wife. Like I said. I HAVE NO SHAME.)

Honestly, this is why I was afraid of getting an iPhone in the first place and held onto my Blackberry. I’m no idiot- I knew the Blackberry was obsolete- hell, Research In Motion was emailing me every week to be like “Dude we appreciate the support, but seriously- it’s ok. let it go. (sent from my iPhone).” And don’t start thinking I’m some kinda Luddite. I’ve been using computers my whole life. Shit, I went to Computer Camp, I programmed in BASIC, I had a goddamn Compuserve account in 1985 which I accessed using a 300 Baud Modem so I could fail to pick up “girls” in chat rooms. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? Of course not. Most of this stuff happened before you born. I’m only making things worse. Using these references to demonstrate my computer skills to millennials is like using my daguerreotype skills to demonstrate my photography acumen to a National Geographic photographer. Or for that matter- like using “National Geographic Photographer” in a paragraph that’s all about how I’m not totally old and irrelevant. Ironic- right? That’s some real Alanis Morrisette shit for you. Ha! There’s a hip and relevant pop-culture reference that ought to salvage my credibility. How ya like me now, kids- I’m a regular Chris Kattan! Whazzzzzz UP!!!!!

The point is- I’m good with Computers. I’ve always been good with Computers. I’m a beige box, CRT, color coded serial port, dust-caked vent in the back, mess of cable, Ctrl-Alt-Delete PC using motherfucker and that’s why I liked the Blackberry- it was like a teeny weenie baby little computer- little screen, little keyboard, little touchpad to make the little mouse cursor around. It even worked like shit most of the time and had to be rebooted regularly when it died for no reason. Like a little bit of home in my pocket. The only thing that would have made it better would have been bright green type on a black screen. Now- don’t get me wrong- I knew it was a piece of shit- but it was a piece of shit I was comfortable with- like a busted old couch that’s been worn to the exact shape of your ass or a favorite pair of jeans that you wear until the pockets are all torn up from keeping your keys in them or a favorite pair of boxers that you wear until they are completely worn through at the crotch. It was worn and abused and outdated and inadequate and every time I pulled it out I felt like I might as well be pulling out a car phone connected to a brief case and sure, I should have been ashamed of myself for using such an absurdly outdated piece of technology but, as you can see in the accompanying photo, I don’t do “ashamed of myself” and so, years after the rest of the world’s Blackberries had been converted to e-waste, I was still lugging one around in the torn up pocket of my comfortable jeans with boxers that were little more than negative space held together by optimism.

Then I spilled water on the table one day and my Blackberry took it’s big chance to kill itself so I got an iPhone. Well, ok, I’ll be honest- I called our IT department to ask about getting another Blackberry and, was informed in the gentle tone usually reserved for interventions with heroin addicts that I had a problem and that the first step was admitting it and the second step was BUYING A FUCKING IPHONE ALREADY. So…I did. I’ll be honest- I was worried this would be my technological Waterloo. I wouldn’t be able to cope with the keyboard on the screen, I would be paralyzed by the sheer smooth slick Appleosity of the device, I would try to download Instagram and the clock would start blinking 12:00 o clock and I would never be able to make it work again and everyone would know that I was old and out of touch and useless and some snarky fucking teenager would have to write out instructions about how to use my iPhone and would include some asshole joke about sacrificing chickens and I would have to kill him and no court in the land would convict me because judges are useless and old, too and their iPhones also blink 12:00.

But none of that happened. Turns out it’s a great device. I love it. Fits my hand like my dick except it’s socially acceptable to play with at Starbucks (trust me). I still have to get a 10 year old to explain FaceTime to me, but otherwise- I’ve adapted perfectly. I’ve even adapted to the on-screen keyboard. See- I was all freaked out that there was no way I’d be able to type accurately on a keyboard if I couldn’t feel the buttons. And so I was relieved to discover that, in fact, I was right- there is no way of typing accurately on a keyboard when you can’t feel the buttons- it’s physically impossible- it’s like tapdancing a Jane Austin novel in Morse Code on ice skates or expressing an opinion about gender issues as a man- no matter how well intentioned you are- you just end up clumsily pushing all the wrong buttons. But that’s ok! I can just blithely bang out complete gibberish and let auto-correct figure it out! It’s amazing! No wonder kids have trouble spelling- they thing “tomorrow” is spelled “rpnottpw” and “since” is spelled “ximvr”. Wow. I just sounded a million years old. Seriously, Wilford Brimley and a pterodactyl are talking about what a lame ass I am (“back in my day, when we made a mistake we had to use the BACKSPACE key. Sometimes- five, ten, even fifteen keystrokes. And we liked it!”) When texting on an iPhone, you’ve gotta be like Lot leaving Sodom- never look back at the chaos behind you and have faith that Auto Correct will make it alright. And- you know what? Usually it does. I mean, it might not be exactly the message you intended to send- but it’s the message that Steve Jobs would have wanted you to send- and, so, according to Apple Logic, it is therefore superior to any independent thought you might have had on your own. Thank God Steve uploaded his consciousness to the iPhone before he died! (well, what did you think Siri was?)

I mean, I know people complain a lot about Autocorrect- but I think we should have it in every area of our lives. Like- how great would it be if we had Autocorrect when we spoke. Just think about how much less trouble Donald Sterling would be in if he had said “It bothers me a lot that you have to advertise that you’re associating with Wack People- do you have to?” Nothing controversial about that. Nobody likes the Wack- they’re always on Crack. And it might be rude of him to tell her not to bring Ernie Johnson to games, cause he’s a super nice guy and all, but it wouldn’t be racist.

Anyhow- point is- iPhone. Fucking great. And to think all those years I was terrified of making a change. Made me think- what other sorts of changes can I make? Well, it turns out there’s quite a list: anger issues, impulse control, grooming, fashion, table manners, physical fitness, workplace appropriate language, driving, hand-eye coordination, remembering birthdays, work-life balance, diet and terrifying amounts of body hair. Oh- and I’ve never flossed. Like EVER. Huh. All this self-reflection is actually really demotivating. It’s listening to NPR- 10 minutes and I’m like- “let’s change the world!” but after an hour I’m all “pass the Cheetos- we’re doomed!” (I’m also easily discouraged) Still- I didn’t want my iPhone to be disappointed in me, so I decided to at least go swimming. This was partially an effort to improve my abysmal physical fitness and partially because it was ridiculously hot. Like- crazy hot, stupid hot, like even Pat Sajak can’t deny there’s a problem- hot. Anyhow- I headed to down to the Culver City Municipal Plunge ™. If you’re not familiar with Culver City- and shame on you if you’re not- I mean- we’ve got more gastropubs per square foot than Rome has fountains and a Palm Springs nursing home has glory holes, but, anyhow, if you’re not familiar with this little town, the Plunge ™ is a beautifully maintained city pool about a mile west of the Kirk Douglas Theatre. I’ve gone swimming there many times in my mind but, unfortunately for me, and every person in America, thinking about exercise while eating Cheetos is not actually considered exercise by the American Medical Association or Michelle Obama. So, I decided to go for realsies. I packed my little Culver City Mayor’s Luncheon Commemorative Totebag with my bathing suit, towel, and sunscreen, made sure I had a couple dollars in change and I took the bus to go swimming, This, btw, is the first time in history that a person over the age of 11 has used the phrase “I took the bus to go swimming.” Last time this sentence appeared in print it was in an essay titled “What I Did My Summer Vacation” and it was preceded by “When Dad left, my Mom couldn’t afford to send me to camp anymore” and followed by “When I ask her to drive me to the pool she just cries and screams at me that it’s all my fault she’s going to die alone.”

Anyhow- I got off the bus in the sweltering heat and approached the shimmering blue water of the Plunge ™. As I got closer, I began to see troubling signs: a truck with a generator; scruffy dudes with pony tails; a honey wagon. Bad stuff. Disturbing stuff. The rat droppings of the film industry. When I got to the Plunge’s ™ entrance- I saw another sign. An actual sign. A sign that read “Closed for filming starting at 8 AM. All Day. On the hottest day of the year. Because we hate you. You, Eric. We hate you and find your suffering funny. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Too far?”

I wasn’t sure what to do.

I just stood there sweating.

I read the sign a few more times.

It didn’t change.

The pool was there. Calling to me. Icy cold relief just on the other side of the fence.

But they were filming.

And I couldn’t get to it.

This was a terrible day to work on my physical fitness. But an even worse day to work on my anger management issues.

I may have yelled “motherfuckers” at no one in particular and screamed “You just wait til the Mayor hears from me about this!” to a tree. That tree is really shaking in its roots.

And now- I’m not sure I can ever go back to the Plunge ™. Or rather, I wouldn’t be able to go if I had any sense of shame- but, of course I don’t.

So…yeah….self improvement. Fuck that shit. But the new iPhone? Awesome!

I guess the moral of this little story is that it’s better to upgrade your phone than to upgrade yourself. Wait- no, that’s a terrible moral- maybe I should FaceTime my Mom and get a better one. Crap- where did I put those FaceTime instructions from Rachel? I’m pretty sure she said there was a chicken involved.

And if she shows me how to Uber, I won’t have to take the bus to the pool anymore.

[California Seething] Living La Vida Matzo

(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)

Posted by :Eric Sims On : April 22, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:activia, betty davis, easter, Jamie Lee Curtis, jerry lewis, matzo, norma desmond, passover, powerhouse theatre, whatever happened to baby jane

I was watching half a rerun of Fargo last night when I saw a commercial for King’s Hawaiian Bakery. A mom put down a basket of sweet, soft, airy, fluffy, yummy delicious King’s Hawaiian rolls on the dinner table and the family literally inhaled them.

Now- I don’t know if the allegations about Russian militants forcing Jews to “register” in Ukraine are true, but frankly I’m not too concerned- cause the REAL anti-Semites are the ones who decided to air this commercial RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING PASSOVER. I mean, state sponsored systematic oppression is one thing- but King’s fucking Hawaiian??? That’s just mean.

So- as you may have read in my last post, Passover is a holiday in which Jews celebrate their freedom by not eating bread for a week, which I think we can all agree is a terrible way to celebrate freedom, like celebrating the Fourth of July by punching yourself in the face. I got two words for you, people: “FIRE WORKS.” Would it kill us to celebrate freedom by blowing some stuff up? (according to my mother, yes, yes it would.) And we wonder why there aren’t more Jews. Why would anyone sign up for this crap? We’re supposed to have an international banking conspiracy that’s secretly running the world- how can we be this fucking useless at marketing ourselves? The Christians know what time it is- their Messiah gets crucified and they’re all “bust out the Cream Eggs and Marshmallow Peeps” and we get liberated miraculously after 400 years of hard labor and the best thing we can think of is going Gluten Free for a week. Who is our target audience here- actresses? And….dudes that want to hook up with actresses? I know the whole point is that we’re celebrating our freedom by remembering the suffering our ancestors endured as slaves but that’s just dumb. It’s like celebrating your birthday by passing a kidney stone to remember the suffering of childbirth and if you’re wondering you just heard- that was one million Jewish mothers yelling “Boo YA!” at once when they read that. Oh, who am I kidding? The only Jewish mothers reading this post are my mom and my sister- but they both thought that was a pretty bitchin’ idea.

Plus most people don’t remember the suffering endured by their ancestors in ancient Egypt when they give up bread, they remember the suffering they endured in 2004 when they dated that crazy chick on Atkins- which in many ways was worse- I mean, at least the Egyptians never made the Jews use low-carb Margarita mix. Shudder.

Even the way Passover is set up is backwards. Easter has a nice day-by-day build up to the big event- there’s Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, He Dead Saturday and finally Easter Sunday!!! Hurray! He’s back!! Tacky hats and Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs for everybody!!. Passover on the other hand starts off pretty well- you’ve got Day One- Seder- Food! Family! Tradition! Fun! And then, Day Two- Seder Two- More Food! More Family! More Tradition! Slightly less fun. And then- Day Three- Matzo. Day Four- Matzo. Day Five- Matzo. Day Six- Matzo. Day Seven- Matzo. Day Eight- Matzo. Day Nine- PIZZACAKEDINGDONGSBREADROLLSBAGELSDOUGHNUTSTHINMINTSPASTACALZONESTWINKIESHOHOSDIABETICCOMA. I suppose it’s supposed to mirror the journey of the Israelites- big moment of liberation- dull protracted schelp through unleavened desert and finally…the Promised Land- the Land of Milk (Duds) and Honey (Nut Cheerios) – neither of which I particularly care for but THAT SHOULD SHOW YOU HOW DESPERATE I AM. I wonder if they also have King’s Hawaiian Rolls? mmmmmmmm…..King’s Hawaiian Rolls. I’ve never had them but they look soooo gooood.

OK- so sure- celebrating Passover pretty much blows once you get past the first couple of day and yeah, sure, giving up bread is a dumb way to celebrate freedom and, yeah, chocolate bunnies are a much more effective marketing tool than unleavened bread. But for those of us that are stuck celebrating Passover- here are my Passover Do’s and Don’ts:

Do ask for matzo in restaurants even though none of them ever have it. Why? Because going to a restaurant when you’re keeping Kosher for Passover (KP or Kizzle to the Pizzle) sucks. It’s like being a recovering alcoholic at happy hour. Everyone’s laughing and carrying on and shamelessly sinking their teeth into burgers on huge brioche buns so fluffy and thick that the tooth fairy could be forgiven for leaving money under them; or shoveling cakes and cookies and pies down their carb holes not to mention brownies…mmmmmmm….brownies (Homer drooling sound) as rich as the Koch brothers and as dark as their souls. And meanwhile, in the midst of all this leavened decadence I sit with two little heaps of chicken salad on my plate like boobs in search of a training bra, while I’m surrounded on all sides by temptation and red faced gluttons taking their lunch for granted. Like I said, it sucks. And I’m just a tourist in the land of deprivation- I don’t know how people with real food issues keep this up full time. And the only way I can make it fun for myself is to ask for matzo and then be lavishly and theatrically disappointed when they tell me they don’t have it.

Now, if you’re gonna do this- you’ve got to do it right. You can’t be all Jerry Lewis nebbishy “Nice lady- do you please have any matzo?” about it. NO! you’ve got to be imperious, commanding. When you say “Do you have any Matzo?” they’ should hear Norma Desmond asking “Have you ever heard of Isotta-Fraschini?” and…ooh ooh ooh- here’s the best part- when they tell you they don’t have it and they’re all bowing and scraping before you- then you get to forgive them. Or, more to the point, bestow your forgiveness upon them- smile a little- say “it’s ok”- grace them with a sprinkling of noblisse oblige as they joyfully gobble up the crumbs of your beneficence. It’s a tricky move to pull off- think Lord Grantham sending Mrs. Patmore to the eye hospital. Oh yeah. That’s the stuff. It’s like heroin without the dead babies. Look, I get it- I know the Lord Grantham Dismount is a difficult move to master- but I also know that there’s a fine line between a turkey burger and a pile of shit on a plate- and if you must cross that line, you’d better have some way to amuse yourself.

Don’t Eat Dessert. OK, so you know that scene in Christmas Vacation where they’ve got that perfect-looking turkey on the table and, as soon as Clark cuts into it, it explodes in a cloud of dust and reveals the desiccated atrocity within? Well- just swap out that turkey with a marble cake and you’ve got a classic Passover dessert. Look – I get it- I love cake. I miss cake. I want cake. BUT PASSOVER CAKE’S NOT CAKE. It’s a sick joke- a grotesque and demented parody of cake. It’s Soylent Green, it’s Veganaise, it’s Stepford Cake. It’s crazy old Betty Davis singing I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy with ringlets and curls and a bow in her hair AFTER FEEDING HER SISTER A RAT.

Do you want to eat rat??? Do you????? Fuck no. And you don’t want Passover cake either. So suck it up and skip dessert for a week. Or if your sweet tooth really is so overwhelming and you just can’t resist than just do what I do and have a little TJ’s Cookie Butter on Matzo- delicious! Wait what? There’s cookies in that??? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. Crap. One more thing I can’t eat- thanks a lot honey. Yeah- that’s right- keep eating frozen waffles in front of me SEE IF I CARE (I do. sigh).

Do Accept Plausible Deniability. Donald Rumsfeld once divided up all human knowledge into a few categories- there were the “known knowns” the “unknown knowns” and the “unknown unknowns”. Of course, Donald Rumsfeld is insane. Seriously, he’s out of his fucking mind. He once fed Colin Powell a rat. Nevertheless- when it comes to keeping Kosher for Passover- I prefer to focus just on the Known Knowns. Stuff I know I’m not supposed to eat- bread, cakes, doughnuts, pie, bagels, Snowballs, Combos, Girl Scout Cookies..mmmmmm….. sweet….sweet delicious Girl Scout Cookies (Homer drooling sounds- how do you write that?). Sorry. Sorry. I’m back. Now- a lot of people may say that I’m not really keeping Kosher for Passover if I’m not scrutinizing every ingredient list and sticking to strictly to designated items. But I disagree- I think I’m actually acting in the true spirit of Passover. I mean, if you think about it- we eat matzo because our ancestors had to leave Egypt so quickly they didn’t have time to let the bread rise. Well- if they didn’t have to time to let their bread rise- do you think they had enough time to scrutinize the ingredients on their barbecue sauce to see if it has corn syrup? Hell, no. And you think they would have had time to go all the way down to Ralph’s to peruse what they have on the Passover end-cap?? Not on your life! They would have just grabbed whatever they could from the house and gotten the fuck out. And that’s why- to honor them- I too celebrate Passover in a half-assed and hurried way- just the way I honor them when doing the dishes, making the bed, picking out clothes and trimming my toe-nails. I don’t have time for you “roast beef”- the Egyptians are coming!

Plus, when you think about it, if we had just stuck to the “known knowns” we never would have gone to war with Iraq in the first place in search of non-existent yellow cake Uranium. Mmmmmmmmm…yellow cake Uranium.. ulggggggh (thanks Yahoo Answers! )

Do eat fiber

No seriously- DO EAT FIBER. God’s no dummy. He needed those Israelites out of Egypt fast and he knew, in his infinite wisdom that a people only moves fast if their bowels don’t (Exodus 21:14- Parashat Nid Tapoop) So he gave them matzo, got them out of Egypt and now I’m slugging down Citrucel with an Activia chaser. HOW MUCH LONGER DOES THIS HOLIDAY GO ON??? Seriously- two more days of this, and I’ll be Jamie Lee Curtis- and I KNOW she doesn’t want to trade places. Not even if I go as her for Halloween. Ha! I’ve got a million of them. No, wait, just two.

Do stop and think about… stuff. Look- I’m lucky. In a couple of days, Passover will be over and I can go back to eating whatever I want. A lot of people aren’t so fortunate, though. They go to bed hungry night after night because they can’t even afford the bread of affliction. And whether they are victims of war, drought or Wal*Mart- they remind us that none of us are truly free while others suffer. Or something like that. I don’t know. Maybe they just remind us that the next time we’re checking out of the supermarket and have the option to add $5 to help feed a family in need, we should press “Yes”. It won’t heal all the suffering in the world- but it may make someone’s day not suck.

Don’t Make Matzo Brei. I used to run a small theatre in Santa Monica near Venice Beach. Inevitably, during every closing party around 2 AM when everybody was at their most wasted some genius would yell out “HEY!!!!! LET’S GO TO THE BEACH!!!” and in that moment everyone would miraculously rouse themselves from their stupor and be like “Awesome” “The Beach!” “Woo-Hoo!” “I’ve got to vomit!” and like rats leaving Hamelin they would follow their Pied Piper down to the water for what they all believed to be a rollicking good time (getting rid of the real rats would sadly be much harder). And can you blame them? How amazing does that sound? Running down to the beach in the middle of the night? Splashing around by moonlight? Feeling the bracing chill of the mighty Pacific on your bare skin- reminding you that you’re alive- what could be more totally awesome than that???? Turns out- everything. Because Venice Beach sucks. Sucks like eating matzo sucks. Cops, homeless people, garbage, jellyfish stings- it’s just about the last place you want to be half naked and tripping your balls off at 2 AM. So, inevitably, these little escapades ended badly, everyone would come back to the theatre damp, cold and miserable and just sober enough to want to get fucked up all over again- which is probably why in the eight years I was there- no one ever showed up to strike on time. Except, of course, for the rats.

Anyhow –it’s the same thing with matzo brei. I was at my parents’ house for Seder when the subject of matzo brei came up and I thought- Fuck yeah!! I’ll make matzo brei!! How awesome would that be?? Because, in my mind, it was a delicious treat- something my grandmother would have made- all yummy and sweet served with sour cream and nostalgia. Clearly- this was the best idea anyone ever had. I copied the recipe from my mother’s Passover cookbook (1959 edition- it’s like one three recipes that doesn’t use Jello) and flew home excited to cook up this fluffy delicious treat.

Now- for those that don’t know – Matzo Brei is a traditional Passover breakfast treat. You break up a couple of matzos- soak them in a mixture of egg & milk, add some cinnamon and fry it all up. Sounds great, right?? Well? Doesn’t it? No. It’s OK. It doesn’t. I agree. Clearly “Brei” is Yiddish for “Slop”. Still – I had hope – maybe this was one of those situations where the whole would be greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe, once everything was put together and cooked up just right – it would turn out waaaay better than expected. It could happen! This, btw, is known as Magical Thinking and it is a phenomenon I am no stranger to. Time and time again, I’ve thought- well, ok- sure the script makes no sense and the music is droning and the main actress can’t sing and the director is paralyzed by doubt and the stage manager can’t get through rehearsal without half a bottle of vodka- but maybe- just maybe – once the set is built and the lights are hung and the costumes are on- maybe it’ll all come together and be much better than we could possibly expect!

It doesn’t. It never does. Magical thinking may keep you sane, but it can’t save a bad show and it can’t save a bad breakfast. Supposedly, matzo brei tastes like French Toast. In actuality- it’s a semi-sweet egg-lump chock-full chewy matzo bits- like a series of tragic decisions made at the omelet bar of the King David Hotel by world’s stonedest Jew “dude- put some matzo and cinnamon up in there….this is gonna be EPIC!”

Alright- there you have it- my Passover Do’s and Don’ts- just in time for the end of Passover. Be sure to read my 2014 Holiday Shopping Guide coming in January 2015. Wow. I suck at this.

Anyhow- maybe it’s not so bad that we celebrate freedom with matzo. I mean, after all freedom doesn’t come without struggle and sacrifice and it’s important we remember that- otherwise- what would we have to feel ~~guilty~~ thankful for. And as far as the marketing angle- well, maybe it’s best that we don’t misrepresent ourselves as more, you know, “fun” then we are. We’re not a chocolate bunny religion – so why pretend? After all- if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you can’t make French toast using the bread of affliction. I mean – you could – but for the love of God I’m begging you- DON’T. Anyhow- gotta run- the sun’s coming down and I’ve got to track down my motherfucking King’s Hawaiian Rolls! Woo-Hoo- Praise the Lord- it is good to be free!!

[California Seething] Passover – I Hardly Know Her

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : April 8, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:Albuquerque, chainsaw juggling, datsun, dietary issues, food, G-D, gluten free, god, grandmother, Jewish law, nisan, passover, seder, vegan

Back when we used to have Seders at my grandparents’ apartment- there were four things we could always count on:

Uncontrollable, inter-generational giggling at the words “House of Bondage”
My grandfather replacing “Month of Nisan” with “Month of Datsun” still chasing the glory of the courtesy chuckle he got for that joke in ’86. Livin’ the dream- Pop-Pop!
My grandfather reaching into his wallet to pull out $1 for the Afikoman winner with the effortless joy of a man giving bone marrow.
My grandmother demonstrating her uncanny ability to know exactly how much each person in the family was supposed to eat and what they should have. For example- my mother never ate enough, my uncle ate too much, my sister had to have special food prepared for her because she is deathly allergic to not being the center of attention, and my grandfather was diabetic.

As a result – at each Seder, we were subjected to two sets of food directives- one from my Grandmother and one from God or, G-D as the Jews refer to him (G-Dizzie to his homies).

G-D: The Passover lamb is a Passover-offering to the Lord, because He passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt when He struck the Egyptians with a plague, and He saved our houses.

Grandma: Ronni- eat something- you never eat anything.

G-D: They baked Matzah-cakes from the dough that they had brought out of Egypt, because it was not leavened; for they had been driven out of Egypt and could not delay, and they had also not prepared any other provisions.

Grandma: Peter- that’s enough. You don’t need any more.

G-D: The marror you shall eat because the Egyptians embittered the lives of your ancestors with hard labor.

Grandma: Here, Heather- I made these brownies for you.

G-D: Thus did Hilel do at the time of the Bet HaMikdash: He would combine Passover — lamb, Matzah and Maror and eat them together, as it said: “They shall eat it with matzah and bitter herbs.”

Grandma: Ralph- put that brownie back. He knows he can’t have that.

G-D: One is not to eat any dessert after the Passover-lamb.

Grandma: Peter! Stop that! Those brownies are for Heather.

And this is actually quite appropriate, because Passover is the ultimate expression of Jewish Food Mishigos (“mishigos” is a Yiddish word for craziness- or, not so much craziness- maybe hang-ups- or ,no, that’s not quite right- idiosyncrasies? Obsessions? Quirks? Fixations? Aaaaarrggh!! This semantic mishigos is making me cray-cray.). I mean, every Tom, Dick and Shaniqua will tell you that their ethnic group expresses love through food, hell that’s easy- just throw down some collard greens and lasagne, but we Jews can use food to express so many more complicated emotions like shame, guilt, smug self righteousness, subversive glee and punishing self-loathing- there’s no end to our versatility! Hell, we’re the Meryl Streep of fucked up food feelings and everyone else is, like…Scarlett Johansson. And we only have G-Diddy to thank for giving us the stringent, baffling and totally random dietary laws that made us completely insane- whether we actually still follow them or not! What, you think Vegans and Gluten Free-kazoids invented “making yourself feel morally superior by flaunting your self-imposed, arbitrary, medically unnecessary dietary restrictions?” Hell no! Trust me- if you want to punch the d-bag at Taco Bell ordering a vegan Waffle Taco, then you should have seen that first a-hole Israelite who walked into a Philistine restaurant and loudly ordered “kid boiled in it’s mother’s milk” with the mother’s milk on the side.

I should add, by the way, that even though I’m talking about G-Dubs a lot, I’ve always had trouble believing in him. I mean, it’s hard to imagine that the Lord God Almighty- Creator of the Universe would personally give a crap if I ate a cheeseburger. And if it is true-why would I worship a micromanager like that? I mean, seriously dude, learn to delegate- don’t you have angels for this stuff?? I’m sorry, I know you got my people out of Egypt and everything, but I’m simply not gonna validate your crappy leadership style. It’s bad enough I’ve got a First Lady who won’t let me eat French fries, I don’t need some bacon hating deity getting all up in my business. What’s the matter, G-D- Ray Lewis has retired and you need shit to do? Go work in mysterious ways or take up macrame or play pull my finger with your hippie son – just get off my ass.

Also- let’s be clear- I don’t actually keep Kosher (that’s what we call following the Jewish dietary laws, for those of you that have never actually met a Jew but for some baffling reason are still reading this?? Maybe on a dare?) Most Jews don’t. It doesn’t matter. Jews have the same relationship to food that Catholics have to birth control- it doesn’t matter whether you actually follow the rules- what maters is that you know there are rules you are supposed to be following and that you have complicated emotions about not following them.

Anyhow- as if the whole Jewish food situation wasn’t complicated enough- on Passover it gets way more complicated- because on Passover, we’re not supposed to eat any leavened bread or bread products because when our forefathers fled from Egypt so quickly they didn’t have time to let their bread rise- which, I think takes like 5 minutes, and realistically, there’s no way any group of Jews ever moved fast enough so that they couldn’t wait 5 measly little minutes for the fucking bread to rise. I mean you could make an entire three tiered wedding cake AND decorate with motherfucking buttercream roses in the time in the time it takes my family to leave the house for Olive Garden and THAT’S if no one has to pee. If we were leaving slavery? Forget about it- bagels, cookies, goddamn chocolate souffle – it would be the best Passover ever. But, OK, whatever, the ancient Jews moved a lot faster than we did, so as punishment for their efficiency we can’t eat bread or anything else that gets puffy when it’s wet cause- I guess it’s…sort of like bread? So- no corn. And no beans- unless you really, really like beans in which case beans are ok- but no rice. Unless you really, really like rice in which rice is ok- but no beans. Definitely no rice & beans together- YOU HEAR THAT ZATARAIN’S?? WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE??? And no corn syrup cause it’s got the word “corn” in it. And beer, cause God’s kind of a G-Dick. But if you were to look it up in the Bible- the only thing you’d see was the requirement to eat matzah. The rest is commentary upon commentary from generations of Rabbis who were clearly being paid by the hour.

This is typical of Jewish law- like, let’s say there was a rule in the Bible that said “Thou shalt not juggle chainsaws on Tuesdays.” OK, great- no problem. But then…the rabbis come along and say….”well….what if your calendar is out of date, or you forget what day of the week it is- you could end up juggling chainsaws on a Tuesday- so- it’s probably best to avoid juggling chainsaws altogether.” OK, great, so no chainsaw juggling, fine.

But then…another rabbi comes along and says “Well….what if you’re juggling clubs and somebody throws you a chainsaw? You’re going to have to catch it and juggle it and then if your calendar is out of date or you forget what day of the week it is then you could end up juggling chainsaws on a Tuesday. So…to be on the safe side….it’s probably best to avoid juggling altogether.” OK, great, so no juggling, fine.

But then…another rabbi comes along and says “well…what if you’re picking up a bunch of clubs to move them from one place to another, and you start to drop one so you end up accidentally juggling and then somebody throws you a chainsaw so you end up juggling it and then your calendar is out of date or you forget what day it is you could end up up juggling chainsaws on Tuesday.” OK, great, so no handling juggling implements of any kind ever, fine.

And it goes on and on and on like this until the rabbis decide that it’s really best if we just cut off our hands completely because if you have hands you might see a bunch of juggling implements on the ground and then you might be tempted to pick them up to move them out of the way and then you might start to drop one of the clubs so we’d accidentally start juggling and then someone would throw a chainsaw at you so you would have to catch it and juggle it as well and then your calendar might be out of date or you forget what day of the week it is THEN YOU COULD END UP JUGGLING CHAINSAWS ON A TUESDAY! And THAT’S why you can’t eat corn syrup during Passover. Makes sense? Great! Mazal Tov on your Bar Mitzvah- have an Israel Bond and a Tallis clip. Today you are a Jewish man.

Now most normal Jews wouldn’t go so far as to cut their hands off- especially cause that’s why there was a rule against juggling chainsaws in the first place, but there would be some hard core followers of Reb Schtumpy who would proudly walk with their stumps in a custom made fur muff, just like the rebbe used to (of course he lived in Poland and they live in Los Angeles, but never mind) confident in their moral superiority. Then again it’s pretty impractical to have your hands cut off- so most Schtumper Hassidim would get fancy, high tech prosthetic hands which they could use to do everything – including juggle chainsaws- which is technically permissible because they aren’t using their real hands! Don’t you see? It makes total sense! Just like the way hardcore Jews will spend days before Passover purging every single crumb of bread and cake and cookies from their homes and then go out of their way to make fake bread and cake and cookies that taste just like the real thing. Because, clearly, our ancestors didn’t have time to let the bread rise- but Kosher for Passover marble cake? Sure! No problem! Plenty of time. Can I get you some disturbing gummy fruit with that?

Anyhow- my point here is that being Jewish is complicated, nobody knows how to do it right so we all pick and choose the stuff we want to do and so if you see me at a diner next week having eggs and bacon and matzah DON’T FUCKING JUDGE ME.

And, of course, I’m totally exaggerating with this chainsaw example. I mean- there’s no way Jews would ever use elective surgery as an expression of faith. Just ask my penis.

But what’s this Passover thing all about anyhow? Well, it’s about remembering how we Jews were slaves in Egypt and then G-Diddy set us free. That’s the story that we tell when we gather for the Seder, the big ritual dinner on the first & second nights of the holiday. Well, it’s the story we try to tell- I mean, good luck actually following it if you go to a Seder. Cause the way the Seder is set up, it’s like the worst committee meeting you could possibly imagine where everyone just keeps going off on tangents and nothing can ever get done:

“OK, everybody- we’re going to tell the story of Passover. First we were slaves in the land of Egypt…”

“Wait- I’ve got four questions”

“OK- well, we’ll be answering those as we go along- but, first, we were slaves in the land of Egypt and we’ve gotta tell the story all the days of our lives.”

“Wait- just the days or also the nights?”

“Uhm- I guess the days and the nights.”

“And does this include the days now or the days after the messiah comes?”

“I guess it includes all of them. Look, the point I’m making here is that we’ve gotta tell the story about how we were slaves in the land of Egypt.”

“Wait- how would we tell this story to a wise child?”

“Uhm- I guess that with the wise child we would say that….”

“And don’t forget about the Wicked Child- it’s critical that we address the needs of the Wicked Child!”

“Well for the Wicked Child….”

“And I’m very concerned that we haven’t discussed the Simple Child?”

“And I see nobody’s even mentioning the Child Who Doesn’t Know How to Ask- I guess the Child Who Doesn’t Know How to Ask is getting marginalized AGAIN.”

“ALRIGHT. I get it! Nobody is trying to marginalize the Child Who Doesn’t Know How to Ask. We’re gonna tell each child the version of the story they can best understand. The point is that Lord, our G-d freed us from the land of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm and brought ten plagues upon the people of Egypt.”

“Uhm- excuse me. I there were actually fifty plagues- ten for each finger in G-d’s hand.”

“50- you’re smoking crack- there were 200 – 40 for each finger.”

“Uhm…gon’t you mean 250? 40 for each finger plus another 50 for his outstretched arm? Plus- I think your use of ‘smoking crack’ is racist and inappropriate”

“ENOUGH! There were 10 Plagues. 10. Just 10. That’s it! Is nothing ever enough for you people?”

“Of course”

“Yeah”

“Who are you calling ‘you people’?”

“I mean- if he had just brought us out of the land of Egypt and not carried out judgments against them- that would have been enough”

“Well- I don’t know about that- but certainly if he had carried about judgments against them and not against their idols- that would have been enough”

“Oh- I don’t know about that- but I do think that if he had destroyed their idols and not smitten their first born- now THAT would have been enough.”

“ALRIGHT. Enough already. Let’s eat.”

“Hurray!”

“Food!”

“Wait- can you explain why eat matzah again?”

“AAARRGGGGGHH!! At this rate we’re going to be telling this fucking story all the days of our lives!”

“All the days- or the nights too?”

So there you have it- absurd dietary requirements, a baffling ritual dinner and a story that we try to tell every year and never succeed- and I haven’t even mentioned the constipation. I can’t wait! No, really, that’s not sarcasm, I actually can’t wait. I love Passover. Why do you ask? Well, in typical elliptical Jewish fashion- I’m gonna answer with a story.

Every year I go to Albuquerque for Passover to have the Seder with my parents. Some times the whole family is there, sometimes lots of friends, other times- it’s just me and them. One year my dad broke his hip right before Passover and was in a rehabilitation facility. There was no way he was going to be out in time for the Seder, so we had no choice. We packed up the wine, matzah and bitter herbs and told the story of Passover in a lounge at the rehab facility. And as we went through the Seder, various nurses and attendants would pop their heads in to ask us, nicely, what the hell it was exactly we were doing. When we told them- they would immediately rattle off a list of all the Jews they’ve met- making sure to reassure us repeatedly that they were all just lovely, and they would all sample matzah- which they invariably enjoyed. Goyim love matzah-WHY???? Was this our best Seder ever? FUCK NO. Seriously- have you been to one of these rehab facilities? Fucking depressing. It’s all linoleum tile, hospital smell and old people on recumbent bikes trying to pedal to freedom (of course most of them don’t know their kids have sold their house out from under them while they were in there and they haven’t told their parents cause they’re afraid they’ll give up on life). Still- we did it. We giggled at “house of bondage”, I said “month of Datsun” and, even though my Grandmother couldn’t make the trip out there- I’m pretty sure we all figured out how much to eat. And if not…she’ll never know the difference. We couldn’t open the door for Elijah cause too many people would have escaped (Kidding! Kidding! There was no one there mobile enough to run away) but we did everything else. And when we said “this year we are slaves, but next year we are free” – well, I think that meant a little something extra to my Dad.

So- there. Now do you see what’s so great about Passover? No. Well, frankly me neither. I mean, I could have told the same story about Thanksgiving and the food would have been a lot better. But that’s not the point. The point is that Passover is coming whether we like it or not so we might as well make the most of it. Huh. That’s terrible. That’s like the least inspiring thing I’ve ever read. OK- well, maybe something better will come to me in Albuquerque. Meanwhile, I can’t wait to hit Taco Bell next week for a Matzah Waffle Taco. Just don’t tell my grandmother.

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