California Seething

[California Seething] A Day in the Absurd Life

(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)

Posted by :Eric Sims On : March 11, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:50 shades, Absurdist Theatre, bondage, City Council, Community, Eugene Ionesco, Madea, Parks & Rec, pure delish, S&M, sex store, The Bald Soprano, The Office, Theater, Theatre, theatre professional

Transcript of phone call between Eric & Ronni Sims- March 1, 2013:

Eric: The mayor won’t let them film COPS in Albuquerque, that’s ridiculous! I agree, you should totally write about that in DESERT DROPPINGS (SHAMELESS PROMOTION ALERT). OK, hey listen, I’ve gotta go. No, everything’s ok- I’m just at work. Yeah. Well, they’re doing a reading upstairs of this new play about a Mexican-American family during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Yeah, I know- it does sound interesting. Lots of interesting themes to explore there. Anyhow, they’re about to finish, so I’ve gotta strike all the chairs and music stands and set up the bondage mannequins and sex toys for the 50 Shades Red Room before the balloons arrive. What? Yes, bondage mannequins. Yes. Yes. Oh, sure, of course I’ll take pictures. What was that? You’re right- I should totally write about this.

Look, I know that in an Office-Parks and Rec-Community world, everybody thinks that their workplace would make just the funniest, quirkiest single camera sitcom ever. While this means that 40 year old writers can feel better about their barista jobs because they can tell their worried parents that they’re “doing research” while they borrow money for rent, the result is a whole lot of terrible spec scripts and an epidemic of reader suicides. Don’t judge-you’d eat lead too if you had to read Coffee Shop followed by Post Office followed by It’s Totally Not the Apple Store Even Though We’re All Wearing Black T-Shirts and There’s a “Smart Guy” Bar at the Store followed by Office Max- about a corporate office supply super-store- where, get this, the main character’s name is actually MAX- get it?? Get it??? GET IT????? Hey, wait, that’s pretty good. NBC would totally produce that. I should write it. CRAP! I just killed a reader. Sorry, dude. I’ll tell your wife you loved her.

The problem is, despite what aspiring writers in workplace approved polo shirts may think, most jobs are more depressing than wacky-not so much Parks and Rec – more like Franz Kafka guest-writing for Dilbert. And, to be fair, my job isn’t a sitcom either. It’s straight up Eugene Ionesco – and for those of you that didn’t squander your education by becoming Theatre Majors, that’s “theatre of the absurd.” Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with becoming a theatre major- hey- if you can spend 4-6 years saying “red leather, yellow leather” over and over again for course credit, lying on the ground and really paying attention to your breathing and rehearsing scenes from True West in your dorm room between gravity bong hits- then, Mazal Tov, Amigo- you win college. But, just a word of advice- if you do decide to convert your Theatre Major into an actual career in the field then get a temp job that makes you learn Excel- cause nobody in the real world actually gives a shit if you know who Eugene Ionesco is as long as you can make a budget for The Bald Soprano.

Anyhow, the whole point of Absurdist Theatre is that characters are doing and saying utterly nonsensical things with the utmost seriousness and conviction like Matthew McConaughey’s Oscar speech or a less bonkers version of CPAC. And doing nonsensical things with the utmost seriousness is exactly what being a theatre professional is all about! Or, as Eugene Ionesco would have said “Cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos.” Because- when it comes right down to it, making theatre is about putting in absolutely heroic efforts to achieve utterly ridiculous objectives. I mean, just imagine you’re part of Seal Team Six only instead of being sent to kill Bin Laden, you’ve been deployed to help him alphabetize his giraffes. Or, even worse, to help produce his one man show about Abraham Lincoln- and, oh, did I mention it’s a rock opera? And you know it’s a terrible idea and that no one will come and that he can’t even sing, but you still spend three weeks frantically searching for the perfect stovepipe hat that’ll fit over his turban while you argue ferociously at a production meeting about the budget with the set designer, who wants to import lumber because it’s totally impossible to find enough trees in Pakistan to make a good log cabin- and if it doesn’t look 100% authentic, well then nobody’s going to believe that a singing Bin Laden is actually Lincoln. IT’S A FUCKING DISASTER.

Or, more to the point, imagine you’ve got to set up an S&M themed VIP area for 50 Shades! The Musical and figure out how to share the space with a public reading of a serious new play about a Mexican American family during the Cuban Missile Crisis named Hope. Cause that’s actually a little more ridiculous- I mean, Bin Laden and Lincoln- well they’re both tall and have beards and were shot by Americans, so it’s practically like they’re twins – whereas Hope and 50 Shades! The Musical have absolutely nothing in common. 50 Shades! is a silly, fun and extremely raunchy show performed by a sweet, earnest, fresh-faced young cast that’s singing their eager little hearts out as they rhyme every possible synonym of penis and vagina- like Deep Throat performed by the cast of Glee. And the women coming to see the show- well, let’s just say they’re fanning themselves with their programs but it’s not actually that warm in the theatre. So actually, with all the well dressed, fanning, hollering women the whole thing feels like going to Sex Church or something out of Madea’s Bachelorette Party which is hands down Tyler Perry’s filthiest film. So, yeah, totally worth seeing for a good time. And naturally, a show like this needs an S&M themed VIP room or “Red Room”- which is a reference to something in the books that I am SO PROUD TO ADMIT I DO NOT GET. And the business to sponsor the Red Room- why that could be none other than independent, locally owned sex shop Pure Delish cause when it comes to nipple clamps, I’m strictly a locavore (pretty sure it’s a Mom & Pop cause one of the owners goes by “Daddy”). Now, I’m no naïve little blushing kitten bunny, but I had absolutely no idea Pure Delish was a sex shop- I mean, I’d been by it a million times, but I just assumed they sold cupcakes- which I still think is a totally reasonable assumption- I mean, come on, it’s Culver City for god’s sake- I see Pure Delish in this part of town- I’m thinking Red Velvet not Red Room. It was only my devotion to the Sprinkles ATM that saved me from the unbelievable awkwardness of stopping in for a sugary treat at Pure Delish and being offered an entirely different and far more disturbing kind of sugar from Daddy which I’m pretty sure is some kinda kinky sex thing or, at least, Def Leppard seems to think so.

Anyhow, a few days before the first 50 Shades! performance we picked up the disassembled mannequins from Pure Delish using a dirty old white van (just for extra creepiness) and, let me tell you, you don’t know what it means to be thankful you’re white until you’re driving through LA in a white van full of body parts- especially cause all the mannequins were white women. When we got to the theatre, Cat, the store’s owner (I may have slightly exaggerated about Daddy #poeticlicense #itstheonlylicenseicanget) guided me and a couple of my male staff members through the process of assembling the mannequins with the infinite patience and kindness of an American Julie Andrews- if Julie Andrews was a petite dominatrix in colorful yoga pants teaching arts and crafts at a Special Needs S&M Summer Camp. Actually, I was the only Special Needs student there. Both of my staff were surprisingly adept at putting the women together from spare body parts and dressing them proactively. One of them in particular was particularly adept. Disturbingly adept. Adept in a Criminal Minds, don’t go in the crawl space, it puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again sort of way. I mean, I don’t like to judge, but he named his mannequin Gladys and I think they went to see Her together. For me, though, the whole thing was just a giant Elementary School Arts & Crafts anxiety nightmare. Like all of a sudden, I’m eight years old again, tears of frustration in my eyes, fingers all stuck together with Elmer’s glue, a pile of busted up popsicle sticks on the table in front of me glued together in every which way but the right one and all around me perfect little girls with perfect little collars up and perfect little bows in their hair and perfect little popsicle stick houses in front of them while I sit in the middle with my popsicle stick shitbox like that trashy house in the perfect suburban subdivision that everybody whispers about with the unwashed, homeschooled kids of indeterminate age and number who were never allowed to play street football with the rest of the kids but just looked out the window with the dead eyed curiosity of Russian orphans, the fleshy wife with the tired eyes and tight-lipped smile whose washed-out floral pattern bathrobe showed just enough cleavage to make her an unspoken masturbation favorite of all the neighborhood boys and the scary guy with a beard like a red-eyed angry Jesus with a beer belly and, yes, I realize I’m getting pretty far afield but if you made popsicle stick houses that were this evocative of The Virgin Suicides YOU WOULD HAVE ANXIETY NIGHTMARES ABOUT ARTS & CRAFTS PROJECTS TOO.

So, as you can expect, when it came to putting the mannequins together, I was useless. Every two minutes, I was like “Caaaaat, I can’t get the panties to stay on” “Caaaaat, why are her hands in backwards”, “Caaaaaaaat my node id caught id da nipple clampd.” And every single time, Cat would rush over with her infinite American Julie Andrews dominatrix patience and deftly rescue me singing “Just a spoonful of patience helps the nipple clamps stay on, the nipple clamps stay on, the nipple clamps stay on. Just a spoonful of patience helps the nipple clamps stay on. In the most erotic way.”

So, OK, great. Mannequins put together. Gladys looking fierce. Project done, right? Well…not exactly. We still had to hang the Pure Delish banners; set up the 50 Shades! step & repeat (that’s the thingamajig with logos you take pictures in front of at press conferences and premieres and stuff- I know, right- there’s a name for those! ) for photo opportunities; arrange the S&M paraphernalia on the table next to the 50 Shades! step & repeat including a feather, blindfold, riding crop, mask plus a wrench and a screwdriver for some reason that I pray to God I never have to know; put out the gift bags complete with commemorative tie, lube, Pure Delish postcard and women’s orgasm gel (I tried some. Amazing); and set out the decorative balloons, because everybody who loves bondage also loves balloons I think!

So, OK, great. Room is set up. Project done, right? Well…not exactly. Because right in the midst of the first weekend of performances we had that pesky public reading I was talking about earlier of the serious play about a Mexican American family during the Cuban Missile Crisis- and somehow, the director didn’t think the S&M mannequins would work for this presentation, even though he did keep trying to give Gladys his number and offered to let her read stage directions #poeticlicense. So…on Friday afternoon, before they came to rehearse, we hid the mannequins, took down the Pure Delish banners, struck the step & repeat (you feel cooler cause you know what that means right? Right? Yeah, you do.); boxed up the S&M paraphernalia including the wrench & screwdriver (I DON’T WANT TO KNOW); stashed the gift bags, popped the balloons and brought out chairs, music stands and a keyboard. Red Room becomes Reading Room- Ta Da!

Of course- after rehearsal – we had to strike the music stands, move the keyboard, put away the chairs, hang the banner, pose the mannequins, put out the step & repeat (go on- use it in a sentence. You know you want to) , set up the S&M props including the wrench and screwdriver (LALALLALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU I CAN’T HEAR YOU), set the gift bags back out, and put out the fucking balloons. Hurray fucking balloons!!

Then, Saturday, early in the morning…well I think you can guess. Banner, mannequins, step & repeat, S&M paraphernalia, gift bags, balloons- OUT! Chairs, music stands, keyboard- IN! Serious reading about Mexican American family during the Cuban Missile Crisis GO!!

Which brings me back to that phone call to my mother, right where we started. The reading was about to end and I was tired. All I wanted to do was just restore the Red Room one more time and get the fuck out. And everything had been going so smoothly. We were practically home free. Just one more time- chairs, music stands, keyboard – OUT! Banner, mannequins, step & repeat, S&M props, gift bags and balloons…wait a second….where the fuck are the balloons??? What do you mean the new balloons haven’t been delivered yet?? How is that fucking possible??? Don’t these people know I want to go home????? How many question marks do I need to use to show just how FUCKING UNACCEPTABLE THIS IS????????????????????????????? ????????? QUESTION MARKS????????????????????????

Half an hour dragged by. I called the florist. They said the balloons were coming. They lied. Half an hour dragged by. I called the florist. I said terrible things. I screamed, I railed, I pleaded with desperation like a soldier in the Korengal valley covered in blood screaming into the radio for a Medevac while he watches his buddy bleeding to death on the hot sand only I was screaming cause the goddamn delivery of decorative balloons for my bondage themed 50 Shades VIP room was a motherfucking hour late and that shit was LIFE AND DEATH. GET ME MY FUCKING BALLOONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GET SOME !!!!!!!!!GET SOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Balloons, that is.

So, anyhow, a few minutes later, the balloons arrived, we set them up and left. Everything was fine. The way it always it. Cause that’s the other thing to know about theatre- we live in a constant state of narrowly averted disaster. And you would think that would mean I would calm down and relax a little cause I know things are going to work out and, sure, that’s what a rational person would do but if I was a rational person I WOULDN’T HAVE MAJORED IN DRAAAAAAAMA.

So what’s the point? No point. What, did somebody tell you there was going to be a point? Weren’t you paying attention? Music stands go out, bondage mannequins go in, balloons show up, I go home. Cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos, cockatoos.

So how do we cope with the meaninglessness? Me, I like to attend City Council meetings. There’s nothing like taking an active role in government to remind me just how much I love theatre. At a recent Council Meeting, a local man got up with his well worn yellow Legal pad and said: “I live at the corner of ______ and __________ and for the last 20 years, I’ve been coming before you to say we need a stop light. Well, last night, the long awaited accident finally happened- and while nobody was hurt, I urge you to take action.” And the Council naturally reacted like this was a serious problem but all I could think was- “Dude, that’s great! You have one little accident every 20 years- you’ve gotta live on the safest fucking street corner in America! You don’t need a stop light- you need a plaque and a parade in your honor!” And, talk about theatre of the absurd- check out these little dialogue snippets from last night’s meeting:

“Is there a special notification list for trees?”

“That would just be the initial initiation of an initial plan”

Are you kidding me? That’s straight out of Ionesco’s Twitter feed #cockatoos. He missed his calling as a playwright- he should have just run for mayor. As for me, I’m just gonna stay back at the theatre. With Gladys. Where it’s safe. Well, relatively speaking. I still don’t know what that wrench is for- but I’ve got a sinking feeling I’m gonna be around long enough to find out. At least I don’t live in Albuquerque. I hear the mayor won’t even let them film COPS there. Now THAT’S absurd. (SHAMELESS PROMOTION ALERT.)

[California Seething] – Suck it, Sochi!

(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)

Posted by :Eric Sims On : February 27, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:Al Michaels, bear, Biathalon, Bob Costas, Charlie White, cholent, Cris Collinsworth, Cross Country, johnny weir, Life with Fisher, Meryl Davis, NBC, olympics, putin, Russia, Shaun White, sochi, Speedskating, tara lipinski

I have a bone to pick with Johnny Weir (Phrasing!) Thanks to his fabulous fashions, surprisingly thoughtful commentary and GBF (Gay Best Friend) chemistry with Tara Lipinsky (as described brilliantly by Madame HR) I can no longer tolerate regular figure skating commentators. It’s like coffee- there was a time when I could swig back anything – diner coffee, deli coffee, office coffee that’s made from pre-measured packets ordered in bulk from Staples which sits in the carafe getting hot and crusty all day like cholent on Shabbos – and has roughly the same impact on my colon, I didn’t care, I didn’t even taste it. Then Starbucks came along and all of a sudden, coffee was like this beverage with flavor that I was actually supposed to enjoy and not just some toxic sugary spew I choked down my throat ten times a day to keep myself from falling into a permanent vegetative state during my data entry job (you laugh- but I had to sign a DNR before I took that job. When the guy before me dropped, they went through his pockets for change and sold his shoes. Yeay Non Profit sector!) I was ruined! I haven’t been able to drink office coffee since. Hell, now I don’t even drink Starbucks. It’s a single-origin, shade-grown, fair-trade, home-roasted, fresh-ground, filtered-water, manual-drip mug of perfection at just the right temperature or nothing. And if you think typing all those hyphens was hard- try making the coffee- it takes me like nine fucking hours to make one cup- it’s literally the only thing in my life I’m remotely a perfectionist about. I can sit in a pile of used tissues, with my shirt buttoned wrong, my beard out of control like a superstitious hockey player on a deep playoff run, and so much cream cheese on my pants it’s like I dry-humped my bagel instead of eating it- but if the roast on my goddamn Ethiopia Sidamo is wrong I just freak the fuck out like Johnny Weir with a broken Bedazzler. And it’s the same thing with figure skating – I used to just ignore the commentary, but after a couple mornings of sparkling wit and sparkling tiaras with Weir and Lipiniski, the prime time commentators seem like Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth in comparison and I DO NOT mean that as a compliment. I’m like a shark who’s developed a taste for human blood and now there’s no way I can go back to seals, especially when one of the seals is Sandra Bezic and she’s sitting next to Scott Hamilton spewing syrupy banalities like “she’s like a figurine of a figure skater in a jewelry box but she’s so strong.” So….is that a good thing? Or a bad thing? Or….are you just super duper extra proud of the fact that you still have the exact same jewelry box that you did when you were a little girl with a Dorothy Hamil fixation and you’ve picked this particular moment to fucking humblebrag about it. And, sure, Scott Hamilton’s OK- like a 2^nd favorite uncle that everyone knows is gay but no one’s allowed to say anything during those awkward moments at Thanksgiving when Nana says “So, Scotty, when are you give me some grandchildren?” which happen more and more frequently every year thanks to her creeping dementia and chronic alcoholism. And while Tom Hammond is doing remarkably well for a man who’s been completely drained of blood, all he ever does is tell us how long it’s been since random stuff happened in a really serious voice as though that’s supposed to add some fucking gravitas to the proceedings. “No Italian has won a medal in figure skating since 2002”, “This is the first time that US women have gone without a figure skating medal in consecutive Olympics since 1948”, “No American woman has touched the clammy, dead skin of my face without recoiling in horror and fleeing the room since 1986. Sigh. Hey, you guys want to hang out after the Ladies’ Final tonight? No? Oh. You got plans. That’s cool. No one has wanted to associate with me because of my unbearable personality and disturbing pallor since 2002. It gets so lonely. Sniff.” Seriously dude, it’s like 80 degrees there- go to the ski slope and get a tan. You’re like one of those fish that lives its whole life in a cave and never sees the sun except those fish might have something interesting to say about ice skating.

Of course, Weir and Lipinski weren’t the only fabulous American pair on the ice – there were a couple of halfway decent Americans who were actually competing in the games. I’m speaking, of course, of ice dancers Meryl Davis and Charlie White. Now, usually, we don’t get to see much ice dancing at the Olympics – but this year, by some totally crazy coincidence, NBC decided to show a lot more of it right when we had a couple of Americans competing for the gold. Weird, right? It’s like they were all “Fuck it. Ice Dancing. Why not? Wait- what we’ve got Americans that are good at this??? Reeeeaaaally? ! had no idea! What a coinkerdinker.” Not that I mind. I’d always rather watch something Americans are good at then watch Bjorn Olafson and Bjorn Erickson bjorning it out with each other over a 50,000 mile cross country race for the honor of blond people and a lifetime supply of reindeer meat. I’m actually proud of America for sucking at Cross Country. All that grim determination and grueling exertion- fuck that shit. That’s not the American way to win medals. No- the American way is to keep making up new crazy-ass flippy-flip snowboarding events that nobody else in the world knows how to do yet- and then, when other countries figure out how to do these events better than us, because they actually work hard and practice, we just come up with something newer and cooler and it’s like “Oh, you guys is Switzerland are still into halfpipe? That’s, like, soooo 1998. We’re all totally doing Slopestyle now.” And, you know what- that’s awesome! I mean, sure, we may not have the best conditioned athletes in the world, and we steal all our winter sports ideas from Gleaming the Cube– but, hey- if you give a big pile of snow to a bunch of Americans, we’ll get stoned as shit and figure out how many times we can flip around in the air and we’ll call it a YOLO McTwist 420. Give snow to a bunch of Norwegians- and they’ll go very slowly in a straight line until they die. Which country would you rather be from? Now wait- don’t base your answer on quality of life, education, culture, economic stability or healthcare- just stick to winter sports coolness.

So, yeah- it’s fine to suck at Cross Country- but- I do have to admit I was a little disappointed by our Biathalon results. I mean- we’re the gun craziest country on earth- how can we be so bad at shooting? Is it just that Americans aren’t used to this type of target shooting? Would we do better if they put little hoodies on the targets? Or – maybe instead of a rifle range, we could do our shooting in a school cafeteria?

The Russians, on the other hand, are great at Biathalon, but that’s cause skiing and shooting is how they hunt gays.

The worst part about the Biathalon is that, if you screw up at shooting, you have to ski a penalty lap. That’s how much Cross Country sucks- the worst way they could think of to punish bad shooters was to make them do more Cross Country skiing. That would never work with Half Pipe- snowboarders would be missing shots on purpose. “Ooops, 0 for 5. Oh, shuckey-darn. I guess it’s 5 more runs for meeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!” But Cross Country- that’s how Norwegian parents make their kids eat their vegetables “Finish all your Brussels sprouts, Bjorn, or it’s an extra 10,000 meters before bedtime.”

Anyhow, like I was saying about Meryl Davis and Charlie White….at some point earlier today I’m sure, they dominated the Ice Dancing competition and, in the process, they reminded all of us Americans that we are so are so pathetically desperate to soak up Olympic glory that we’re even willing to learn what a “twizzle” is and why we should give a fuck what a good one looks like. We’re the ones making the real sacrifices here. Also, and I’m not ashamed to admit this, I have a total hair crush on Charlie White. The downy Wonder Bread cloud of golden curls softly flouncing about, a little bit shaggy and totally loveable like an adorable, well groomed sheepdog- that’s exactly what I had in mind when I grew my hair out for the first time at 15 into a pumpernickel black, unwieldy, steel wool Jew-Fro like a crackhead’s poodle. And that would be the best my hair would get. By the time I was in my mid-20’s my hairline had already entered the Great Recession and the time had come to give up and cut it short for good. So, for me, the American Ice Dancing triumph was about more than patriotism or athletic achievement- it was about basking vicariously in the Gold Medal glow of Charlie White’s golden locks and remembering the shadows of my own Olympic caliber fantasies of fabulous hair. Because, you see, for those of us that are follicularly challenged- there are no Paralympics- so we must watch as Charlie White lives the dream for us all in Sochi, and think of what might have been….

While White and Davis fulfilled their Olympic dreams, many of the highly vaunted American athletes did not. There was Shaun White who failed to medal much to the smirking delight of every single snowboarder because they naturally hate him for all the attention, funding and opportunities he brought to their sport and also because he’s this enormous douche. Lindsey Jacobellis did a masterful impression of Llewyn Davis when she totally sabotaged her chances for success by falling in the semi-finals with a clear lead for the third Olympics in a row. The U.S. Men’s Hockey team beat Russia in an early round game and gave Al Michaels a throbbing 1980 Cold War Nostalgia erection that lasted right up until they lost to Canada in the semi’s and were Finnish-ed off in the Bronze medal game. And the U.S. Women’s Hockey Team lost to Canada in heart-breaking fashion and wept so copiously as they received the Silver Medal that their coach seriously regretted joking “hey, you lose this one, you’re staying in Sochi”.

But of course, the biggest US failure was the Speed Skating Team which medaled in only one of the bazillion events they competed in. The real surprise, to me, though isn’t that we suck at Speed Skating- it’s that we were supposed to be good in the first place. I mean, I always figured that Speed Skating was one of those crazy-freaky things that’s super-important in the rest of the world but is just kind of a weird novelty here like soccer or hazelnut spread or learning science and math. It turns out we were actually coming into the Olympics favored to win a bunch of medals and ended up totally humiliating ourselves. U-S-A! Most people blamed the new Under Armour suits that the skaters wore during the Games- though they kept on losing when they switched back to their old suits….which were also made by Under Armour….so….maybe they sucked, too. In response to these concerns, the US Speedskating Association took immediate and decisive action and renewed their sponsorship contract with Under Armour for another eight years. That’ll learn ‘em! 2026 is gonna be our year! Never underestimate the power of greed to triumph over the Olympic spirit. For those that don’t get why this big contract seems foolish- just substitute “Jerry Jones” for “U.S. Speedskating Association” and “Tony Romo” for “Under Armour”. And if you still aren’t sure what I’m talking about, just think about how you felt in 2004 when we re-elected George Bush and you’ll know exactly what our Speedskaters are going through. And, yes- I am getting all worked up about Speed Skating – you got a problem with that? Winter sports to me are like Judaism and politics- I fast on Yom Kippur, vote in Presidential Elections and give a fuck about Speed Skating during the Winter Olympics. So long, Speedsuckers! Have fun with your Loser Suits. See you in 2018 in South Korea. I hope President Clinton can come to the Games!

So, yeah, the Olympics were kind of a bust for the American team- but not all hope is lost. On March 7, the Paralympics begin and, thanks to Iraq and Afghanistan, the U.S. has loads of great new Paralympians just itching to work off their PTSD on the slopes and rinks of Sochi and not on their long suffering loved ones. Thanks, George Bush! U-S-A! U-S-A!

And that brings us to the Closing Ceremonies. The theme of the Closing Ceremonies was “a buncha people making stupid shapes on the ground and shit” which was also the same as the Opening Ceremony and the last Opening Ceremony and every Ceremony at every Olympics since they figured out how to film stuff from above (fuck you, too Busby Berkeley.) Seriously- I get it- volunteer slave labor making circles. Whoopidie-doo. But according to the organizers, the Closing Ceremonies were a tribute to Russian art, culture & literature. I meant to come up with all sorts of witty things to say about the Ceremonies, but I fell asleep, which, as far as I’m concerned, is the best way to pay tribute to Russian art, culture and literature. I did notice that many of the writers who were honored during the Ceremonies had been persecuted during their lifetimes and this got me super-psyched for the Pussy Riot Tribute Concert at the 2042 St. Petersburg Games.

As if Russian art, culture and literature weren’t bad enough- Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth were brought in to comment on the proceedings. It’s like NBC was saying “Hey loyal viewers- we want to thank for sticking with us all the way to the end of the crazy Olympic ride. So as a very special treat, why don’t you all go fuck yourselves?” I mean, seriously, NBC- why you gotta play me like that? Didn’t I stick with you through all of those goddamn Cadillac commercials with the asshole who talks about how Americans are sooooo great because we don’t take enough vacation time (like that’s really our fucking choice) and how we’re the ONLY ones going back up to the moon- even though we can’t afford the gas money to go there on a Russian rocket? And didn’t I stick with you when you showed that fucking documentary about that Russian orphan swimmer girl with no legs who was adopted by a loving American family in the Baltimore suburbs and came back to Russia to meet her biological family only to realize just how UNBELIEVABLY FUCKING AMAZING LIVING IN THE SUBURBS OF BALTIMORE ACTUALLY IS? And didn’t I stick with you when you kept trying over and over and over and over again to convince me that Living with Fisher would be funny because it’s about a blind guy- when we all know that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet and an enormous hunk of shit about a blind guy is still just AN ENORMOUS HUNK OF SHIT . Well, didn’t I???? And after 18 grueling emotional days together through ups and downs, triumph and defeat, good times and bad, Costas and Lauer- you give me the Michaels and Collinsworth on the final night??? Laurel and Hardly?? Tweedledee and Tweedeldipshit? I mean, I get it – I know all the good commentators got the hell out of Sochi just as fast as their little legs could carry them, and so you were totally relieved when you found Al Michaels still in Sochi, lying face down on the ice of the hockey rink in a pool of Stoli vomit and half-digested Qualuudes wearing nothing but a dickey yelling “I DON’T BELIEVE IN MIRACLES” with Cris Collinsworth sitting on the ice smiling brainlessly next to him saying “Yes, It sure has been one heck of an Olympics, Al.” so you dragged them over to the Fisht Stadium (Wait, are we not even saying “Phrasing” any more?) sat them down with Vladimir Posner who dropped such bon mots as “every country is special in its own way” which is also what he tells his autistic son when he takes all the other kids to Disneyland and subjected your loyal viewers to three hours of misery, boredom, suffering and torture. And it that doesn’t say “ a tribute Russian art, culture and literature”- I don’t know what does? Well done, NBC!

Oh yeah, there was also that enormous bear that blew out the cauldron before shedding a single tear just like Russian orphans do on their birthday when they make a wish to go to America- only much much more disturbing that that. More disturbing even than the no legged swimmer girl.

So, here I am. The Olympics are over. After two glorious weeks of avoiding reality with high flying Olympic competition, it’s time to come back down to earth and avoid reality using regular television – which is not nearly as fun. I’m watching Speed for God’s sake- which is like Gravity on the bus. And, sure, it’s the best movie ever made about the perils of public transport in Los Angeles that wasn’t produced by concerned parents in Beverly Hills (if you haven’t seen this-watch it now) but it can’t compare to the glorious bubble of unreality that can only be experienced by obsessively watching a long running athletic tournament at all hours of the day and night. Between Kiev, Venezuela and Arizona (Jan Brewer only vetoed that bill because there’s no religious objection to serving Mexicans) all I can say is- MARCH MADNESS IS ONLY THREE WEEKS AWAY! Thank fucking God. I was this close to knowing what’s going on in the world. Phew!

[California Seething] So…Yeah…Sochi

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : February 10, 2014

Category: California Seething, Travel

Tags:Bermuda, Bruno Banani, Cherry Orchard, human rights, LGBTQ, Mongolia, olympics, Opening Ceremonies, putin, Russia, Shawn White, snowboarding, Sobolev, sochi, St. Basil's Cathedral, Tonga, Troy, vodka, War and Peace, wild dogs

Look, I’ve never been to Russia. For Jews, Russia isn’t a place we go to, it’s a place we flee from. All I know is that when I read all the crazy stories coming from Sochi about nightmarish accommodations where the only thing that works right is the camera in the shower , I want to build a time machine, go back to 1921 and give my great grandmother a great big sloppy kiss and a box of See’s Candy for getting the fuck out of that godforsaken shithole of a country with it’s unique brand of cold, misery, drunkenness, feral dogs, violence, repression, xenophobia, homophobia, corruption, incompetence, Pogroms and ballet and making her way to Troy, NY….with it’s unique brand of cold, misery, drunkenness, repression, corruption, incompetence- but…no Pogroms- so, you, know, baby steps (no ballet either). Just think about that for a second- Troy was a BETTER alternative to Russia- do you know how few things Troy is better than? You can’t even make a Jeopardy category out of it- pretty much just Russia, suffocating to death in an abandoned fridge, and Utica. Even Worcester and chlamydia don’t make the cut (don’t get cocky, Worcester- you’ve got a long way to go to catch up with bacne.)

So, naturally I was a little concerned when I was chosen to cover the Olympics for Been & Going but then I remembered that we have no money, so I would just be covering the Olympics from the couch. Which means, on the bright side, I won’t get pink eye from a Soviet era jizz covered pillowcase like Bob Costas, but if my tap water does look like piss, I can’t blame Putin. (SOCHI DRINKING GAME: Do a shot of vodka every time Putin is shown or mentioned. Then vomit prodigiously after the first hour of prime time coverage- not from the vodka but because he’s such a sickening piece of shit. Also cause of the vodka.)

Those of us that grew up during the Cold War were made to believe that Russia was a terrible place because of Communism. But now that the Cold War has been over for more than 20 years (can you believe it? Almost all the Olympic athletes were born after it ended. Isn’t that great? I love kids from the 90’s – they make kids from the 80’s feel bad about themselves) it is clear that Communism was never really the problem. In fact, it’s quite the opposite- Communism was a perfectly good political philosophy that was totally ruined by when the Russians co-opted it- the way Grunge was ruined by frat boys and Facebook was ruined by Moms.

But all that Communism stuff is in the past. This is New Russia, the Strong Russia, Putin’s Russia (SHOT!). A Russia that honors its hateful past while marching bravely to a hateful future. And to honor Russia’s history and culture Putin invited the Cossacks to assist with security at the Games. The Cossacks, for those that don’t know, are a proud warrior caste with a long and distinguished history of wearing huge hats and killing Jews- and they’re damn good at it! For centuries, nobody killed Jews like the Cossacks. If Hitler is the Michael Jordan of killing Jews, these guys are Doctor J. It’s like bringing in the Klan to honor Southern history and culture . Don’t get me wrong- I don’t mean to suggest that Putin is going after Jews. I mean, I’m sure he would if he could find any, but he’s found it a lot easier to go after LGBTQ (did I get all the letters?) individuals- a strategy he refers to as “beating the low hanging fruit”. So one unintended upside of having the Olympics in Sochi is that there may be much more awareness of the horrendous human rights abuses taking place in Russia. After all, if SportsCenter is having a conversation about Equality and it doesn’t have to do with how competitive the NFC West is, then that can’t be a bad thing.

Also, it’s a great opportunity for protest. Like snowboarder Alex Sobolev who openly displayed an illustration of a woman in a ski mask on the bottom of his board after competing- clearly as a tribute to Pussy Riot. I got to tell you, this really makes it clear what a gigantic chicken Shawn White is for pulling out of the Slopestyle event cause the course was too tough. I mean, Sobolev is not only taking on the course- he’s taking on the wrath of a ruthless dictator while little Shawney Whitey-poo won’t even snowboard on the mean old Slopestyle course cause he’s afraid that his precious little haircut will get messed up by a catastrophic brain injury– wah-wah-wah…cue Arrested Development style chicken dance….now. Still- I hope that the course claims Sobolev before Putin gets his hands on him. That Olympic cauldron is fueled with stray dogs and the bones of athletes who thought they had something to say. (UPDATE: The board’s designers have announced that the image of the woman in the ski mask was not inspired by Pussy Riot and any resemblance is strictly coincidental much to the disappointment of bloodthirsty Cossacks and wild dogs looking forward to having snowboarder for dinner.)

Anyhow, I know that many of you aren’t watching the Olympics due to politics or apathy or because you’re reading this column right now and thinking CRAP! I totally forgot the Olympics were on! So, for all of you and also those that are actually watching the Games- here’s my first installment from Sochi- a recap of the Opening Ceremonies. Now, for those of you that followed my Epic Live Blog of the event- don’t worry – there’s lots of new stuff, too! But if you do happen to come across a joke that you’ve seen before, I ask that you please laugh again because I’m incredibly needy. You can make a drinking game out of it and do a shot of vodka after each joke you’ve heard already. Hopefully you won’t get violently ill after the first paragraph, not just because of the vodka but because I’m such a sickening hack.

This was the first fail of the Sochi games. Well, second if you include “being in Sochi”. Or, third, I suppose, if you include choosing “Hot. Cool. Yours” as the slogan. I thought the Russians were against gay propaganda? Anyhow, it was the first fail of the Opening Ceremonies- although in Russia, they didn’t actually show the gaffe- choosing instead to show rehearsal footage where the snowflakes all transformed perfectly- which means that the children of the “Snowflake Technician” will never know why Daddy didn’t come home from the Olympics the day before their house burned down. They were so proud of him. They made construction paper cards and everything.

Look- it’s an innocent young Russian girl about to be sold into white slavery (SHOT!) This is just Putin’s way of teasing childless Americans with all the beautiful blond children they can’t get any more. What a dick- it’s like eating ice cream in front of a diabetic. I mean he’s quite literally dangling her right in front of us – he might as well be saying “Ooooh, look Americans. It’s a gorgeous blue eyed little white girl- want to adopt?? PSYCH! No white baby for you. Oh, boo-hoo, does that make you sad? Here is quarter, call China.” Not that I can blame Putin- who knows what sort of Western evils children may be exposed to in America while they are being raised by parents who love and nurture them and would do anything to give them a better life. Much safer to leave them in orphanages where they can be emotionally and physically abused in the traditional Russian way (SPOILER ALERT: The Russians don’t always love their children, too #sorrysting)

Wow! The Gay Men’s Chorus is really rockin’ that Russian anthem. Who’s Hot, who’s Cool and who’s Yours? MEOW. (SHOT!)

This is not to be confused with the Russian Police Chorus whose performance of Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” has charmed the world in a patronizing cat-video “oooh look, they think they’re people” sort of way. But, fair enough, I get it, those Russian policemen are totes adorbs right up until they scream “faggot” and crack open your skull with a stick.

Time for a quick word of thanks to the four most important Olympic sponsors- Coke, McDonald’s, Greed and Irony. If you’ve had a Coke in the last 86 years, then you’re part of the Olympic Dream and Michelle Obama’s worst nightmares.

Oh boy- it’s the Parade of Nations- and remember, they’re going to enter in the order of the Cyrillic alphabet. Oh Russia, you’re so cute. You’re attitude towards gays is as backwards as your “R”s (SHOT!)

Hey Sochi, the future called, they want their hookers back. (SHOT!)

Look- it’s Israel- go Israel go! No, seriously, go, get the hell out – they have Cossacks doing security for God’s sake- RUN FOR YOUR FUCKING LIFE. (SHOT! This is starting to get embarrassing.)

And- right after Israel, we’ve got Iran. Bob Costas (or Matt Lauer- who can tell?) was a little snarky about this- suggesting that Israelis and Iranians can’t get along when they’re in close proximity. Clearly Bob Costas hasn’t been to Beverly Hills recently. I mean, hey- the Beverly Center’s not knee deep in blood so they should be able to stand next to each other in line for a few minutes peacefully, as long as they don’t run out of baba ghanoush on the craft services table.

Seriously, Bermuda- put some fucking pants on. Grow up already. You look like the cast of Richie Rich: The Musical (AMERICAN CHOPPER Fans: substitute Mikey Tuttle: The Musical. It’s actually funnier.)

Seriously, Nepal, get a real flag. You’re like the girl who wore the tu-tu on her first day of kindergarten. I know everybody made a oood and ahhhed and said how adorable it was, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to keep wearing it every day til you’re in fifth grade and it’s all torn and covered in chocolate stains and the teachers want to put you in Special Ed. It’s like your 11^th Olympics already, Nepal. You’re a big girl country now, get a big girl flag.

Seriously Putin, would it kill you to fucking smile? You look like $1 billion went into the Olympics and the other $50 billion is shoved up your ass. (SHOT!- cause of Putin and the joke you’ve heard. So- 2 SHOTS!) I know, I know, it sucks seeing all these countries walk in that should just be part of the USSR. I get it- I wish the Parade of Nations were shorter too. At least I can watch House Hunters when this gets boring while you’re stuck there having to clap for Kyrgyzstan. And, yeah, I don’t want to live in a world where I have to spell Kyrgyzstan either- but come, on it’s not so bad. You can still exert your will and crush their democracies when they try and join the E.U. Come on, who’s a happy dictator? Who’s a happy dictator??There you go! Now that wasn’t so bad was it?

Look- the Jamaican Bobsled Team is back! They couldn’t make it for the last two Olympics, but they weren’t gonna miss this one, cause they heard the guys from Colorado has some primo shit. You know, a lot of people have been saying that the Winter Olympics unfairly favors small, white European nations way out of proportion to their actual population or importance in today’s world, but I actually think it’s better to be from a country with no winter sports tradition, since you can be terrible at your event and still totally make it to the Olympics cause you’re the only one who does it. Just ask Mongolia’s top figure skater, this guy:Doesn’t look like much, but he’s the goddamn Gracie Gold of Ulan Bator. I mean, If you’re a Norwegian cross country skier and you don’t medal- you’re derided in the press and publically ridiculed – but all this Mongolian guy has to do is carry a flag in his underpants and he’s a goddamn inspirational Olympic hero.

Plus- have you been to Norway in winter? Cross Country skiing is all they have to live for. When Norway didn’t medal in 2010, they were pulling white people out of fjords until the middle of August- which is like two weeks longer than usual.

Speaking of Olympians from small countries- here’s my favorite Tongan luger Bruno Banani.

Banani, who was born Fuahea Semi but changed his name 8 years ago to match his sponsor, German underwear manufacturer Bruno Banani. Can you imagine such crass, vulgar commercialism at the Olympics? Bob Costas certainly gave him a piece of his mind during the Subway Fresh Talk Minute. I would love to get on the condemnation train, but I would change my name to Calvin Klein in a second for a $200 donation to Been & Going and a pair of husky sized boxer briefs. Not that Calvin Klein is banging down my door exactly. I wonder who made those undies for the Mongolian team? Blue is totally my color.

U-S-A! U-S-A! Better not dip that flag! Unlike every other country in the world, the U.S. hasn’t dipped our flag in salute to the home country’s ruler since 1932- also, the first year we were elected “Douchiest Olympians” by the rest of the world (still undefeated!). Personally, I think it’s great- fuck the world! It’s chest pounding, eagle flying, unabashed jingoism time- hell, that’s what the Olympics are all about! It’s the only time we get to shamelessly kick other country’s butts without having to feel bad or worry about building democracy afterwards.

Thank god. The Russian team. Finally someone I can shamelessly boo. Boo, Ruskies, booo! Go back to Russia…oh wait. Also, this means the Parade of Nations is over- and it’s about damn time. Now I know how the Russians used to feel when they waited in line for bread. And aren’t things so much better there now that they have no bread at all?

OK, so this part is a celebration of Russia’s history. See- that’s St. Basil’s Cathedral- and according to Matt Lauer (or is it Bob Costas?) “St. Basil’s Cathedral was built by Ivan the Terrible, who poked out the architect’s eyes so it could never be repeated.” Let’s be clear, folks,- this is the feel good part of the show. (SHOT!)

Now we come to one of the most beautiful parts of the night. The extremely lengthy ballet sequence inspired by War and Peace. This is a stirring reminder of Russia’s contributions to the arts. The music of Tchaikovsky, the films of Eisentstein, the ballet of Diaghilev – so many of the world’s unbelievably boring masterworks were given to us by Russian homosexuals. Is it any wonder they fought a revolution? This was the entertainment of the times. I would start a revolution, too just to get out of sitting through another fucking Swan Lake. Hell, I went to see The Cherry Orchard and almost burned the theatre down at intermission just so I could get them to STOP WHINING AND SELL THE FUCKING ORCHARD. SELL IT SELL IT SELL IT SELL IT SELL IT SELL IT SELL IT!!!!!! You’re broke, you’re desperate, the summer cottage people are gonna give you top Ruble and I just want to go home so shut your fucking borscht hole already and SELL THE GODDAMN ORCHARD!!!!!! God, I hate Chekhov. Unless you’re talking about the navigator on Star Trek, I want nothing to do with him.

Of course, as the Opening Ceremonies taught us, there was no Revolution in Russia- just a peaceful transition into an era of industrialization and growth- followed, of course, by the wild and crazy rock n’ roll years of the swingin’ Stalinist 50’s- see:

Gotta love these ceremonies. They took Battleship Potemkin and remade it into Bye, Bye Birdie. It’s like Russia’s applying for its place in the modern world with the most bullshit resume ever. Now I don’t feel so bad about exaggerating my JavaScript skills and saying I speak French. At least I didn’t TOTALLY FALSIFY ALL OF MY EXPERIENCE IN THE 20^TH CENTURY (just parts of the 90’s).

Of course, Russians weren’t the only ones engaging in a little bit of revisionism. NBC did it’s part by cutting the anti-discrimination statement out of IOC Thomas Bach’s speech because Russia promised to give Bob Costas his real eye drops back.

Now there are those that are cynically saying this omission was political- but those people are showing no respect for NBC’s proud and storied legacy of bungling incompetence at the Olympics. Personally, I prefer to believe that this omission was not the result of censorship and repression but rather corporate greed, terrible decision making and mind boggling incompetence. But then again, I’m an optimist.

Well, there you have it. Despite all the apprehension, The Opening Ceremonies went off almost without a hitch much to the disappointment of millions including myself. For the next two weeks, we’ll enjoy skating, skiing and the dulcet tones of Mary Carillo’s disturbingly masculine voice as she travels through Russia looking for stuff to film that will make it seem less hateful to us. Yeah, good luck with that, Mary. As for me, I’m looking forward to enjoying the Olympics from the comfort of my couch where the only dog is mine and he sure as hell ain’t wild (unless you count “fuzzy lump on the floor” as “being wild”) and I don’t have to share a toilet stall (so nice of the Russian Olympic Committee to hire Larry Craig as a consultant). Stay tuned for a complete Olympic recap in my next post (plus some other stuff)- meanwhile, as Putin’s girlfriend said “who do I have to fuck to light the Olympic cauldron around here?” (SHOT! Ugh- I don’t feel so good).

[California Seething]- California Whine Tasting

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : January 27, 2014

At some point in January shit got real. After spending most of November and December walking around in a Peppermint Gingerbread Latte daze saying “We’ll just take care of that after the holidays. We’ll deal with that after the new year”, we woke up abruptly one day to discover that Gingerbread Lattes were gone, the date on the calendar was 2014 and the time to take care of stuff was NOW. Plus there was all sorts of crazy stuff going on in LA in January. Hell, in one week we celebrated the 20^th anniversary of the Northridge earthquake by lighting Glendora on fire and announced the Academy Award nominations. And brother, if you think Glendora’s on fire- you should see American Hustle– 10 nominations! (our thoughts and prayers go out to all the victims of all the disasters anytime anywhere blah blah blah blah)

Plus, we had the Golden Globes and watched the Foreign Press present a Lifetime Achievement Award to Woody Allen. This reignited the 20 year old debate about whether Woody Allen is, like, a MOLESTER molester or just kinda molester-y. Personally, I wasn’t really interested in debating whether the Hollywood Foreign Press should have given an award to a man about whom the best thing you can say is “He would NEVER have sex with his child before she turns 18”. Seriously- you’re expecting moral considerations from a bunch of Europeans? That’s like getting worked up over R. Kelley getting a lifetime achievement award from NAMBLA. I was, though, outraged by the fact that he didn’t bother to actually show up and accept the award. For someone as needy, insecure and recognition-starved as me that’s totally mind blowing. I can’t imagine passing up a chance to get an award, hell the Nazi party could give me an award for Stereotype of the Year, and I would show up to accept with a big hook nose, sack full of money and bottle of Passover wine made from Christian blood.

At least he had Dianne Keaton to drunkenly accept the award for him while wearing a shirt and tie and looking like Granny Hall in an Annie Hall Halloween costume. Keaton reminded us that Allen has worked with 179 of our Finest Actresses (180 total when you count Christina Ricci) and that he only fucked one of their daughters. So, statistically speaking, he’s barely a pervert at all! Give that man a trophy! No, seriously, give it to him, he’s a genius. The only reason to deny him the award is Curse of the Jade Scorpion– and possibly Celebrity.

Anyhow, after such an exciting week and crazy start to the year, we needed to get away for a mid-January break so we decided to celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day by wine tasting in Santa Barbara County because nothing says “we’re honoring the legacy of a great Civil Rights leader” like sipping Viognier in the countryside with a whole bunch of people who unironically tie sweaters around their necks. #ivebeentothemountaintop #theyhadgreatpinot

If you’ve never gone wine tasting in California, it’s one of the most disgustingly delightful things you could possibly do. Just picture it- it’s a 78 degree day (the Pleasantness Vortex is killing us out here- and it’s gonna get even worse when Mid-Winter Balminess Ernie strikes), the sun is shining, the rolling hills are….rolling, and all you have to do is taste wine, talk about wine, buy wine then find another winery and do it again. Find me the religion that guarantees this is what heaven is like, and I’ll convert in a second. Best. Near Death Experience. Ever (You’re in a tunnel, there’s a bright light, you walk towards it, a beautiful voice beckons to you saying “You can pick 5 wines from our regular tasting list for $10 or add three Reserve wines for $15. Tasting is free if you join the club…join the club…join the club…it’s not your time to join the club”) And aside from the sheer sensory delight of drinking some of the world’s best wine in some of the world’s best weather with some of the world’s best scenery, it’s the only socially acceptable ways to be drunk before noon when you’re older than 22 aside from Sunday brunch, watching World Cup Soccer and talking to your parents about their will.

We stayed in Solvang. With its windmills, quaint architecture and liberal use of the letter Ø, Solvang is the perfect little Danish town- especially because it’s not in fucking Denmark but in beautiful Santa Barbara County instead- so what you lose in free health care, you make up for in palm trees. It’s kind of like somebody decided to stage Hamlet in southern California but forgot to tell the Set Designer until it was much too late and then was like, fuck it, good enough. It’s like a town in Denmark from the creators of the Bacon Bowl and Pajama Jeans:

Narrator: You love visiting Denmark but it’s always so cold (black and white – All American family in Hawaiian shirts and shorts shivering in the snow in Copenhagen)

Narrator: And the airfares are always so expensive (mother and father looking very gravely at a computer screen with extremely expensive airfares. )

Narrator: And then, when you get there- nobody speaks English- just try ordering lunch at a restaurant (All American family at restaurant trying to communicate with a waitress in traditional Danish garb. Waitress shakes her head and shrugs.)

Narrator: Don’t you wish there was a better way to go to Denmark? (Family looks at camera and nods “yes”.) Well now you can! From the people who brought you Chia Obama and Perfect Fit Button Jeans it’s SOLVANG! (suddenly everything is in color, family is in beautiful sunny Solvang looking happy and surprised)

Narrator: Just three hours from Los Angeles with an average temperature of 60 degrees, it’s the perfect way enjoy to enjoy Denmark without all the hassle and expense of going to Denmark. And the best part of all – everybody speaks English (family laughing and joking with English speaking American waitress in traditional Danish garb) or Spanish (Latino family laughing and joking with Latino waitress in traditional Danish garb). So say goodbye to overpriced airfares and snow and say Ola to Solvang!

Latino Family & Waitress: Ola Solvang!

So, ok, sure- maybe Solvang isn’t exactly authentic- not so much Danish as Dane-ish- but it’s still a great place to stay if you’re going wine tasting. With its two star motels, many smorgasbords and plentiful souvenir shops it’s got everything the traveler with low standards could possibly dream of. But, of course, the best part is the proximity to all the wonderful wineries of Santa Barbara County and the many tasting rooms in Los Olivos (Spanish for “oh, those olives”.) Never been wine tasting? Well, here’s what you can expect on a typical day out:

Winery #1- Tentative First Steps “Uhm, yeah, I like the smell of this wine. It’s…uhm…good. And the taste is….good, too. This wine is…you know….good? Maybe I’ll stop back by later and buy a bottle”

Winery #2– Building Confidence “Yeah yeah- I totally taste agree with the winemaker about the floral nose but there’s a hint of lemongrass as well and I’m definitely tasting the honeydew melon and lychee fruit although I would say there’s a strong grapefruit flavor and a touch of pineapple on the finish. Was this aged in steel or oak? I’ll take five bottles. What else you got?”

Winery #3– Exuberance “OH MY GOD THIS IS SO AMAZING. I love this Syrah. This is like the best Syrah I’ve ever had- I’m totally getting a case of that. And that Grenache is totally fantastic, too- I’ve gotta get a case of that. Plus two cases of the Almond Champagne. And, hell yeah, I’ll join the wine club! Four bottles – twice a month? That’s perfect! This is the greatest place I’ve ever been in my WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE.

Lunch break- Picnic at Winery #3 featuring Bottle of Wine and More Exhuberance “OH MY GOD THIS IS SO AMAZING. I can’t believe how good this sandwich is. It’s like the creaminess of the peanut butter just collides with the sweetness of the jelly and it’s a total flavor explosion. And who knew Pinot Noir went so well with Goober Grape???? And these Oscar Mayer Lunchables. PERFECTION. This is the greatest lunch I’ve ever eaten in my WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE.

Wineries #4 – #7- Blur When you get home, you might ask yourself “when did I buy this fucking bottle of Port?” Winery #6, my friend. Winery #6.

Winery #8- Nap time If you love 5 PM hangovers- you’ll love wine tasting! So that’s the rundown of the day- but what about the tasting itself? Well, here are some helpful tips that will let you make the most of your tasting experience. Remember, though- wine tasting is extremely subjective. There is no “right way” or “wrong way” to taste wine. These are just things you can use so you don’t look like such a retard out there:

The Swirl: Don’t worry, it’s totally ok to drink your wine without swirling it while you’re out wine tasting. I mean, you’re already wearing that tobacco juice stained wife beater, rainbow suspenders and trucker hat offering “25 cent Mustache Rides” so why not compete the impression by guzzling down your wine like a hog at a trough without swirling it? Look, not swirling is fine when you do your guest spot on Moonshiners but when you’re tasting- that wine better be swirling around like American culture going down the drain (because everyone’s watching Moonshiners.) It’s very simple. Just grab the glass by the stem and move it in a circle and the wine will slosh around accordingly. Keep doing this until the wine is fully aerated and everybody has noticed that you’re swirling. And don’t hold back- you simply can’t swirl too vigorously! Unless of course, hypothetically you have a particularly full glass and…oh, I don’t know…let’s say you’re standing next to your wife…at a really fancy winery event….and you swirl really vigorously. And…uhm….well it wouldn’t be good. Hypothetically of course.

The Smell: OK- so you’ve swirled- it is time to drink yet? NO! First you’ve got to smell it. Now, you might think you know all about smelling things before you drink them but you can’t just shove the wine under your spouse’s nose and say “smell that” like you do with lumpy milk. No, smelling wine is something you’ve gotta do yourself- so what you want to do is raise up the glass (BONUS POINTS: Tilt the glass sideways when you lift the glass, look at the color and nod appreciatively at the fact that it is, in fact, wine colored and not fluorescent blue or polka dotted, which, just so you’re clear, would NOT be as good. Now-do you have to do this? No. But did DaVinci have to paint the Mona Lisa with a cryptic and unknowable smile that is still debated centuries later? Did Axl Rose have to sing the last “child” as “Chi-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ild?” Did Richard Sherman have to trash talk Michael Crabtree after winning the NFC Championship? Actually not. Not at all. It was tasteless, selfish and inappropriate and the fact that I criticize him clearly makes me a racist cause apparently in 2014 bad sportsmanship is a goddamn Civil Rights issue. Come on people, I love liberal outrage as much as the next guilt ridden white guy- but why can’t we get pissed off about the right stuff any more? Rome is burning here and we’re protesting that Nero isn’t playing enough songs by minority writers.) stick your nose deep inside like Groucho Marx performing cunnilingus on Margaret Dumont (Duck Soup- Director’s Cut- see it) and breathe in the scent. Then say a bunch of shit about fruit and flowers- only do it with confidence so that nobody questions you. It’s better if you refer to things that nobody has actually ever smelled. Seriously- do you know what lychee smells like? Of course you don’t – nobody does- that’s why it’s the perfect wine thing to say. Remember- wine tasting is like porn- everybody’s faking it- so just make it sound good.

The Taste: This is the best part. You’re gonna want to enjoy this. Remember- you don’t need to slug it down like tequila or brace for impact like Manischewitz. This isn’t some Concord Grape Blackberry Flavored Kosher Diabetic Baby Vomit or Almaden White Zin in a box- this is the good stuff- an explosion of flavors and textures and smells. Comparing crappy wine to good wine is like comparing Kool Aid to Kool Aid made from rainbows and ground up unicorn bones (only less earthy and more fruit forward than that, with a lychee and honeysuckle aroma). In fact, maybe if Jews actually left Elijah a nice Santa Ynez Pinot Noir or jammy Paso Robles Zinfandel he might actually fucking show up once in a while- I mean, the Goyim know what time it is- you don’t see them leaving Matzo and Mansichewitz for Santa- hell no! They leave milk and cookies and that’s why their Messiah brings them presents and ours never comes.

The Face: So, I’ve got a lot of friends who are smarter than me. Like, much smarter. Like, for them a good day at work is when their new book about political theory gets a good write up in the New Republic and for me a good day is fixing the beer taps at the theatre without getting saturated in suds #livingthedream. So, when they tell me about what they are working on and I have absolutely no comprehension of it, I’ve mastered the use of a particular facial expression. An expression that says- “yes, yes, I understand perfectly and I’m thinking very deeply about what you are saying” while inside my head a donkey sleeps peacefully under a tree with flies buzzing around it’s head. I use this same look when I’m wine tasting and I want to appear really intelligent and thoughtful even though I have absolutely nothing intelligent and thoughtful to say. It’s brilliant! And on the off chance that you’re one of those people I make that face to- just pretend you didn’t read this- seriously- I totally understand everything you’re telling me about robotics and nano-technology! Pay no attention to the slumbering donkey behind the curtain. On the other hand, there are some faces you want to avoid making

Yuck! What is “Sauvignon Blanc” French for battery acid or somethin’??

So are there, like, special pink grapes that you use for rose?

Woo-Hoo! I’ll get another case of that almond champagne!

I’m not drinking any fucking Merlot! Right?? Right??? From the movie??? Get it???? (they get it)

And now, just to show you how seriously I take all this- I’m gonna do something I don’t think I’ve ever done before and provide some actually useful information (Heavens to Murgatroyd!). So- here goes:

Actual Useful Information:

Remember that part of Sideways where Paul Giamatti gushes about Pinot Noir? No, no the other part. No- I mean that other one. Right- there you go. So- the Pinot he was drinking was actually a Lucas & Lewellen 2001 release- and as someone who once owned a few bottles of that, it’s totally gush-worthy. In fact, just thinking of it now makes me drool like Pavlov’s dog- assuming, of course, that the dog enjoyed a silky, full bodied, fruit forward California Pinot and, let’s face it, what dog doesn’t? (Mine. It’s Napa Cab or nothing with that snob. Son of a bitch is costing me a fortune.) And speaking of Cabs- they make some terrific Cabernet Sauvignons there- including the always astonishing Cote Del Sol (which is Danish for “you’re gonna spend more on this wine than you really feel comfortable with. Deal with it”.) So- the Lucas & Lewellen tasting room is all laid back, upscale charm in dark wood with a stainless steel bar offering French style wines.

Tocatta, meanwhile, is owned by the same people, and and is all bright colors, kitschy merchandise and big, bold Italian style wines. It’s like that crazy Italian cousin who wears bangles and big colorful skirts and hugs just a little too much. You forgive her, though, because she always brings a kick ass bunch of wines with cool Italian names like Nebbiolo, Barbera and Nebbiolo-Barbera – which is the marriage of two great varietals who refuse to take each others’ names. Gotta feel bad for the kids.

Those are pretty much the only tasting rooms worth going to in Solvang. Los Olivos has a fuckton of really good ones- or, to use the European terminology a “Metric Fuckton”. The best ones of which are, in my opinion, Consilience & Tre Anelli, Alexander & Wayne, Arthur Earl, and Alta Maria but there are loads of others, including some I haven’t even tried yet. While they’ve got a wide range of wines, the area is best known for Rhone varietals like Syrah, Grenache, Pinot Noir- all grapes that are traditionally grown in…uhm…Rhone, which is….you know….France-ish. There are so many amazing tasting rooms in Los Olivos, in fact, that it was recently named Best Small Town in American by Me. I bet you thought I was gonna make up some magazine title, didn’t you? Cause that’s one of the jokes I use all the time according to OverusedJokesByEric.com – right up there with “Fuck the Patriots” and #HackidieHackHackHashtagJoke #noseriouslythatjokeisplayed

Keep in mind, though, that with Great Wine comes Great Douchebaggery- so you’ve gotta get there early in the day while the LA d-bags are still back in Silverlake carefully disheveling their hair and trying to figure out which asshole persona goes best with wine tasting (Smug Know-it-All Asshole Persona, natch. It goes with wine tasting like salmon and chardonnay or like being a pretentious twit and using the word “natch”) and the Morgan Stanley Douchebag Bicycle Team shows up en masse in their skin-tight matching bike jerseys to talk at the top of their lungs about HOW MANY TENS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS THEY HAVE IN THIS OR THAT ACCOUNT AND WHATEVER WILL THEY DO WITH ALLLLLLL THAT MONEY. Charming. When the revolution comes, I’m putting bike lanes to the Guillotine.

Beyond Los Olivos, there’s Zaca Mesa Winery on Foxen Canyon Road- an ideal picnic spot to savor your lunch with a bottle of their Z-Cuvee (a perfect pairing for Goober Grape and Lunchables). Then there’s Martian Ranch & Vinyard, where the disturbingly friendly wine pourer not only allowed us to taste anything we could possibly want she also let us pick the Pandora channel for the tasting room (Eagles, natch). Wrap up your day in the sorta-Old Westy charm of Los Alamos at Bedford where, if you’re lucky, the wine maker and his beard will gruffly pour you a Mourvedre that goes down the list of every delightful thing that a Mourvedre is supposed to do to the inside of your mouth and checks every box with precision like an engineer in horn-rimmed glasses at Mission Control.

Oh yeah, and you might need to eat, too. I guess. There haven’t always been a lot of great choices for this- there’s Paula’s Pancake House for breakfast- for Danish pancakes so big you could wrap baby Moses in them and send him down river, and the Hitching Post for dinner- an old school California steakhouse grilling up the perfect rebuttal for any debate with a vegan. The rest was all mediocre Danish food which is pretty mediocre to begin with as world cuisines go- right between Scottish and Schenectady. Fortunately, a lot of new places are opening up in the area and taking a “fuck Danish Cuisine and the abelskeiver it rode in on” stance with their cooking- so there are many better options that there used to be, like the Succulent Café.

OK, well, there you have it. The perfect mid-January getaway. If you live in California, I hope you’ll find this helpful and if you don’t live in California you have only yourself to blame. Better get here soon, though- if we don’t get any rain soon the whole damn place is going up in smoke. Thank god I’ve just got the right smoky Zinfandel to go with it. L’Chaim! (that’s Danish for “so long, suckers!”)

[California Seething] Here’s to 2014- The Year of No Renovations

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : January 6, 2014

Category: California Seething

Tags:2014, bathroom, Brian Boitano, contractor, Dick Clark, grout, Israeli, Joan Fontaine, kitchen, olympics, polyblend, putin, renovation, Ryan Seacretst, sochi

Hey, what d’ya know- it’s January! That means that for the two-thousand and fourteenth time since the (presumed) birth of Christ and the second time since the (confirmed) death of Dick Clark (America’s Deadest Teenager) another year has begun. Enjoy your moment in the sun, Seacrest- for sooner than you think, the Four Horsemen of Celebrity Irrelevance (Age, Overexposure, Bitchy Media, Fickle Fans) will come for you. Then you’ll be that forgotten old man in the studio, face locked in place by the rigor mortis of plastic surgery, kept safe and far away from the action and relegated to leading the countdown at midnight while millions of viewers and a dozen very nervous producers watch on pins and needles- simultaneously cheering for you to finish successfully and shamefully wishing for your humiliating failure. All except me- I’m just gonna hope you fail. Oooooh, that’s gonna be sweet. I just hope my dementia won’t be so far advanced that I’ll still be able to remember who you are how much I hate your stupid face so I can properly revel in your decrepitude. That’s something to fucking live for.

Anyhow, 2014 promises to be a remarkable year– with something great for everyone! For instance, if you love ice dancing but hate gay people- the Sochi Olympics are perfect for you! Putin’s even getting wireless receivers installed, so he can watch from inside the Closet. Of course, there’s more space in that closet now that Brian Boitano has come out- an announcement which elicited the exact same response as Joan Fontaine’s death “Didn’t that happen years ago?” Not that Putin ever thinks of Brian Boitano in that way. Or at least, not very often- and when he does he immediately has to rip his shirt off and wrestle a bear.

So, yeah, the Winter Olympics is one of the gayest sporting events around- right up there with Ru Paul’s Drag Race and all WNBA games- -so why would the IOC possibly put them in a country where you can’t even say “Biathalon” without being arrested for spreading homosexual propaganda? And if they had to put the Winter Games in Russia- how did they manage to find the one fucking Russian city where it’s not actually cold? I mean if there’s one thing Russia has going for it is that it’s REALLY REALLY REALLY cold just about everywhere. Don’t take my word for it- ask Napoleon and Hitler. So finding a COLD Winter Olympics site in Russia really shouldn’t be all that hard- hell, I’ve never even been there and I can think of six, it’s like finding hay in a haystack. And I don’t want to imply that greed, corruption and graft were involved in making this choice- I prefer to simply say it outright “greed, corruption and graft were involved in making this choice”. It’s either that or a simply terrifying level of utter ineptitude- and I’m honestly not sure what’s more frightening. I mean- come on, putting the Winter Olympics in Sochi is like, oh I don’t know, putting the Superbowl in New Jersey in February or putting the World Cup in Quatar in July. Hmmm. Wait a second.

For me, though, 2014 isn’t about large sporting events or midterm elections or legal weed in Colorado (though that does make a trip to see the in-laws more tempting). I’m excited about 2014 because it’s the Year of No Renovation. You see, when we first bought our house in 2008 at what we falsely believed to be the bottom of the market (which it turns out was as bottomless as the Mimosas at brunch) there were a few little things that we needed to take care of- including:

Move water heater outside
Move washer & dryer outside- build enclosure
Repair foundation
Install new bedroom door
Remove dead tree in backyard
Replace pavers in backyard with concrete pad
Replace shed in backyard
Redo all landscaping in front & back yards
Put in new wooden fence around front yard
Remove popcorn & repair plaster on living room ceiling
Replace all hardwood floors and install new subfloor
Replace torn linoleum kitchen floor with new tiles
Replace all kitchen appliances and fixtures
Replace lighting fixtures in kitchen and bathroom
Replace kitchen cabinets
Replace kitchen countertop
New backsplash for kitchen
Replace all tile in bathroom including floor and wall tiles
Remove all rotten wood from bathroom floor & walls and rebuild sections of floor and walls
Replace bathroom sink, vanity and all fixtures
Replace bathtub with new shower
Paint entire house
Fix closet doorknob

Now, as you’re reading this list- keep in mind that there are only four rooms in the whole house- bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room. Now this number of rooms is perfect for my new version of Clue for the mentally challenged (the only weapon is a pointy stick), but it’s not really ideal for major renovation- since, when one room is out of commission- we’re pretty well fucked. I mean, we can’t even buy more than eight rolls of paper towels at a time cause we’ve got no place to put them- imagine what it’s like to have to move the refrigerator into the living room cause we’re working on the kitchen. I’ll tell you what it’s like. It sucks a lot.

Still, we didn’t really have much of a choice but to do this stuff because our house was built by hobos in the 20’s in exchange for bathtub gin and stale biscuits and maintained for most of it’s life as a rental property with all the love and care that you would expect from a series of Los Angeles landlords who treated the place like Larry Hagman treated his liver and Congress treated the trust of the American people. Seriously- if this place were a puppy, Sarah McLachlin would have had you weeping at what those bastards did to it. So over the last five years, we’ve gradually tackled one item at a time until finally this past summer we were ready to take on….The Bathroom (tum tum TUMMMMMM).

Now, if you are a homeowner and you’re considering renovating your bathroom, then the best thing you can do is sell your house or burn it down for the insurance money. If those aren’t options, though- then the next best thing you can do is find an honest, reliable and competent contractor. But how can you tell if the contractor you’re considering is honest, reliable and competent? The key is to ask the right questions. Here is a brief questionnaire you can use:

Question #1: Are you Israeli?

There are no more questions.

Now I know that sounds bad- but before you start accusing me of speaking for Hamas or Hezbollah or, God help me, even CNN- I need to reassure you that I love Israel and, ok, sure, Israelis, too- hell, I’m an Israeli citizen myself. So- no need to get all Price-Taggy- just listen to the story:

On July 3^rd, my wife and I met with an Israeli contractor. For the purpose of this post, I’ll refer to him as “Doron” because that is his actual name. We had planned to have an in-depth conversation about our bathroom renovation- discussing several different options for walls and flooring- bathtub vs shower, possibilities of fixtures, etc- and that after this discussion, he might price out a couple of different scenarios, and we would figure out the timeframe and create a mutually agreeable schedule. No need to rush into anything.

So, Doron comes to the house, takes one look at the bathroom, talks to us for 30 seconds and says “OK- so take everything out, put in new floor tile, new wall tile, new sink and vanity, recessed lighting, do hot mop and new shower. I give you very good price, it is not problem, we start on Thursday.”

Now, I don’t like to be hurried in these situations- and there was no way I was letting this Israeli flim-flam man push me into a project I wasn’t ready to start. I was gonna hold firm:

Me: Uhm, yeah…well…you know, that sounds good but, you know, we were, I mean, kinda just hoping to, you know, talk about the job and, you know, maybe think about our options and, you know, uhm, come up with a plan. You know?

Doron: I understand. It is not problem. This is holiday week, my guys don’t have a lot of work. I give you very good price. We take everything out. Do new tile, hot mop, shower. One week. Not problem. We start on Thursday.

This only made me more resolute and determined:

Me: Sure, yeah, I get it. That’s cool and all, but, you know, with the holiday and all. I mean, there’s probably a bunch of stuff we, you know, aren’t going to have time to…you know?

Doron: OK. I understand. It is not problem. I tell you what. I give you same price. We start on Monday. All you need to buy is shower head and new valve for shower.

Me: Uhm…but…well…

Doron: Not problem. We take everything out, new tile, hot mop, shower. One week. Not problem. You buy one thing. How hard is that to buy one thing? I give you very good price. We start on Monday.

Clearly this was going nowhere. It was time for me to pull out my secret weapon:

Me: Well, Ok, well, listen we need a little time…can we…you know…talk about it and get back to you.

Doron: Of course! Not problem. Take some time to talk. No rush. I go outside, make some calls, come back in 5 minutes and you talk. OK? Not problem.

Do I even need to tell you what happened next?

On Monday morning, we started the job. It didn’t matter that we weren’t ready. It didn’t matter that we didn’t trust him. It didn’t matter that we had absolutely no idea what “hot mop” meant, but that it sounded like some sort of scatological sex act involving excrement and hair and possibly soup – the Israeli occupation of our house had begun and I had remembered an important lesson from my childhood- that there is no argument you can possibly make that can not be refuted by “it is not problem”. Are you paying attention, John Kerry????

Still- maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? I mean, all we needed to buy was one thing, right? Just the shower head and the new valve. Oh- and, of course the tiles. And the sink and vanity and mirror and toilet paper dispenser and towel rack and medicine cabinet and metal tile edging (that’s a thing- I swear) and paint and wainscoting and toe kick.. Oh, and the grout. Damn you grout! More about that in a minute.

Still- at least the job would be quick- one week right? I mean, sure it meant having to get up at 5 AM to go shower at the theatre and spending money every day on a dog sitter so that our loveable family pet could lie like a lump on her rug for a change and hoping and praying every day that they would leave us with a working toilet before they left each night- but still, it would only be for a week, right? That’s what Doron said- “One week. Not problem.” Well, as it turns out “Not problem” is one of those quirky, idiomatic expressions that doesn’t translate so well from the Hebrew. What it actually means isn’t “Don’t worry. I’ve thought through this carefully and can assure you this isn’t going to be a problem” but “Maybe this isn’t going to be a problem. Maybe it’s going to be a HUGE FUCKING PROBLEM. Who knows? Who cares? I’m just gonna say whatever it takes to get you to shut your goddamn pie hole and write me a big check. OK?” It’s a subtle distinction.

Anyhow, it’s possible that the job indeed would have taken one week more or less- except when they took the wall down they discovered this:

This is what’s commonly referred to as “termite damage” – though the technical term used by contractors is “winning lottery ticket”. Now- don’t worry, Doron assured me that they could fix this, not problem. All they had to do was rebuild the walls. Of course, in order to do that, they first would have to replace all the floor joists to make the surface flat (FLAT NOT LEVEL. VERY IMPORTANT DISTINCTION! PLEASE NO ONE EVER EXPLAIN THIS TO ME AGAIN EVER!!). But before they could do that, they would need to rebuild the entire foundation of the whole building to provide a solid base for the floor joists. But before they could do that, they would need to take down all the stucco in the front of the house and reapply it, since- hey why not? We’re suckers- we’ll pay anything! But before they could do that, they had to pick up the entire City of Los Angeles and move it off several miles east off the San Andreas fault so that there would be no possible risk of earthquake damage to the floor and foundation. But before they could do that they needed to have Superman fly around the world a whole bunch of times really really fast so that they could go back in time and coax a dinosaur into stepping on the very first primordial termite to prevent the species from ever evolving and therefore preventing any possible future damage to the wood. Fortunately, he said that he would give me a very good price and this would only take one week. Not problem.

Through some act of sheer will, I summoned my own inner Israeli and managed to convince him to please just fix the damn floor and walls and that we would take our chances with shaky foundation, loose stucco, shifting tectonic plates and the evolution of the wood destroying insect into the modern termite. Not problem. So- ok – just add one or two days and 30% to the cost of the job and we’re right back on track? Right? Cue the wacky mishap and apology montage!

We’re so sorry- we accidentally got the wrong permit and had to reschedule the city inspection, which means we’re going to lose almost a whole week of work.
Whoopsie! I know we promised you guys that there would be a crew coming in to work over the weekend, so you made arrangements to stay in a hotel and board the dog but we forgot to schedule someone. Sorry!
Oh, no! Did we leave for the day with a gushing leak under the sink and only a small Tupperware container to catch the water and then NOT TELL YOU GUYS ABOUT IT so that you woke up at 3 AM to discover that the bathroom was flooded and all of the brand new tile work most likely ruined and you had a complete nervous breakdown? That sure was silly of us!!! We’re so wacky.

And how do you think I responded to these mishaps? Would it surprise you to hear that I responded with grace and gentle good humor and that I never once raised my voice or (Heavens to Betsy!) used profanity? Me, too! I would have been totally shocked! How crazy would that have been??? Thank God I totally lost my shit each and every time something got screwed up, screamed myself hoarse at Haddas, the long suffering scheduling manager whom Doron hired when he got sick of customers yelling at him directly, and used the word “Cocksucker” more times than is perhaps considered socially acceptable in any setting other than a Sopranos episode. Phew! (Why is cocksucker used as such a derogatory term? I mean, when you think about it- that’s one of the nicest things one human being can do for another- shouldn’t it be used for people who do special favors? Like- “Thank you so much for picking me up a the airport. You’re a true Cocksucker.”)

Three weeks into the project and with no end in sight, we were exhausted. Our nerves were frayed, my voice was shot, the dog was applying for emancipated minor status and Haddas was experiencing PTSD every time the phone rang at home. It was time for the project to end. And that’s when we had the Great Grout Catastrophe.

When we redid our kitchen a couple of years ago, we decided that we would use the same floor tile and grout (#370 Dove Grey) for the bathroom whenever we finally got around to renovating it. This was the one thing we were always sure of, our light in the darkness, our bulwark against doubt and despair. No matter how bad things got, how much got screwed up, how many times we heard the phrase “hot mop” and recoiled in horror – we believed- no- WE KNEW that everything was gonna be ok because we had the Right Floor Tile and we would buy #370 Dove Grey Grout. And when the time came for us to buy the grout (which, oh, by the way, Haddas notified us we would have to do at 4 PM the day before they were going to need it, so we had to leave work early and scramble- OOPSIE!!) we drove to our Friendly Neighborhood Persian Tile Store and said with the great confidence of true believers: “One bag of your finest #370 Dove Grey Polyblend Sanded Grout, Sir- and be quick about it!” And when our Friendly Neighborhood Persian Tile Store didn’t have #370 Dove Grey Polyblend Sanded Grout, we drove post-haste to a Much Much Much Less Friendly Neighborhood Tile Store. There were no spots in the lot so my wife waited in the car double parked while she was yelled at by homeless people (why were there homeless people at a tile store? Because we live in Los Angeles, my friend, because we live in Los Angeles) and I dashed up the steep stairs to the second floor above the showroom, as quickly as I could (it’s not that quickly) ran to the back, dug out a bag of the #370 Dove Grey Grout, bought it mere seconds before the store was to close and ran outside carrying my sacred burden just in time to be yelled at by a crackhead. I’m still not totally sure why.

On the way home we were giddy, exultant, ecstatic even. Finally we knew that something would go right. After all the fuck ups, all the delays, all the OOPSes- here was something that could not be screwed up. For, Lo, we had now in our possession the Sacred Sack of Polyblend Sanded #370 Dove Grey Grout and everything was going to be alright.

The next day at work I couldn’t wait to get home, eager to run inside and see our beautiful new grout on the floor. I burst into the house, ran into the bathroom (there’s far too much running in this story) turned on the lights and saw…..just how terrible it looked. The grout looked nothing like the kitchen floor. The color was all wrong, it was much too light, not grey at all but practically blue. I was enraged- THE FOOLS!!! Somehow they had managed to fuck even THIS up- SURELY this was the result of apocalyptic incompetence- they had diluted the grout so it was much too light, they had not been careful when applying it so dust had gotten mixed in and the color was now wrong, SOMEHOW THEY HAD DESTROYED EVEN OUR PERFECT, UNASSAILABLE , INVIOLABLE MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMN COCKSUCKING POLYBLEND SANDED #370 DOVE GREY GROUT!!!!!! And if you think I overreacted to a little problem with the grout color then FUCK YOU, clearly you’ve never renovated a bathroom before – this shit is LIFE OR DEATH.

A lot of screaming and yelling later, I had made Haddas promise to send Amnon, the foreman, to the house the next day and clean the dust out of the grout because I was CONVINCED that was the problem. The following day, Haddas called me and assured me that he had been there and done it. Once more, I couldn’t wait to get home. Once more burst into the house, ran into the bathroom, turned on the lights and saw….it looked exactly the same. I was devastated. Once more I called Haddas. Once more I said simply terrible things. Once more I demanded that Amnon come back and fix this terrible miscarriage of justice (once more, to be clear I WAS NOT OVERREACTING TO A PROBLEM WITH THE GROUT COLOR. OH GOD, MY HEART. MY HEART. I’m ok.) but this time- I would be there at the house with him to make sure everything went perfectly. Finally, we would have this resolved. Finally, this project would be over and we would be able, once more to SHOWER IN OUR OWN GODDAMN HOUSE.

The next day, I met Amnon at the house. I showed him the hideous grout in the bathroom. I showed him the correct grout in the kitchen. Bathroom. Kitchen. Kitchen. Bathroom. Clearly he could see the difference. Clearly I would be vindicated. I stood back with my arms folded and chin up and waited for him to respond.

He looked at the kitchen floor. He looked at me. He knelt down to get a closer look, thought for a moment and said:

“This isn’t the same color. This is Charcoal, I think.”

The nerve! The impudence! The sheer impertinence of this man speaking to me in this manner! (Sorry, watching Downton Abbey while I write this. It’s making me a little uppidy.)

“It most certainly is the same color” I said. This is #370 Dove Grey. I know it for a fact.”

He didn’t say anything. He just went out to the yard, poured out little bit of the Dove Grey grout into his hand. Mixed it with some water and smeared in between two of the tiles on the kitchen floor.

He was right.

The color was completely different.

We were wrong.

The one thing that we knew absolutely to be true- beyond and shadow of a doubt. The one incontrovertible, unquestioned, 100% certainty that we had been holding on to was wrong.

It sucked a lot.

Fortunately, Amnon had a solution. He could have a guy come the next day, scrape out all of the Dove Grey grout with a knife and put in #60 Charcoal grout instead. He said it would only take a day or so and they would give us a very good price. Not problem.

So- clearly now you can see why I’m so FUCKING happy that 2014 is going to be the Year of No Renovations. After all, we’ve just about finished everything on our list. Except for the doorknob on the closet, for some baffling reason. And lately we’ve been talking about French Doors in the bedroom to the backyard. Well, when I say “we’ve been talking”, my wife brought it up and I collapsed into a fetal position shoved my fingers in my ears and said “la la la la la la la. I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you.” It’s a mature discussion.

But, you know, the bathroom did ultimately come out very well. Despite all the mishaps, the work they did was terrific. And if you are going to get a shower- turns out “hot mop” is the way to go! Maybe we could just, you know, call up Doron to come take a look at the bedroom. Talk about the possibility of French Doors. And that after this discussion, he might price out a couple of different scenarios, and we would figure out the timeframe and create a mutually agreeable schedule. No need to rush into anything.

Aw crap.

[California Seething] Wait- What? It’s December??

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : December 23, 2013

Category: California Seething

Tags:2013, American Girl, Cabazon, Dinosaurs, Einstein on the Beach, Grove, lou reed, Nebraska, new york, Nine Inch Nails, Phillip Glass, Robert Wilson, T-Rex, Thrift Shop

Wow. Can you believe it? It’s December already which means 2012 is almost over!

Wait…what was that?

I’m sorry- that can’t be right.

There’s no way in hell 2013 can be over- it hasn’t even started yet.

Seriously?

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO 2013???????????

OK. Calm down. Relax. Breathe. Remember what they taught you at Leadership Camp about overreacting. We don’t want a repeat of the American Girl Store incident although the fact that they didn’t have the Frosty Fair Isle Set & Puffy Jacket is GODDAMN FUCKING UNACCEPTABLE- what is this Russia?? It’s American Girl, not Siberian Girl- GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER PEOPLE MY NIECE DESERVES BETTER THAN THIS GARBAGE. But…still…learned my lesson- one night in Grove Jail is more than enough for me. That Rick Caruso is one sadistic mother fucker. There’s a dark place inside him that no trolley can reach. Still- great use for the old Barnes & Noble.

OK- so, yeah, 2013 is over. Might as well face it. And in an effort to figure out what the hell just happened, I’ve put together this gratuitous Best/Worst List:

Most Excruciatingly Boring Live Performance: Einstein on the Beach

The scene on stage transitions very slowly into a sterile courtroom. A woman dressed all in white lies in a bed stage center, like in most courtrooms . Without moving she speaks the following lines:

“I was in this prematurely air conditioned supermarket and there were all these aisles and there were these bathing caps you could buy that had these kind of Fourth of July plumes on them that were red and yellow and blue and I wasn’t tempted to buy one but I was reminded of the fact that I had been
avoiding the beach.”

The first time she says it- you’re intrigued.
The fifth time she says it- you’re amused.
The eighth time she says it- you’re slightly less amused.
The twelfth time she says it- you’re not amused at all .
The fifteenth time she says it- you’re writhing in your seat in restless agony.
The twentieth time she says it- you confess to the heretofore unsolved murder of a transsexual hooker in Laredo with the hopes that it will please make her stop.
The twenty-third time she says it- you pray to whatever God you believe in to please take your life so that you can be spared further torment.
The twenty-ninth time she says it- you cease believing in God altogether because it is impossible to conceive of a universe created by a wise and compassionate God that would allow for a collaboration between Robert Wilson and Philip Glass.
The thirty-fourth time she says it- you’re asleep.

When you awaken- the courtroom scene is gone. Instead there is a bare stage and four dancers in white are leaping about in precise geometric patterns. You don’t know why, they don’t know why, no one knows why. The only thing to do is to fall asleep again and hope that when you wake up you might , oh I don’t know, ACTUALLY see Albert Einstein on the beach- maybe with Keanu Reeves and Gidget. But no, it’s another courtroom scene. A midget or possibly a young child or possibly a child midget is saying something about Trees and Mr Bojangles while they….move….very….slowwwwwwwly. You sleep again. Before this point, you never noticed just how wonderfully linear your dreams were in comparison. Late for school, on the subway, naked. Boom. Simple.

If this sounds like a rollicking night on the town to you then by all means, go see Einstein on the Beach the next time someone raises several million dollars and decides to use all that money to produce this incoherent jumble of pretentious nonsense- kind of as a big Fuck You to cancer patients and disaster victims and good theatre. If, however, you’re one of those CRAZY people out there who likes your entertainment to be oh, I don’t know, ENTERTAINING- or, you know, maybe it turns out that you’re not some Converse and corduroy Silverlake hipster douchebag who feels obligated to say he likes incomprehensible artsy crap just because he’s been told that he’s supposed to, even though he secretly yearns to watch Two Broke Girls in his underpants and unironically drink Coors Light- well, in that case, you should probably skip it.

Mind you, it’s not merely boring. You can’t say that Einstein on the Beach is “boring” unless you would also say that the Pacific Ocean is “damp”, the Duck Dynasty guy is “just a little old fashioned” and the NRA “has just the teensiest bit of blood on its hands.” Einstein on the Beach is a 5 hour long experience made up of repetitious movements and beautiful though incomprehensible vocals performed in a totally arbitrary yet highly precise sequence. While there is no formal intermission, you are free to come and go as you please. Hell, that’s not Opera- it’s Yom Kippur for the artsy-fartsy, right down to the dress code and overpriced tickets. The performers were even wearing sneakers- how Yom Kippur is that? This is boredom elevated to the level of holiness. A transcendent tedium so profound that one would normally only tolerate to appease an angry god or disappointed mother. Attending a grueling performance like this is an act of faith- faith not only in the creators but in art itself- and this faith imbues the work with meaning, beauty and purpose. After all, if we’re all gonna sit there like shmucks watching this fucking thing for five hours, we’d better damn well be able to imbue it with meaning, beauty and purpose- otherwise we just wasted a perfectly good Sunday.

Interestingly- the Sunday after I watched Einstein on the Beach– I sat through another highly choreographed, ritualistic four hour spectacle with a totally arbitrary structure that was followed rigorously and this one was even worse because at the end of it the Jets lost. Oh well, at least I got to watch this spectacle in sweatpants and the drinks were WAY cheaper than at LA Opera- so I guess Geno on his Ass trumps Einstein on the Beach. Plus, I’d much rather sleep on my couch than at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. My fellow opera goers didn’t really appreciate my musical contributions to the piece, though I think my repetitious and atonal snoring really complimented Phillip Glass’ keyboards. They just don’t understand my genius. If only someone would tell them they are supposed to think I’m a genius, I’d be able to charge a fortune for them to listen to me sleep. Til then, Eric Farting on the Couch will just be a pipe dream.

Best movie of the year- Nebraska

Great flick. Really amazing. You should totally see it. Could have used more flying sharks and perhaps Vin Diesel but otherwise, you know, really really good. Uhm, OK. Are we cool? If not, just read this. Josh is way better at this stuff than me. I even stole this picture from his post. (SHAMELESS BEEN & GOING PROMOTION #1).

Most Disgusting Miscarriage of Justice

As you probably know, wealthy white teenager Ethan Couch was sentenced by a Texas judge to 10 years probation and no jail time for killing four people while he was driving drunk. Psychologist Gary Miller claimed that the boy suffered from “Affluenza” and was unable to distinguish between right from wrong due to the privileged life he led. Now, a lot of people have come out since then and sharply criticized this defense- claiming that Affluenza does not exist. But I have to disagree- Affluenza is a very real and very serious condition- and the only known cure for it is 20 years to life of shower rape and weightlifting. I’m telling you – it’s a miracle treatment. Ass rape is the Abilify of Affluenza and the real tragedy here is that Ethan Crouch will never benefit from this treatment and cure the terrible mental illness resulting from his wealth and as a result he will grow up to be an emotionally stunted, borderline sociopathic Republican congressman.

I mean, come on, of course lots of money makes you an amoral asshole with no notion of consequences. That’s the whole point of the stuff. So while Affluenza, or “Mitt Romney’s Disease” as it’s commonly known, clearly exists- Dr. Miller did admit that he misused the term in this particular situation. Clearly, what he meant to say was not “Affluenza” but “Honkeyism”- cause, let’s keep it real, that kid could have been Jaden Smith or Theo Huxtable and they still would have thrown him in jails and Lethal Injected his ass in Texas. Money can buy you preferential treatment, baby, buy money can’t buy you white.

Song of the Year

No new music was released in 2013. Sorry. I guess that’s 22 years in a row. Head Like a Hole wins again!

Oh- no wait- hey, there was that “Thrift Store” song this year- that was pretty cool. It’s great to see rap so fully coopted by white hipsters that they can now feel comfortable singing ironically about how poverty is cool. Although, you don’t have to watch CNBC to know that when rappers are singing about shopping at Goodwill the economy’s NOT GETTING BETTER.

Suckiest Celebrity Death

Mick Jagger’s gonna die someday. So is Keith Richards, Roger Waters, Johnny Rotten and Adam Levine (Adam Levine’s death isn’t strictly relevant to the point I’m making here- I just wanted to cheer myself up. Tee Hee. Dead Adam Levine. Tee Hee.) And when they do die- the first question we ask won’t be “how’d it happen?” but rather “he was still alive??” And sure, that might be depressing for these dinosaurs of rock- but, on the bright side, after they die there will be a brief media surge of remembrance- and all the stock footage of these rock gods at their prime will allow them to emerge reborn in our memories as the singular artists they once were and not the indistinguishable old men they became.

This year, Lou Reed became one of the first rock giants of the 60’s to die old, which is fitting since he always was ahead of his time. I won’t pretend to have an encyclopedic knowledge of his music and I won’t discourse at length about the profound impact of the Velvet Underground on the landscape of rock n’ roll music (you don’t have to sound so relieved about it). I’ll just say that after I found out he was dead, I had the urge to listen to New York over and over again and rediscovered just how brilliant it was. That blend of wry irony, brutal poetry and unexpected grace wafting up like steam from a subway grate blowing through the filth- as fresh and alive as the day it was recorded:

“I’ll take Manhattan in a garbage bag
with Latin written on it that says
“it’s hard to give a shit these days”

Manhattan’s sinking like a rock
into the filthy Hudson what a shock
they wrote a book about it
they said it was like ancient Rome

The perfume burned his eyes
holding tightly to her thighs
And something flickered for a minute
and then it vanished and was gone

So long Lou. Thanks for everything.

And, oh yeah, Nelson Mandela’s died, too. That sucked. He was alright.

Best TV Show

While Dallas, Texas is a pretty loathsome place it has given birth to some great TV shows like Dallas and…uhm…the new Dallas and- oh yeah- the Keystone Kowboys starring Tony Romo. And this year, a new show joined the pantheon- Fast n’ Loud (actually started a couple of years ago on Discovery, but I just Discovered it this year- which is pretty good for me- hell I didn’t discover Quincy until 2012.)

Fast n’ Loud follows wheeler dealer Richard Rawlings and Master Mechanic Aaron Kaufman as they buy, restore & sell cars at Gas Monkey Garage along with a crew of misfits and their super-cool facial hair. I’m pleased to say that show has significantly expanded my utterly useless automotive knowledge to include classic American hot rods and muscle cars in addition to all the totally obscure and exotic European super cars I learned about on Top Gear. So if you want to know the top speed of a Pagani Zonda Tricolore (220 mph) or the auction value of a 32 Ford three window coupe (not nearly as much as Richard had hoped)- I’m your man! If you want to change a flat tire on your Honda Accord, though, good fucking luck- call Triple A. It’s cool- I’ll just get a ride with somebody else.

It’s a particularly refreshing reality show (if I may be permitted to use that phrase) because they feel no obligation to pretend as though the cameras aren’t there and that they’re just living their lives in a perfectly natural way. My only wish for the New Year is that Richard Rawlings can hold up for just a couple more seasons before revealing his racist, homophobic and anti-Semitic views so I can go on enjoying the show as long as possible. Oh, that and, uhm, world peace I guess. That would be cool.

Best Vacation Destination with the Worst Science Museum

There’s nothing much to say about Palm Springs- which is probably the reason I like it so much. I mean- yes, it’s hot. Hot as balls only not as sticky. It’s not the elephant in a wet bathing suit sitting on your face heat of Florida or New York in the summer- just hot and bright and dry and relentless- like you’re a pineapple upside-down cake in God’s Easy-Bake Oven only he replaced the 60 Watt bulb with a crème brule torch. And then there are the “palms” in Palm Springs- all along the roads- impossibly long and exquisitely trimmed like drag queens’ legs in an endless kick line, with just a tiny bit of fluff on top- like they were trimmed by a beefy Ukrainian matron with hot wax and not an underpaid immigrant with a machete.

The heat is what makes Palm Springs such an ideal vacation destination. It melts away any ambition I might have or guilt about not Getting Things Done and leaves me free to simply drink Bloody Marys, swim in the pool, and quite literally chill out in the air conditioning – in that precise order (it’s OK, Mom. I’m being safe. I never eat the celery half an hour before I swim. Or at all. Stuff’ll kill ya.) But, this last time we visited to celebrate my birthday- I decided to explore one of the great attractions of the region- The World’s Biggest Dinosaurs in Cabazon which, like the song “Tequila”, public masturbation, and the expression “I know you are- but what am I?” were first made famous by Pee-Wee Herman. Aside from the George W. Bush Presidential Library and the International House of Pancakes, there are very few places as dedicated to spreading misinformation as the World’s Biggest Dinosaurs. Seriously- International House of Pancakes my ass- tell me what the fuck exactly is international about that place??? Absolutely nothing. It’s Rooty Tooty False and Fruity. And don’t give me any of that “International Crepe Passport” crap. Smearing a bunch of bullshit crepes with some lameass Ikea canned lingonberry crap does NOT a “House of Pancakes” International make- no, sir, it does not. I say good day.

See- most dinosaur exhibits are presented from the conventional, or “scientific” perspective – that dinosaurs lived millions of years ago, long before human beings and other large mammals. This is substantiated by geological evidence, chemical testing, and decades of exhaustive research into the fauna and flora of Triassic, Jurassic and Cretaceous Periods. The World’s Biggest Dinosaurs in Cabazon, though, takes the “Biblical”, or “dumbshit” view of the situation, that dinosaurs lived only a few thousands of years ago because it says so in their favorite book. Don’t get me wrong- the Bible is a beautiful and poetic book filled with rich ideas and valuable lessons but so is Yertel the Turtle and I wouldn’t use that as a science text book either. Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and Darwin that which is Darwin’s.

Oh, wait, sorry, I forgot they have more proof. Some dude in Peru in the 60’s supposedly found a bunch of supposedly old rocks call the Ica Stones which feature images of dinosaurs interacting with humans and in some cases sodomizing them.

Crazy right?? Now, take that in combination with the mysterious drawings of Hanna-Barbera which show cavemen actually keeping dinosaurs as pets and eating giant Brontosaurus bones at drive thru restaurants not to mention operating a record player with a prehistoric bird as a needle. INCONTROVERTIBLE EVIDENCE. AM I BLOWING YOUR MIND???

So, despite the fact that it’s the Fox News of science museums I was drawn to visit the World’s Biggest Dinosaurs. I guess it just appealed to my passions for paleontology, kitschy roadside attractions and mocking the beliefs of morons. Here’s a brief (and I do mean brief- I’m a crappy photographer. I should be reading Images from the Id! (SHAMELESS BEEN & GOING PROMOTION #2)) photo essay of my trip:

The view from the parking lot. Now, it’s often the case that when you approach a big cross like this you know you’re in for trouble (just as Jesus) but, in this case, the cross has historic significance as it’s the exact same one that creationists on the Texas School Board just tried to use to crucify science education. Fortunately, they failed since Richard Rawlings proved that Gas Monkeys are people too.

Ah, yes. The knight in full jousting armor alongside a dinosaur being ridden by a monkey. Of course. It’s an iconic image familiar to any homeschooled student of medieval history. For surely no jousting tournament was complete without a Ye Olde Monkey-Jockey Dinosaur race for a Fair Maiden’s love. It is said, in fact, that when Charlemagne’s prize tyrannosaurus Monsieur Bitey broke his leg in a race and had to be destroyed that Charlemagne was so distraught not even the antics of his favorite monkey jockey Chi-Chi could raise his spirits, and so in despair he tweeted “Im out the game #nomoremonkeybusiness #aurevoirbitey #guessilltakeovereuropeinstead”, quit jousting, became the Father of Europe and successfully marketed the very first brand of toilet paper ( “Don’t squeeze the Charlemagne!” Classic.) This is the word of the Lord.

Uhm- yeah. Sparky the T-Rex in a collar and leash. Listen, even if you do happen to believe that humans and dinosaurs co-existed, do you really think that a T-Rex would have put up with that crap?? Here’s a much more believable photo of human dinosaur interaction.

That’s more like it. The view from the inside of old Sparky’s mouth. If the Creationists are right than this would have been the most common Neanderthal selfie. (Does anyone else think Selfie is a euphemism for masturbation? As in “I’m so glad that we’ve all forgiven Pee Wee Herman for his selfie in the porno theater.” You know-the hardest part about telling that story to future generations is explaining what a “porno theater” was. They’re gonna think it’s where we went to see dinosaurs. And they won’t be far wrong.)

SHOCKING DISCOVERY! This picture taken INSIDE a T-Rex proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dinosaurs and Glade Reuzit Raspberry Air Freshener REALLY DID CO-EXIST. PRAISE THE LORD!!!!

So there you have it. I know I seem cynical, but it was pretty inspiring to watch all the kids visiting this attraction as their eyes lit up with wonder and amazement at the exhibits. Why bother fixing our public schools, when we’ve got faith based educational opportunities like this to fill the gap? Sure we may rank 52^nd in Science Education globally- but we’re #1 in God’s heart and that’s all that counts …assuming of course that we don’t want to stay competitive in a world of constantly advancing technology and significant challenges to the very existence of our civilization that will require highly sophisticated engineering solutions and extremely creative scientific thinking. And who needs that when we’ve got India? We just need to get in a BIG circle and pray for an end to the hurricanes, droughts, tornadoes and tsunamis. After all- Global Warming is no more real than Evolution.

So, hey – look at that- I guess all sorts of stuff happened it 2013. And I didn’t get to all of my categories- like Worst Home Renovation Idea (Bathroom. WHY DEAR GOD, WHY?), Most Awesome Sports Injury (is it Kobe Bryant hurting his knee merely days after returning from last year’s season ending ACL injury or Mark Sanchez hurting his shoulder and putting Jets fans out of their misery in the process? I’m torn like Sanchez’s labrum) and Most Disturbing Fleshy Growth in My Dog’s Eye (it’s every bit as glamorous as it sounds.) Oh well, I’ll have to save these for my next post. That is, if I get to it before the end of 2014- at the rate time is passing me by these days, I wouldn’t count on it. Meanwhile- I hope you all have a great holiday and by holiday I mean Christmas, who am I kidding? Hanukkah ended like six months ago and…are any of you Muslims? Seriously? Cause I think there’s Eid or something but I’m pretty sure that’s done, too. So, yeah, have a great fucking Christmas and a Happy New Year and I’ll catch up with you on the other side of 2014. That is, of course, if I don’t get eaten by a dinosaur first. THERE’S ONE RIGHT NOW!!!

[California Seething] I Seethe New York Part Two- Holy Crap! What Happened Here?

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : December 2, 2013

Category: California Seething

Tags:avenue a, church lady, east village, fish, greenwich village, hans and franz, los angeles, lou reed, new york, palm restaurant. steak, satruday night live, subway, times square

I was at the Palm Restaurant in lower Manhattan when it all became terrifyingly clear. It was the culminating dinner of the leadership program that I had traveled to New York City for. This is significant in three ways:

1. There was a large group of us there from around the country
2. It was a free meal
3. The fact that anyone still thinks of me and “leadership” in the same sentence means that clearly not enough people are reading this blog. Must revisit our Marketing Plan (Step One: Siri, what’s a Marketing Plan? Siri? Siri???? SIRI!!!!!! TALK TO ME!!!!! Oh wait, right, this is a Blackberry. Crud.)

Anyhoo, there were four items on the menu Salmon, Steak, Roast Chicken in Something Something Sauce and Token Vegetarian Slop. When I looked at the menu, I remember thinking “hmmm..steak feels kind of heavy- I think I’ll get the fish” and I ordered accordingly without thinking more of it. Well, after a few minutes, the waiter arrived in white jacket and tie and began dealing out steaks to everyone at my table like sizzling, delicious blackjack cards. On every plate was a huge, juicy lump of meat – manly and thick like an offensive lineman who blocks arteries instead of linebackers. And on my plate- there was a pale, anemic, flaky piece of fish that was probably terrified of dodgeball when it was alive and almost certainly allergic to peanuts. I looked around my table and saw my colleagues shoveling spoonfulls of creamed spinach from steaming tureens and building enormous Druid burial mounds out of sliced mushrooms to honor the dead cows on their plates. While on my plate was a cold little iridescent yellow dab of bland corn relish- not so much a compliment to my entrée as a snide remark- a sarcastic little “Nice fish. Whatsa matter? Can’t chew beef cause your vagina hurts?” of an asshole side dish on my plate. And, it was at this point, I realized that the unthinkable had happened- I had turned into the sort of person who ordered fish at a steakhouse- AND I WASN’T EVEN PAYING FOR IT. I had become, and there’s no nice way of putting this, a Californian. New York may have changed a lot in twelve years- but evidently I had changed even more. At least I didn’t get the Token Vegetarian Slop- I would have had to light myself on fire to protest my douchebaggery- which would have been totally at odds with my raw foods diet. Thank God I moved to LA not to Portland.

So….New York. Yeah. My relationship with New York is like my relationship with Saturday Night Live- I discovered it when I was young, was really into it for a while, got kind of sick of it and left before it got lame and now there’s no way I could possibly stay awake late enough to enjoy it. This is actually a common phenomenon which psychiatrists refer to as the “Belushi Curve” – which, depending on how old you are, can also be referred to as the “Piscopo Parabola”, “Farley Bulge”, “Fallon / Fey Update” and the “Samberg….uhm….Whatever is applicable to Andy Samberg” – Andy Samberg- that’s a thing right? Google- what’s Andy Samberg? Google…GOOGLE!!!! Oh, right, this is a banana. Crap.

My New York era was the mid – late 90’s. Good years, if not great- the equivalent in SnL terms let’s say to the Dennis Miller, Hans & Franz, Church Lady era. Everything was changing in the City- Bill Bratton was working hard to lower the crime rate and Giuliani was working hard to take credit for it and as a result the City was edgy but not really dangerous. Like Green Day, I suppose, if we lived in some magical world where Green Day didn’t totally suck- so, maybe like The Offspring- but Self Esteem Offspring- not Pretty Fly for a White Guy Offspring. Wow, this is getting weirdly specific. Ok, let’s just say it was still very much a Lou Reed kind of town- only he was Waiting for the Man at the Starbucks on 79^th St. Sure, there were still heroin dealers on Avenue B, but they seemed more quaint than menacing, more like animatronic pirates than possible killers. CBGB’s was still open as a photo op for German tourists in their unstylish jeans and absurdly stylish eyeglasses (are they compensating for the red jeans with the glasses? If so- not working.) . It was getting harder to find an apartment below 96^th Street, but also getting harder to be murdered there. And if you did find yourself living in Brooklyn, you would do the honorable thing and make excuses for it. (“Yeah, I know- but it’s a totally amazing apartment. Two bedrooms, big kitchen, laundry in the building- and it’s just, like $1250 a month. And if I take the N to the F to the B train, it’s just 37 minutes to midtown. My parents are totally freaking out about it but I’m, like, relax, it’s Park Slope. It’s totally safe- there’s Starbucks here, for God’s sake. It’s not like I’m living in Williamsburg. Can you imagine?”) For a year or so, I was one of these Brooklyn apologists, but then I wound up like so many Suburban Expats in the Upper Upper Upper East Side – or SoSpa as we called it (South of Spanish Harlem) in a world of white paint, white shirts and white people. We lived in a box up four flights of stairs with panoramic views of an Airless Shaft and Some Guy’s Kitchen- landmarks familiar to many New Yorkers, and we desperately held on to this overheated little neo-tenement like a the roof of a car in a hurricane of gentrification until we were finally worn out and requested an airlift to California where it was warm and safe and dry and boring.

That was 12 years ago, and I hadn’t been to New York since until this past week. I have to admit I was a little apprehensive about returning. Living in New York, for me, you see was a hard habit to break- almost as hard as it will be to get that fucking Chicago song out of my head now that I’ve used that phrase. Damn it! This is almost as bad as when Stacy introduced me to her mother who, I’m sad to say, had almost nothing going on. Anyhow, I was hopelessly addicted to the relentless energy of the City- the lights, the sound, the throbbing crowds always pushing forward and the sparkling promise of something amazing just out of reach. It was like living in a casino where I gambled with time- just one more day, one more month, one more year- if I can just get up at this club, nail this audition, direct this play, get this agent, meet this manager and go go go go go go drink this, eat this, smoke this, take this go go go go go- up at 8, work at 9, rehearsal at 5, stand up at 9, rehearsal at midnight, drinks at 2, diner at 4, crash at 5, up at 8, work at 9, puke at 10 and go go go go go go just one more year, things are just starting to change, just starting to happen, just starting to cook for me I’m gonna be big, I’m gonna be huge- just one more month, one more day, one more year until, at 28, I looked around, counted the days I had lost and got the hell out.

I was married by then and had started to slow down, anyhow, and I realized that I could find anything I could possibly ever want in New York except a semblance of normalcy and a dishwasher. Cause living in the City warped my perspective. Sure, I could casually walk by a one legged trannie debating the merits of rim jobs with a midget with no nose and not bat an eye, but take me to a Target in the suburbs and I would stare agape with wonder like a child at the North Pole at the unbelievable variety of stuff I could just buy in one brightly lit enchanting place- and the space! Aisles so wide you can roll two carts down them! A whole aisle devoted to picture frames! PICTURE FRAMES! Produce that isn’t actually rotten, yet! Paper towels sold in unimaginable quantities- a 24 pack of Brawny???? No one could possibly store that many paper towels in their home- it’s unthinkable!! What kind of castles do these people live in? Donald Trump couldn’t store more than a 12 pack into his kitchen, and that includes the space above the fridge. And yet, outside the City- all things were possible. I remember weeping unabashedly, like an Israelite by the rivers of Babylon, as I watched my sister do laundry in her house without quarters. It was clearly time to go.

So, yeah, I was ready to leave the City when I did- but I still worried that it would be hard to come back. I afraid that I would catch a whiff of that City smell- that intoxicating blend of food cooking everywhere, stale tunnel air shoved up through subway grates by passing trains and faint, unmistakable traces of urine and it would like plunking down an open bottle of Sambuca in front of a long sober alcoholic- I may not fall off the wagon, but the horse would sure as hell buck and it would be a long, bumpy ride before he settles down again. But, instead….I felt nothing. Well, that’s not totally true- not exactly nothing- there was kind of a bemused curiosity tinged with nostalgia and the ghosts of affection- like having coffee with an Ex years after you broke up. I was glad to see the old place, genuinely happy that she was doing so well for herself, a little taken aback, at how different she looked and mostly just astonished that we were ever able to stay together for so long.

OK- just to be clear- this is my perspective on the situation. New York, for her part, could have given a shit. She took my money, posed for some photos and watched me go without saying a word. That bitch! I can’t believe we lived together for six years.

So, yeah, in some ways, like not giving a crap if I live or die, New York hadn’t changed one bit. In others, though- well…here’s what I saw last week:

Times Square

I used to go into the City from Albany every once in a while with my Dad. We’d park at Port Authority and as we took the bus east on 42^nd St, he’d look over to me and joke “wanna see a movie?” and I would smile knowingly and laugh, cause I knew just what he was referring to. All down 42^nd St was an endless assortment of 25 cent porno theaters (I know right- 25 cents- can you believe it? Imagine having to pay for porn! #lifebeforebroadband.) And, in between the porno theaters, a wide range of sex shops with more appliances than Maytag (my favorite – a dildo that a man can strap to his chin called “The Accommodator”. Just in case any of you gentlemen are looking for an alternative to the Pandora charm bracelet this Christmas. Remember not EVERY kiss begins with KAY.) Outside on the streets, little dark men in orange vests, who came to New York for a better life, were barking for sex clubs in heavily accented English (strictly speaking, this actually was a better life for them than the one they left behind- but that’s more a commentary on the unbelievably horrible world we live in rather than proof of the veracity of the American Dream. ) and, of course, hookers in all shapes, sizes and gender identifications. For a kid from a one whore town like Albany, this was mesmerizing. To me, this was what the City was all about- gritty and raunchy and thrilling and raw- with a level of depravity that I could never experience at home- not even if I drove to Troy. Never mind the fact that we didn’t actually get off the bus in Times Square (are you out of your fucking mind?) and that we actually spent the day at Zabar’s, Tower Records and the Museum of Modern Art- just the fact that we had to get to those places by running the gauntlet of smut on 42^nd Street made even the most routine trip to the City a crazy adventure. Plus – cold cuts from Zabar’s- that’s it’s own kind of porn.

Now, the old, smutty Times Square was already long gone by the time I left New York. After all, I was living there in the 90’s when Giuliani partnered with Disney to transform the neighborhood. I wasn’t ready, though for how much Bloomberg had further transformed Times Square from “Rudyland” to “Mike’s Vegas”. There were enormous screens and LED’s blaring from every building façade, pedestrian walkways and outdoor seating areas and millions of tourists from around the world- it’s just like a parallel universe Vegas – like Vegas with a goatee, only it’s lame rather than evil because instead of casinos there’s a Toy’s R’ Us and an M & M store, the weather is lousy and the only drink you can walk around with is a goddamn latte. Thanks Bloomberg! You transformed an iconic neighborhood in the greatest city on earth to a family friendly knock off of fucking Reno. Well done! This is truly the heart of the Bloom York, a safer New York, a cleaner New York- a New York that would be totally livable if anyone could afford to live there. But, then again, Bloom York isn’t a City for the dirty old residents. They just make things complicated with their rent control and their affordable housing and their social services. Who needs em? No- Bloom York is tourist Manhattan. It’s Venice with subway tunnels instead of canals (Venice, Italy- not Venice Beach. Venice Beach, thank god, is still a shithole- Whole Foods and home prices be damned.) The streets are still vibrant and packed with people- but look closely and you’ll see that everyone is walking around with a camera and a map and a tear in their eye from the Ground Zero Memorial. Come to Bloom York- see a show, take a picture, buy a hat. It’s OK to stare- just please don’t feed the homeless. They think they’re people.

All that being said-the transformation is something to behold. Whole sections of Broadway blocked off to cars with tables & chairs and coffee carts selling pastries. Kids oohing and aaahing at the lights, while their parents stand beside them amazed that they are actually bringing children to Times Square at night. It’s a true example of redevelopment through public / private partnership- I just hope there are some New Yorkers who are still left to enjoy it.

The Village

So, when I started going into the City on my own or with friends in college, we would spend most of our time in the Village. First stop- a cappuccino at Dante’s or Figaro’s. Keep in mind- this is when you could only get espresso drinks at 3 places in America and the espresso had to be brewed in massive, elaborate copper domed contraptions – not so much coffee makers as Mussolini era memorials to Italian grandeur with knobs, wands and dials like a futuristic factory in a silent movie and a copper eagle perched on top staring at you like “Don’t ask me, dude. I don’t know why I’m up here either. Fuckin’ nuts, these Italians. They make tanks this way too. No wonder they lost the war.” Then after paying $5 for 2 oz of coffee and feeling like intellectuals for doing it, we’d hit Washington Square Park for a dime bag of tree trimmings that we would all tacitly agree to pretend was weed when we smoked it so as to not feel like saps (Ha! Tree! Sap! I’ve got a million of them! No, wait, that was it. Thank God.) This may be the reason it was so hard to crack down on the drug dealers in Washington Square Park- none of them were selling any actual drugs, and not even Bill Bratton could justify tickets for “selling yard waste without a permit”.

Anyhow, from Washington Square Park, we’d head east towards Saint Marks for a little bong browsing- maybe a quick falafel at Mamoun’s or cabbage soup at Veselka or cheap Indian food on 6^th St at that place which had a Grand Opening special for 12 consecutive years before transitioning to a Going Out of Business Sale (crap, I’m getting hungry now. Is there any of that Manischewitz brined turkey still left in the fridge?) and then we’d hit the bars on Avenue A- where the drinks were cheap, the vibe was cool and the only ID they needed had a picture of Andrew Jackson on it (that’s a $20 – don’t feel bad- I had to look it up, too. SIRI!!!!! Oh, right. That’s a turkey leg.) and if we were feeling particularly bold, we’d do a little junkie spotting in Tompkins Square Park and wind up at Save the Robots on Avenue B spending $35 on pills that we all tacitly agreed to pretend were actually Ecstasy. “Dude- I can totally feel it- can you?” “Oh….yeah….sure…I’m…uhm…. totally tripping right now”.

With my one free day in the City, I decided to follow this path, more or less- like a scavenger hunt for the younger me. And what did I discover? Well:

My internal NYC compass is completely fucked. As a result, 90% of the time I was walking west when I thought I was walking east and walking north when I thought I was walking south. This meant I was regularly staring at street signs, screaming profanity and going around in circles. On the bright side, I fit in quite well in the Village.
At some point over the last 12 years, Body Snatchers must have snuck in and replaced all the regular age NYU students with 8 year olds in NYU t-shirts cause there’s no other possible way to explain how fucking young everyone looked.
New York is still the only place in America where I can order an egg and cheese on a roll and actually get an egg and cheese on a roll- no lettuce, no tomato, no Siriracha sauce, no bullshit. This alone may be sufficient reason to consider moving back.
Nobody offered me a dime bag in Washington Square Park. This is either the result of more effective policing, urban redevelopment, or the fact that I look like a fat old lame-ass. I’m sticking with the first two options and la la la la la la la la I can’t hear you I can’t hear you.
There are playgrounds full of children in Tompkins Square Park, and magnificent trees aglow with orange and gold fall foliage. It’s like fucking Vermont with more old Chinese ladies and a couple of lost hippies wondering when they lost and why nobody told them. So, yeah, sure, it was beautiful, but there’s nothing more surreal than leaf peeping in Junkie Central.
As I took the bus west on 14^th Street to the High Line, I saw a crotchety old Jew get on carrying two Trader Joe’s wine totes bulging with 2 Buck Chuck. Mind goes boom. This may have been the craziest thing I saw when I was there. Who ever thought TJ’s would take over Manhattan? Sigh. I really loved that D’Agostino’s – loved that Dag, Dag Bag.
The High Line. Amazing. There’ s nothing I can say to crap all over this- they took a disused old rail line and created a beautiful and welcoming elevated park overlooking the Hudson River for everyone to enjoy. It’s seriously great. Leave it to Bloomberg to come up with the coolest possible way to see Jersey. It’s like he’s saying “Hey, paupers- look over there? Nice, right. And just imagine the size of apartment you could get- two bedroom, big kitchen, laundry in the building. And if you take the PATH train, it’s just 37 minutes from midtown. All you’ve gotta do is give up that rent controlled apartment that your family has had for generations and this could all be MINE!!! Uhm, I mean – yours.” Hey- how about that? I managed to crap all over it after all. And you were worried. And yes, I do know Bloomberg isn’t the mayor anymore- but who the hell knows anything about this new guy? All I know is that Carlos Danger lost because New York wasn’t ready for a Latino mayor.

Even though the High-Line wasn’t around when I was in New York, this is where I saw my younger self. I mean- comfortable seating, great views, clean bathrooms- New York Eric would have been all over this shit. It would have been my office, dining room, rest stop and cheap date destination all wrapped up in one. Damn it! I knew I should have stayed just one more year.

So- the Village still mostly kinda looked like New York to me- but it was still disturbingly safe and clean. Was there no part of the City that was just as I remembered it? Well…

Subway

On the flight to JFK, I got into a conversation with the poor, suffering individual who was squeezed into the seat next to me about whether Joan Rivers was sitting in First Class. We were pretty sure it was her, but she had so much work done that her face was barely recognizable. Sure the skin was smooth and the lips were plumped- but everything had been so pulled and tugged and shot with Botox that any identifiable facial features had been entirely eradicated and replaced with the generic cat-mask of the aging rich. There would be no way to tell for sure if it was her unless we heard her voice. Some things, a person can’t change.

This is what it was like being in the City- it was sort of the same, but there had been so much work done that I kept looking for that one unmistakable thing that couldn’t be changed. Well, I found it on the subway. The cracked tiles, useless PA, rats on the track, approaching lights, deafening clang, and rush of air as the train blows by like a beer can on its side with two hard plastic benches. And inside the train- no one makes eye contact. Necks cranked unnaturally in a million different positions like a painting by a Dutch Master (“Girl with Cracked iPhone”) so that nobody accidentally looks anyone else in the eye. And, of course, the smell- the Dorito smell of the homeless, piss that can never be cleaned and, best of all, vomit. Ahhh. There you are New York. Nice to see you again. You haven’t changed that much- still have surprisingly drinkable tap-water, street vendors that all call me Boss (they must have known I was there for a Leadership program), oily pizza for a buck that’s better than any other pizza anywhere else in the known universe fuck you Chicago. I’m sure the new wave of young people who are just discovering you still think you’re the greatest place in the world- just like they think the Jason Sudekis cast was the greatest- and who am I to tell them they’re wrong? (Although they are clearly wrong. Three words for you, kids- “I’m Gumby Damnit”. Hulu that shit.)

I thought about how much the City had changed as I was flying home. I guess the thing that surprised me the most (though it really shouldn’t have) was all the Normalcy I encountered. I saw old friends, made faces at their kids, had dinner in their homes and drank beer on their couch. It was just like being any other place- I think they may have even had a dishwasher, though I don’t want to spread crazy rumors and start a riot. Who knew that was there all the time? Maybe it wasn’t New York that was so crazy in the 90’s, maybe it was just me. It’s a moot point now though, I’ve got my tiny house in Palms with its halfway decent yard. Got a dog and a mosaic tile backsplash and I haven’t paid for laundry since, I think, 2004. I’ve turned into the sort of person who says “Hi there!” to the pizza guy instead of “yo, lemme get a slice” and when somebody smiles and says hello to me while I’m walking down the street, I no longer glare at them like I’m going to stab them in the eye. I thought about all of that as I was descending into LA. I saw the endless sprawl of lights spiderwebbing like cracks on a frozen pond out in all directions. As we got closer, the lines of light formed themselves into columns of cars going up and down, east and west- endlessly somewhere in both directions. I started to see signs poking out of the mist- Ralph’s, Shell, In & Out (POETIC LICENSE WARNING: I have no fucking clue what signs I actually saw. Gimme a break.) I felt the energy building up inside me like the Santa Anna’s coming down the mountains and sweeping through town. The plane touched down. I was waiting on the runway. It seemed to take forever to get to the gate. All I could do was sit back, take a deep breath, and go…..

Happy Kvetchgiving From Been & Going!

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : November 28, 2013

Category: California Seething, Columns

Tags:baby jesus, Black Friday, hanukkah, jews, kitsch, kvetchgiving, manischewitz, planet of the apes, santa claus, Thanksgiving, walmart

I’m sure you all know by now that today is not only Thanksgiving but the first day of Hanukkah. If you weren’t aware of this, then you might want to consult a proctologist about getting your head out of your ass. Fiber can help with that, too- trust me, I know! Anyhoo, the next time these two holidays are scheduled to coincide is in approximately 70,000 years- assuming, of course, there are no major changes to the Jewish calendar between now and then and that our super-intelligent ape slave-masters allow us to celebrate Thanksgiving- which I’m pretty sure they will unless they have us enslaved at Walmart. You Maniacs! You Opened up for Black Friday on Thanksgiving! Damn You! Damn you all to hell!!. (And, yes, it’s true- there is no occasion that can’t be improved by a Planet of the Apes reference. Try it at dinner today: “Wait- so you didn’t buy any canned cranberry sauce and all you’ve got is this freaky lumpy home-made crap? You Maniacs!!! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!”) Unfortunately, because these two holidays coincide, Walmart’s decision to open on Thanksgiving will be particularly hard on their Jewish employees, since I know both of them were really looking forward to celebrating with their families and nobody donated latke mix to the Walmart employee food drive. Good thing the Supreme Court decided that corporations are people, so I can tell Walmart to go eat a bag of dicks.

So- sure, I guess it’s kind of a big deal that both holidays are falling on the same date, particularly since Jews are some of the least thankful people on earth. Don’t believe me? Here’s my impression of the entire Old Testament:

God: For lo, I have bestowed upon thee, my chosen people, a multitude of blessings: Freedom, land, protection, shelter, food, milk, honey, uhm….what else….backrubs, vanilla scented candles, peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off, Bath & Body Works Bannana-Berry Body Spray, a coupon for one free footlong at Subway when you purchase one of equal or lesser value….uhm…did I say freedom already?

Israelites: Waaaaah! It’s too hot here, the dessert smells funny, I’m allergic to vanilla, I asked for crunchy peanut butter, they wouldn’t honor the coupon for any of the items on Fiery Siriracha Sauce menu because they said it couldn’t be used for limited time seasonal specials, that backrub was too rough…

God: Jesus Fucking Christ!! What do I have to do to make you ingrates happy??

Jesus: Golly gee Dad, maybe if you just said you loved them every once in a….

God: Shut your damn love hole. I wasn’t asking you.

Jesus: Okey Dokey.

But, I would just like to implore- nay- beg my fellow American Jews to keep their wits about them and not do anything stupid this year. Seriously. I don’t care how major a coincidence this is THERE IS NO REASON ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH TO BRINE A TURKEY IN MANISCHEWITZ. I understand that kitschy irony is the only way that American Jews feel comfortable expressing their faith but- PLEASE DON’T DO IT. All you will do is ruin both holidays and remind Jewish children just how badly they get shafted every winter. Seriously- if you actually want the Jewish people to be around in 70,000 years, you won’t shove a bright fucking purple Mansichewitz brined turkey down your screaming kids’ throats and drive them right into the warm goyisha embrace of Santa Claus and Baby Jesus. Baby Jesus always gets the drumstick by the way. He can be so bossy sometimes.

On the other hand, what you can do to celebrate Kvetchgiving is give the Jews in your life a super-cool first night of Hanukkah present that they can show off at Thanksgiving dinner – like- oh, I don’t know A SHARKNADO AREA T-SHIRT!!!! That’s right- we Jews are getting kick ass presents already from our non-Jewish spouses and you guys have to wait like a whole month- SUCK IT GOYIM! And we’ve got 7 more nights to go! Jealous? The line for conversion begins on the right, bitchez. I just hope your circumcised or this is about to get awkward. And by awkward I mean unbelievably painful. Honestly, it’s probably not worth it for you, especially since Hanukkah’s gonna be like a month later next year.

Alright, that’s all I’ve got. Have a great holiday. Eat lots of stuff. Pretend to be thankful even if all you do is whine like a bitch the rest of the fucking year and top it all off with a slab of pumpkin pie. Wait- hold on- what do you mean you’re out of pumpkin pie? Damn you! Damn you straight to hell! Huh. that’s how I ended my last post. See, perfect every time. At least I can be thankful for that.

Check out this Dessert Droppings post for more great Thanksgiving/Hanukkah whatever you want to call it observations.

[California Seething] I Seethe New York – (Part 1)

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : November 19, 2013

Category: California Seething

Tags:albany, citrucel, fiber, gravity, IBS, los angeles, New York City, outer space, planet of the apes, sandra bullock, taxis

The best part about Citrucel Sugar Free Powdered Fiber Supplement is that it is vaguely reminiscent of Tang. So when I drink it, I can pretend that I’m not just some middle aged schlub choking down a cold glass of gritty orange crud to soothe my perpetually irritated bowels (yes, that’s right- I suffer from IBS. Also, evidently, from TMI.) but an ASTRONAUT zooming through outer space- a goddamn Right Stuff American Hero seeking out new worlds and new civilizations, boldly going where no one has gone before and right before I get there- taking a quick time out to choke down a cold glass of orange gritty orange crud to soothe my perpetually irritated bowels. Because on a claustrophobic, unventilated little space craft the guy who says “Who’s got two thumbs and horrible space-shits? This guy!” is almost as unpopular as Mr. “Did I Leave the Door Open Again?” or the dude who won’t shut the fuck up with the “Houston, we have a problem” jokes already. “Houston, we have a problem- WE’RE ALL OUT OF PRINGLES!”, “Houston, we have a problem. SOMEBODY’S A LITTLE GRUMPY TODAY”, “Houston, we have a problem- I’VE GOT HORRIBLE SPACE SHITS. No seriously, my stomach is killing me. Who the fuck drank all my Citrucel???? For the 10,000^th time you guys- IT’S NOT FUCKING TANG!!!” Anyhow, you get the idea.

I thought of this when I was packing for my trip to New York this week and trying to figure out how to pack my Citrucel. I couldn’t exactly bring the entire container because they don’t sell this stuff in dainty little “oh I’m just taking this for a couple of weeks til things settle down in my tum-tum” packages, they only sell it in big-ass “who ya kiddin’ bub? You’re gonna taking this crap for the rest of your stinkin’ life so shut up and get used to it” enormous size. And, sure, I could transfer some of the white powder to a plastic baggie- but then there’s the inevitable misunderstanding and funny funny body cavity search- or worse yet, the cop’s gonna dip his finger in there to do the heroin pinky tasting thing and find out I take fiber and I couldn’t live with the shame although, oddly enough, I feel no shame sharing with you people and the entire internet. I’m complex. Anyhow, the point is, the last time I was in New York, fiber was the last thing I was worried about because the last time I was in New York, I was but a lad of 29 with a world of possibilities and intestinal difficulties ahead of me. I didn’t feel young, though. Hell, after six years of hard living on the still-sorta-mean streets of Guliani’s New York struggling to make it even when I didn’t have super-clear idea of what “it” was I was trying to make, I felt ancient- like a grizzled old prospector panning for stage time in the Klondike wilderness of late night comedy clubs or a Vietnam vet with a dried up human ear clipped to my belt for every incredibly shitty day job I had (“They can’t send me to hell, cause I’ve already been to Santaland”.) It wasn’t til years later that I realized how young I really was – unfortunately the only cure for feeling old is getting older.

Anyhow, the point is, it’s been a dozen years since I’ve set foot on the urine soaked streets of Manhattan (they are still soaked in pee, right??? Tell me they’re still soaked in pee. DAMN YOU BLOOMBERG!!!!) and as I packed I could feel the energy of the City building up inside me like helium in an Eric shaped float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade til I was bouncing around the room uncontrollably like The Cat in the Hat in a windstorm. It’s that feeling I used to get when I was on a Greyhound bus coming back from Albany stuck in traffic waiting to enter the Midtown Tunnel or clank-clanking slowly uphill on an impossibly tall roller coaster or sitting in a dorm room on a Friday night waiting for the Acid to kick in. The feeling that tantalizingly soon, but excruciatingly far away the madness will begin- and all I can do is sit back, take a deep breath, and go….

Living in New York, you see, is like living on another planet. No, that’s not it exactly. It’s like New York is Planet Earth and everywhere else is Outer Space with an Applebee’s. Whether it’s Poughkeepsie, Michigan or Alpha Centauri- tell a New Yorker you live there and you’ll get the same condescending look of total disinterest. As a result, you may think New Yorkers are dicks and, of course, you’d be right but that’s not the only reason they’re acting this way. After all, NYC may seem like an overstuffed, overheated ball of chaos, commerce and crappy apartments but there is a rock hard logic to the place. Life there is guided by certain immutable laws, as fixed as the laws of physics and, once you adjust to these laws, it becomes the only planet you can live on. Take a bus to Albany, for instance, and you get off in outer space- it’s dark, it’s cold and it’s quiet and all you can see are are stars. All those rules you lived by that seemed as solid as concrete just fall apart like a $3 umbrella in a gentle breeze and you’re tumbling though the streets like Sandra Bullock sobbing “my baby!”. You try to get your bearings but you can’t even tell uptown from downtown and nothing makes sense. Even things you think you understand don’t work the same way. Sure there are taxis- but you actually have to call them on the phone and then wait for hours for them not to show up. Sure, there are homeless people, but you’re actually expected to acknowledge them when they talk to you and not just blow by them like they’re part of the scenery- just there for atmosphere like animatronic junkies on Bloomberg’s New York ride. And then there are the life forms you encounter- sure they look human enough but they’re all white and squishy and smile all the time and talk to the homeless and shop at Walmart. What the fuck is a “Walmart”???? Somebody get me out of here!!!! But nobody comes to your aide. In Albany, no one can hear you scream.

Anyhow, about a dozen years ago- I left my home world of New York for the distant galaxy of Los Angeles- and if you want to understand Los Angeles- all you need to do is picture New York wearing Ugg Boots and a scarf in 80 degree weather with a mini skirt, angrily posting about GMO’s and asking for gluten free options at Denny’s and you’ll end up with something which, well, doesn’t fully reflect LA at all though it is a terrifying vision of what New Yorkers can turn into when they move out here. So beware! Remember- just because you’re in California, doesn’t mean you have to be a douchebag (though it helps). Anyhow, this week – for the first time since departing I’ve returned to NYC. And, for the past few years- all I’ve been hearing from people is how much it’s changed since I left- and how I’m barely gonna recognize it and how Bloomberg has either saved or ruined the place, depending on how disgustingly rich you are, so I’m here to find out for myself- and what will I discover? Well, I just got here so how the fuck would I know? But – have no fear, I’ll be posting all of my opinions once my journey is complete (I know how scared you are of not knowing what my opinions are.) Will I recognize my home world or will I wind up on my hands and knees screaming at the Statue of Liberty “You maniacs! You did it! You cleaned it up! Ah Damn you! God damn you all to hell!!!” – kind of like I did when I first came home from college and saw that my mom gentrified my bedroom. God, I’m a drama queen. Fortunately that means I fit in pretty well in New York- or, well, I used to anyhow- DAMN YOU BLOOMBERG!!! GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL!!!!

[California Seething] A Day in the Absurd Life

[California Seething] – Suck it, Sochi!

[California Seething] So…Yeah…Sochi

[California Seething]- California Whine Tasting

[California Seething] Here’s to 2014- The Year of No Renovations

[California Seething] Wait- What? It’s December??

[California Seething] I Seethe New York Part Two- Holy Crap! What Happened Here?

Happy Kvetchgiving From Been & Going!

[California Seething] I Seethe New York – (Part 1)

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