…because the television ads for the forthcoming Tintin movie pronounce the title character’s name with an English “short i”, and because the dog is named “Snowy” instead of “Milou”, and because Tintin has a MOTHERFUCKINGBRITISHACCENT!!! FUCK!!!
…If it was my money, I would hire Tony Millionaire to animate it (if he could finish the project in less than 5 years) and hire Montreal voice actors to read the script.
…I had a shave and a haircut. It DID NOT cost “two bits”, dammit!
Yes, that should have been a “tweet”… but I don’t “tweet”, dammit!
…I’ve become addicted to watching Live With Kelly on ABC, featuring guest-host Neil Patrick Harris. Harris is one of two men in the universe who could convince me to “try bi” (the other being Dan Savage) — cute, smart, funny, and a snappy dresser. I wish he could be the new permanent co-host but, contract issues aside, I suspect that he is too similar in style to Kelly Rippa herself — they frequently talk over each other — and he’s better at it. Kelly needs someone who is more of a straight-man*, and I’m not talking about sexual preferences.
* More contract issues, but, yes, Anderson Cooper**.
**And, it appears, I have a thing for gay, Gemini men. Who knew?!
…flannel sheets —
…bowl of split-pea soup —
…china cup of Jameson —
…what a good thing it is that dogs don’t spit?
I mean, I know that they drool and barf, sometimes, but if they could spit at will, just any old time they felt like it, the way humans do, there’s no way we would allow them in our homes.
The inability to spit is an evolutionary advantage.
A couple of weeks ago, while I was doing some prep work after the restaurant closed, three “bros” entered my kitchen through the swinging doors (you know, the ones that are inscribed with the legend, “Employees Only”), and one of them said to me something that sounded very much like, “Hey, I used to be a chef — do you know where someone can buy a joint?”
And I was thinking, “Dude, you’ve been reading way too many Anthony Bourdain books!”
But I said, “Nope!” And the “bros” left.
Because, first of all, I haven’t smoked a doob since before these clowns ever tasted one. And, second, the last time I did, the shit was so strong that I couldn’t function for hours. And, third, do I really look like a hippie, dood?! I mean, I know I used to look that way, but that was before most of my hair fell out! And, fourth, since when do kids walk up to geezers who look like their fathers and try to score drugs?! Really? You’re gonna buy pot from your father’s buddy?
…by the Top Chef business model. I have watched every season of this show. I have even worked for a couple of these guys. And yet, I have never, ever shopped at Whole Foods.
…as far as I am concerned. If you can’t put out your lunch special somewhere near the general vicinity of lunchtime (and this has happened twice this week), then you have a serious problem. Doubly so if you neglect to haul in your chalkboard advertising the lunch special.
I went home and consoled myself with Casa Chicas Guacamole, Casa Sanchez Chips, and Jim Beam.
…of a crappy attempt to convert age to adulthood. I still prefer jeans and t-shirts to dockers and stripes. I still read comic books, and I still build toys out of LEGO bricks.
But I have to say this, after witnessing, yet again, a Saturday-night-before-Halloween-on-BART: If you clowns are over 30 and still using Halloween as an excuse to dress up like idiots and get screaming drunk in public, you are much more of a “Peter Pan” than I have ever dreamed of being.
Save it for the kids you might have, someday. Me, I’m going to retire to the suburbs and turn my home into a haunted house, once a year.
