As if the Zombie Apocalypse Wasn't Enough to Worry About

Now we have monkeys with telekinetic powers. Great.

Pancaaaaaakes!

I am totally that girl who sits through horror films with her hands clamped over her eyes, peeking out periodically to see if it's over yet. Even Candyman scared me. So needless to say, I am not a big Eli Roth fan. Or I should say, WASN'T a big Eli Roth fan, until I stumbled across this scene from Cabin Fever:



Please tell me that kid is in the Hostel series, because I am about to run, not walk, to purchase the entire Roth ouvre.

I Would Prefer That You NOT Write Me a Love Song, Thx

Who is this Sara Bareilles person, and why is her song playing everywhere I go? For the longest time I had her confused with Colby Caillat, who was all up in my face for a while and now seems to have gone away, despite occasional appearances on the music video channel on those little TVs on the treadmills at my gym. But Sara Bareilles! At the liquor store, Whole Foods, the crappy deli – she just won’t quit! I would understand if I was at American Eagle or something, but the liquor store that makes 70% of its profits selling nips for $3 apiece? It’s not right.

Shout Out to Maximus in Merrick!

I love going to Long Island and New Jersey. It looks pretty much the same as the Midwestern town where I grew up -- strip malls, cookie-cutter houses, thinly-veiled despair -- but in other ways, it's like a foreign country. A very loud, velvet track suited country. In this video, John Roberts salutes all the ladies who keep the NYC tri-state area classy:




YouTube, via Jezebel

O, No

So, I got out of work early on Friday, and I was lucky enough to catch part one of Oprah’s two-part interview with Tom Cruise. Okay, obviously, there were a whole lot of dynamics going on there that I cannot even begin to address, but man oh man, what a festival of self-congratulation it was. Even more so than Oprah’s average celebrity interview/circle jerk.

My absolute favorite part was at the end, where Tom drove Oprah on one of his snowmobiles to some picturesque spot overlooking the rest of his property, and they’re standing there with their arms around each other, looking at the mountains, and Oprah turns to Tom and says: “You know what I wish? I wish for you the peace that this mountain can bring.” Tom closes his eyes and nods. “I wish this for you. I really do," she repeats.

Um, he already has it. You’re at HIS HOUSE. That is HIS MOUNTAIN you're standin on. I think even the authors of The Secret would be like, Lady, that’s some pop-psych bullshit.

So reader: those pants? The ones that you’re wearing? I want those for you. And if you are not wearing pants? That freedom you feel? I want that for you. I am just. That. Generous.

"With your flip-flops, half-shirt, short shorts, miniskirt…"*

I’m not going to lie: back in their heyday, I was a New Kids on the Block fan. It was 1988, and as a nine-year-old girl, I was their target demographic. When I confided my musical preferences to my 17-year-old babysitter, she gagged herself with a spoon, then promptly popped a Smiths tape into the stereo of her Buick and played it over and over until I forgot all about Little Joe’s angelic voice.

But I didn’t forget, Cathy. Not really. I just buried it, along with all the words to “Cover Girl” and every step to the “Right Stuff” dance routine. (You know: kick left, kick right, left-right-left, oh-oh-ohoh) Until now.

Okay, so it’s basically a warmed-over version of LFO’s “Summer Girls”-- wow, can I just stop and ponder the tragedy in implying LFO as some kind of benchmark for anything? Besides skankiness? -- but it’s good to see them all out there, right? And who would’ve predicted that Danny would age so well? This bodes well for the entire summer.

*Redundant? Or just really 80's? I can't decide.

I Love New York, But...

Every now and then, very rarely, I miss home. I'm not talking about my family and old friends, who I miss all the time, or my rusty smudge of a hometown (which I never miss), but the little pockets of sensory experience that let me know that I'm safe, that I'm home.

The cold air wafting in from the garage when my father went out to gather logs for a fire.

The brackish taste of well water ice cubes melting in a glass of coke at my grandmother's lakefront cottage.

The smell of the black vinyl seats in Dad's '78 Datsun 280Z.

Vernor's ginger ale.

Vegetable thins topped with Spartan brand mild cheddar cheese, served on a white paper plate.

The cluttered mess of my mother's makeup drawer, smelling of talc and pencil shavings.

Snow.