A Fine Example

http://www.bravotv.com/top-chef-masters/blogs/jay-rayner/the-scotch-egg#comment-214079

On Facebook, I name checked Jay Rayner's blog from over at Top Chef Masters @ Bravo. First, because he's unique kind of British bad boy sense of humor that just tickles my wobbly bits.

Second, because he's just such a terrific example of a writing voice, and something that I really aspire to. If you've heard him on the show, you can definitely hear him reading his blog entries. Like he's sitting behind you like the 12th grade class clown whispering to you in English class, trying to get you to crack up. And personally, I find Jay Rayner whispering in my ear an intriguing idea.

But regardless of a yummy voice, it's his writing voice that I admire. What I really aim for is to have someone read a blog I've written and say, "Oh, that sounds just like her." Sometimes I'm more successful than others. Usually I know I've really got it when I crack myself up. Which is pathetic, but true.

Of course, that's blogging. As I'm writing my little plays, I'm usually doing just the opposite. Trying NOT to sound like me.

I said don't mind, but what do you mean

Okay, Joe Jackson is saying this Omer kid is Michael’s illegitimate son (Hey, I’m not talking about the mouse love child story from the other day. Eyes back up here. But did you see him? He’s blue!).

Here’s my question: Discount the gay rumors. Discount the pedophile accusations. Forget the Jesus Juice. Assume that Michael was none other than as he represented himself – a regular Peter Pan just looking for his Wendy. Can you imagine Michael Jackson having sex with a woman? I can’t. That image is just like the thing trying to put together two positive sides of a magnet. They just keep pushing away from each other. Can you accidentally artificially inseminate someone?

Jude Law - Mr. Zero

I’m actually kind of curious to see what happens with Jude Law now that another baby-mama has crawled out of the woodwork. He’s a talented young man of extraordinary good looks (I don’t particularly care for the exquisite type, but I see the appeal), but he’s also a bit of a whore. Just saying.

I mean really, to the casual observer it would appear that he drove his first wife to a mild case of crazies, cheated on his next one-and-only by banging the nanny on a pool table (gentlemanly), and now he’s impregnated another young woman with whom he doesn’t appear to have had hopes sharing the golden years with. You have to admit. A little whorey.

And yet, he seems to work regularly. At what point does a messy private life start to affect your career as a performer? Somewhere between Hugh Grant and Mel Gibson, obviously. Call it the Colin Farrell Coefficient. The appropriate balance of bad boy hijinx and puppy dog contrition. And of course, the cute accent can be a help.

But at a certain point, you just don’t want to see their sleazy little face any more. I believe in trying to separate the private life from the performer. But some people really seem to push it. At this point, if I saw Jude Law as a romantic lead, I’d be yelling at the screen, “Don’t do it, girl. That man is a dog. Get yourself a hero.”

Illegitimate Son Steps Forward

This week in Los Angeles, a new battle over one of the biggest fortunes in entertainment history is being contested, as a possible illegitimate son steps forward. Michael J. Smurf says "It was a wild time in the early 70s. My mother was at a career low. My biological father and his wife were exeperimenting with open marriage. And I believe that's when Mickey Mouse met my mother, Smurfette." Mr. Smurf, or Smurfy-Mouse as he's now calling himself, is petitioning the LA courts for a DNA that could substantiate his claim. At stake could be a major chunk of real estate in Anaheim. Says Mr. Smurfy-Mouse, "I knew Brainy couldn't be my real father!"

Okay, the whole M&Ms could cure paralysis thing is waaay cool (I always knew candy covered chocolate was so wrong it had to be right). But look! It's a blue mouse! Okay. Maybe my priorities need to be looked at.

Say hello to my little friend

Did you ever have one of those days where you don't just have a hair trigger, but are in full automatic mode? You wake up and it's lock and load. Somebody looks at you funny, and you shoot first and ask questions later. Oh, really? Well, blam, blam, blam, blam. And did I mention, blam?

I believe that's as much as I can beat that metaphor mule. Wait a minute. Maybe there's something about a punk making my day. . . nope. Lost it.

A cuppa what cures ya

Back in the early spring, I started drinking spearmint tea because I’d seen an article on some website about mint tea making you need to shave your legs less. Given that I’m a trifle, mmmm, how to say it delicately, gorilla like? A hairy Mary? Fuzzy wuzzy? Okay. Let’s go with fuzzy wuzzy. That at least sounds kinda cute. Which it ain’t. But it sounds better. Anyhoo. Back on track. I was down like a circus clown for anything that could get me off that hairy-go-round.

So, I went out and bought a giant box of mint tea, and started drinking 2 very strong cups a day. I did not notice any change in the leg situation. Sigh. But what I did notice was another change, that I hadn’t even hoped to ask for.

I’ve had near constant neck pain for almost 10 years. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse. But there about 75% of the time. I’d always assumed it was bad posture and a latent WASPy gene that gave me the tendency to ruthlessly suppress my emotions and carry all stress in the neck and back resulting in tension headaches. But the pain had started to diminish within days of starting the tea. And after about 2 weeks, I’d say I had about a 95% reduction in my symptoms. Not what I’d asked for, but good none-the-less.

So I went and did some research. I found a little information on using mint oil topically. But nothing on mint tea for pain. Absolutely nothing. Not even one of the whackadoodle hippie freak herbal medicine sites. So, of course, I thought it was just some sort of weird coincidence. And when my supply of tea ran out, I didn’t replenish. It wasn’t doing what I’d thought it would and it’s not one of my favorite flavors, so I was just as happy to stop.

About 2 weeks later, my neck is so bad that I’m scared if I turned my head too fast I was going to go into a spasm. I didn’t put it together. High pollution, hotter than hell on a Saturday night, lack of sleep, sleeping funny. I came up with any number of reasons . . . hey, wait a minute. Didn’t I . . .? So I started up the tea again. And again within 2 days, I’m feeling better. And within 2 weeks my neck is as loose as a goose. Go figure.

So, I’m just going to give in. It makes no logical sense. There’s not one study to back me up. Not even a witch doctor herbal remedy. It shouldn’t work. But it does. I’m just going to let that be good enough for me. I guess I'm just lucky it wasn’t something weird like spider leg tea.

Five Words

I love words. I love the way they sound. I love there might be 50 words for the same thing, all with their own shades of meaning. I collect them. Play with them. Find shiny ones and put them in my pocket to use later.

But there are just some words that people latch onto with a death grip and use the snot out of until they become virtually meaningless. I’d like to ban them. Not permanently. Just for a little while. Just long enough to get them out of people’s system.

Here are 5:

Frustrated – this is probably just because I’ve been watching too much reality TV. The majority of “reality” people seem to have one emotional word to express how they relate to the world and each and every person, thing and activity in it. They’d think of a new word, but it’s just frustrating (see also – fustrating).

Amazing – I blame female celebrities for this one. For awhile, every interview with any young woman who was even remotely famous had to be peppered with at least “amazing” at least a dozen times: amazing experience, amazing boyfriend, amazing project, amazing sushi, amazing toilet paper. Then everybody picked it up. I’d say it’s more than a time for a moratorium on “amazing.” Unless you’re talking about Jesus. Or a magic trick.

I – or actually “i”. It started with the iPod. Then everything got an “i” stuck on the front, cause it was what the cool kids were doing. iHome, iConnect, iTunes, iYiyi. There’s even a restaurant called iTacos. I thought maybe they were cool tacos that you could order over the internet. They’re not. They’re just tacos. And not good ones.

Probiotics – Hey, I love them too. All the stuff to make your tummy healthy. But they're jamming probiotics into just about anything you can possibly swallow. I saw probiotic water flavoring packets this weekend. People do realize that they are living micro-organisms, right? Living. Like tiny little sea monkeys. Somehow it seems like if you eat enough of them, you’d turn into the Toxic Avenger. Why can’t we all just eat a nice cup of blueberry yogurt and leave it at that?

Aspirational – Ugh. I’d give up on all the others if I could get rid of this one. Aspirational clothes are the worst. Do you know what aspirational clothes are? Knock offs. And nobody that you would aspire to be would wear them.

And one word that's pushing it:

Seriously - Seriously. It is just getting over used. And I'm as guilty as anyone. But, I'm going to have to put this one on notice. Either we all back off, or we ruin it for everybody. Seriously.

Grant me the serenity . . .

Well, I feel like airing dirty linen today (ha, ha – you’ll get the joke in a second). Why else have a blog if I can’t discuss frightfully unflattering things about myself?

My house is a mess. I mean a real, serious, how do I live like this mess. Not a health hazard as far as food, mold or hazardous waste, but you do take the safety of your limbs into your own hands trying to walk across a room. And I just don’t seem to have the motivation to clean it up right now. I keep looking around at the squalor and think, “You know, this could be a sign of depression. Am I depressed? I don’t think I’m depressed. I would know if I was depressed, right?” Because the amount of chaos would indicate a serious need for medication.

Part of it is that it’s dead in the middle of summer. And I feel like I should be playing. Or laying on the couch and watching cartoons. Summer always returns me to a very 11-year-old state of mind. Part of it is certainly that I hate cleaning. I’d rather stand naked in front of a packed auditorium and deliver a speech on the joys of fascism to a hippie convention than clean. I’d rather eat pickled okra and beet salad than clean. I’d rather listen to my mother talk about politics than clean. I really hate cleaning.

So usually if I can stay on top of it, so that there is general order that is easily restored, I’m cool. I can maintain for a really long time. But once it goes to the bad place, I’m screwed. It takes a major order of cleaning to come back from the Bad Place. I hate the Bad Place. But evidently not as much as I hate cleaning.

And it’s getting in the way of my life. Number one, I can’t have people over. And I do love having friends come by for drinks and bites. Plus, there’s the rotten feeling that I can’t look any place in my house without feeling vaguely dissatisfied. And slightly betrayed that I was not born wealthy enough to have a maid. Or at least a cleaning service. That I have to clean up after myself . . . there’s no justice in this world. Pout, pout, pout.

But until that Lotto hits (come on lucky numbers!), I guess I’m stuck doing it myself. My horoscope said today was a good day to deal with issues that I’d left hanging (and I really wish they’d stop spying on me). I guess that means that I need to get off my duff and quit acting like Queen Baby and get my orderly act together. Or at least do one room. I can do one room. I can. I can. Whoo yeah! Go team! Get psyched! Pump it up!

God, it must be wonderful to be a neat freak. Lucky bastards.