Sunday, May 31, 2009

Don't Question the Trilogy

In one of the first episodes of Kirstie Alley's hysterical, short-lived Showtime series, Fat Actress, she calls former colleague, John Travolta and suggests that he help her jump start her career by making Look Who's Talking: 4. No one could be more supportive of that idea than me. Anyone got about 10 million dollars to help make this happen?

I keep trying to tell people of the value of the Look Who's Talking trilogy, but no one seems to believe me. Really? You think Look Who's Talking is lame? What are you watching? A Night at the Museum? Fuck you. You cannot deny the awesomeness of the Look Who's Talking trilogy.

Check it out:

Look Who's Talking: The beloved first movie in the trilogy, we find a moderately hot Kirstie Alley having an affair with her boss, Albert. Through a very graphic, weird late 1980s CGI rendering, we see a million sperm heading towards Kirstie Alley's egg. They are all hooting and hollering as they make their way to their target, which is indeed accurate, because as far as I understand it, sperm all have different voices and all sound like obnxious frat guys (for the record, I have had no practical experience with sperm).

Well, what do you know? This bitch iz pregnant. What will she do? Have the baby in John Travolta's cab, obviously. John Travolta plays James Ubriacco—essentially a grown up version of Vinnie Barbarino—a dopey but endearing cab driver.

In real life, Kirstie would just get out of the cab and give the driver a shitty tip, because let's face it, he was jabbering on his cell phone the entire time with the folks back home in Al Qaeda. I'm reporting you to Homeland Security (ala Liz Lemon in 30 Rock).

But movie life, we have to find something that will link these two star-crossed lovahs together again. OMG she left her purse in the cab! An
d of course, her license has her address on it (like anyone in New York actually has an updated license with their address on it. New Yorkers switch apartments like hermit crabs switch their shells—see what I did there? Check out that badass simile that was not only FUNNY but gave you some legit scientific information. My mission is to entertain AND to educate), so he shows up at her apartment to return the lost purse.

Hey, guess what? A frazzled, single working mother needs a babysitter. Wouldn't you want to get away if your newborn baby had the voice of Bruce Willis? And what the hell, this
nice, slick-haired cab driver seems to be available, why not him?

Hilarity ensues, as John Travolta mistakenly drinks breast milk, drives the kid around in the cab, etc. etc. John Travolta and Kirstie Alley obviously give in to their raging sexual tension, and the movie ends with the birth of a new baby (read: OMG SEQUEL).

Look Who's Talking Too: I cannot get over this clever spelling pun. Imagine a movie studio meeting in the early 1990's:

Movie Exec 1: Well, it's the sequel. Look Who's Talking 2, right?

Everyone at once: Yeah, yeah, great, where's the coke?
Movie Exec 2: Whoa, guys, I'm getting an idea: how about "Look Who's Talking Too?" is in ALSO?

Done and DONE. Also, presumably after our movie executives found the coke, the obvious choice for the voice of the baby sister was none other than Roseanne Barr, because if anyone could evoke the childlike innocence of an adorable baby girl, it's the overweight comedienne who grabbed at her crotch after signing the national anthem on TV.

Bruce, Kirstie, and John were all on board for the fun, as Mikey tackles the trials and tribulations of adjusting to having a baby sister and get potty trained.

The potty training is the big focus of the plot, and we have Kirstie and John doing a "Potty Medley" that features riffs of "My girl wants to potty all the time..." and "You gotta fight for your right to potty." At one point, there is also scary Mr. Toilet Man who has eyes and teeth and screams "Give me your pee pee!"

You know when you can tell that the writers got totally fucked up when they wrote a scene in the movie? Yeah, it was that one. Good job, Amy Heckerling.

Some other shit happens, but the best part is when John Travolta goes to the baby gym (which is inexplicably run by obvious pedophile Gilbert Godfried) and dances to an Elvis Presley song. Oh, Mr. Travolta. Even though you look totally gross in the new Taking of Pelham 123 ads, you were quite the stud back then. Come to think of it, time has not been good to any of the stars of the Look Who's Talking trilogy. Those kid actors are probably heroin addicts or dead or something.

Look Who's Talking NOW: Because everyone is greedy as fuck, why not make another Look Who's Talking movie? I don't even care, this is honestly my favorite one in the entire franchise.

Since the kids are old enough to talk now, it would obviously make sense to feature two talking dogs, by brilliant voice actors Danny DeVito and Diane Keaton.

Oh and guess what? John Travolta don't drive no cab no more. Nuh uh, he flies himself a plane for some rich lady. We know she's evil because she has a British accent. And if I know anything about simple American cinema, you can always tell the bad person by whether or not they have a British accent. Take any Disney movie for example. Jafar from Aladdin? Bastard was Middle Eastern and he still had a British accent. Scar from The Lion King? Bastard was a lion and he still had a British accent. I could go on, but I think you get it. British obviously equals evil.

Kirstie Alley loses her job for some reason (maybe because no woman who wears gigantic bows in her hair will ever be taken seriously in the business world) so she is forced to become an elf at Macy's and for some reason the kids go back into the changing room and hear "Santa" talking to his bookie. Christmas is obviously ruined now that the kids know that there's no Santa, so in an effort to inject some happiness into their terrible lives, John Travolta goes and gets a dog from the pound.

But wait! Evil British lady dropped her crazy French poodle off at the house too. Now they have TWO dogs that are nothing alike! One's from the streets! One is pure bred! A comic mismatch made in formulaic heaven! But under their surface hatred these two have an undeniable passion for each other (yes, I'm still talking about dogs).

Also, the daughter has a crush on Charles Barkley for some reason and there's a fantasy scene where the four-year-old actually plays some one-on-one with Barkley (she wins, much to old Charlie's chagrin) and everyone watching the movie at that point is like WHAT. THE. FUCK.

British lady obviously has a crush on John Travolta because this is before he starred in Battlefield Earth. Since she's his boss, she makes elaborate plans for him to fly her everywhere, thus depriving him of his beautiful wife and family and talking/sassy dogs ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

Kirstie Alley is having none of this. She packs the kids and the dogs up into the car and drives them to the cabin where John Travolta's boss has him trapped in an elaborate ruse to get him to fall in love with her.

Oh, weird. We're just in this cabin in the woods and the phone lines are down. Isn't this fireplace romantic? Can you teach me to dance (or, dahannnnnce in British speak)?

Of course, John Travolta teaches her to dance because he is so good at it. He still doesn't get that his boss is hitting on him, even when she asks him to teach her how to slow dance. Something else is slow here, John: YOU. I'm thinking if my boss ever asked me to slow dance, my response would not be "Yes, anyone can dance! Let me show you! YOU'RE A NATURAL!" It would be like "Will this dancing session also come with a raise and promotion? No? Okay, thanks, bye."

Meanwhile, Kirstie Alley can't drive very well (BECAUSE SHE'S A WOMAN) and she crashed the car in the middle of the woods. She gets out of the car and of course, some talking coyotes drop in for a visit. Danny Devito fends them off and then goes to find John Travolta at the cabin. Meanwhile, Diane Keaton rescues Kirstie and the kids and they have to weather the storm in some park ranger cabin. Before anyone can scream "BUT IT'S CHRISTMAS—THIS FAMILY NEEDS TO BE TOGETHER," John Travolta also shows up at the park ranger cabin to the tune of Joe Cocker's "Have a Little Faith in Me."

OH HOLD UP—what is coming up over the park ranger's radio transmitter? MOTHERFUCKING SLEIGHBELLS. Santa is real afterall, isn't he, kids?!


Now, if you don't admit that this is the best trilogy in the history of modern cinema, I will fight you.

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Friday, May 29, 2009

So, how've you been?

In a message sent to a friend from college that I haven't talked to in almost a year, I summed myself up in one second:

"Basically, I'm more high strung than ever because now I drink Red Bull on the regular."

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Trivia Newton-John Conquers Trivia Night

Oh hay l00zers. Think you've got a good name for trivia? You don't.

Abi and I won AGAIN for the best trivia team name.

Trivia Newton-John.

Suck it, everyone. What we lack in actual knowledge that gains us points, we make up for in clever, clever names.

Our prize this week? Silly putty. I found it in the bottom of my bag this morning and had the typical a-ha moment (not a-ha as in crazy pencil sketch "Take On Me," but more like the ohhhhhh, yeah...I'm an adult and I was so happy to win some silly putty...)

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Wednesday, May 27, 2009


Sunday, May 24, 2009

One Year Later

I'm not big on anniversaries, but there's something about the passage of one year that forces you to reflect.

One year ago today, I got on a plane and flew to New York. I started my first day of work on the Tuesday after Memorial Day.

I don't need to wax poetic about how far I've come or how much I've accomplished.

I'll just say this: I've built a life where I can tell my boss who is in Hershey Park with her family that I hope she falls into a chocolate fountain, always meet up with friends after work for one drink or a night of complete debauchery, and finally come home to a front stoop where my landlord greets me by calling me "sweetheart," and tell him about my day while petting my dry cleaner's puppy.

As the song goes, it feels like home to me.

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Wednesday, May 20, 2009

I was told there would be porters

My mother came up this weekend for a combination Mother's Day/birthday weekend.

Since my family has visited NYC about 12 times since I started going to college in the greater NYC area, I am running out of shit to do with them.

My mother, with her floral blazer and her watering can purse from Pylones.

We've already done all of the tourist bullshit, and my parents have (thankfully) outgrown
Times Square. This past year, they've had fun exploring Brooklyn since I live there, but still, I feel like we've done it all.

So, plans for this weekend involved eating, drinking, shopping, and seeing
Jersey Boys (where I was the youngest person in the audience by about 30 years).

Now, let me say this: traveling between NYC and Buffalo could not be easier. With the new Jet Blue terminal out of JFK, it's literally a 45 minute flight. But my mother, afraid to do anything by herself, chose a 10 hour Amtrak ride instead—she'd feel safer on a train, she said.

Regardless of what mode of transportation she took, my father and I told my mother to pack light. When she got to Penn Station with her huge, heavy suitcase, a still heavy smaller suitcase, and large cooler bag (she needed snacks for the long voyage), she was annoyed that there were no porters. Then, she was annoyed that no one stopped to help her carry her bags.

I told her, this is why I love New York. You have to depend on yourself, because no one else is going to help you. It's all about self-sufficiency.


Sunday, May 17, 2009


I've documented my trials with Time Warner in this blog, but wanted to take my problems to the neighborhood masses on Fucked in Park Slope.

After all, I can't be the only one in Park Slope dying from internet withdrawl.

Check out my crazy, angry rant here.

My favorite comment was the one that said he felt like "Time Warner was run by that lady in the subway ads who has the missing fingers because she smoked cigarettes."

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Things that my 87 Year Old Landlord Can Get Away With

I've mentioned it before, but just for background's sake, I'll say it again: I live in a building owned by a very old, Jewish, New Yorky man named Irv. He was born in the building and he lives in the apartment next door to mine. Anyone who has been over to my apartment more than once has had a run-in with him: most likely witnessing him calling me "sweetheart" and admonishing me because I'm not wearing a coat and it's "cold" out.

Because he's so old and cute, he can get away with a lot of things. Take 40 years off of his age and I'd be calling cops after he did any number of these things:

—Commenting that I'm "home from work early" while he's organizing the trash cans outside of the apartment building and snickering, "I'm always watching."

—Calling me sweetheart and probably intending to pat me on the shoulder, but always missing and patting me just above my right breast. I'm hoping it's cataracts.

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Tuesday, May 12, 2009

She's on TV and she's crazy

Monday, May 11, 2009

Tips on How to Get Fired (pt. 2)

Emailing your boss and saying, "Honestly, dealing with [client's name] is like trying to talk Helen Keller through an obstacle course."

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A Friendly Fuck You

Courtesy of the East Village.

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An Open Letter to My Landlord

Dear Landlord,

I know that you're 87 years old and your body doesn't produce/retain heat anymore, but it is motherfucking May and it's 70 goddamned degrees out. Turn off the fucking heat.

Love always,


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Thursday, May 07, 2009

Tips on How to Get Fired

Maybe when my boss asks me to fax something to a client, I shouldn't say "Why don't I just send it over on a dinosaur?"

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Monday, May 04, 2009

All I wanted to do was wash my face and now I'm dead

When I moved to Brooklyn a year ago, I thought I came with a fair amount of stuff. Now that my roommate is moving out and I'm faced with having to replace all of the things that are hers that I'm used to using, I have to say that I own jack fucking shit.

I basically have a TV, a bed, a nightstand, and some kitchen items.
Here is what I have had to buy since my roommate is leaving:

-Coffee table

-TV stand


-Toaster oven

-Drying rack

-Cutting board

-Toothbrush holder
-Shower curtain

-Air conditioner

Hey, what's that sound? Oh, it's my wallet. He's in the other room, CRYING.

Luckily, since I was able to mooch off of my roommate's stuff for a year, I moved in without having to buy anything, which meant I was able to save up for the inevitable shopping spree I've had to go on now that she's leaving my life.

But damnnnnnn, shit is EXPENSIVE.

Not wanting to scrimp on important things (like the couch or the coffee table—photos TK), I tried to save some money by buying cheaper little things. For example, I bought the cheapest shower curtain Target had to offer.
Unfortunately, in this case, cheap translates directly into MOTHERFUCKING U-G-L-Y.

It is so loud, I have a seizure every time I go into the bathroom. Red, orange, blue, green—it looks like Cinco de Mayo up in this place.