Musicals

I fucking hate musicals, especially the typically overblown, histrionic, tourist fare that's on Broadway. When my stepmother asked me to see one of her choosing during a recent trip to New York, I declined. In fact, I was horrified. What was once a huge bestseller in book publishing (my trade of choice), is now set by some idiot into a series of inane and jarring karoake-style songs. You know the kind: just when you start to get into the story, someone starts warbling their head off, completely interrupting the action. Why? WHY? WHY?! It's so insane. There's flashing lights, weirdo smoke machines, lots of rainbows and glitter and shiny moving parts everywhere you look (and I love big gay shows), so the tourists don't get pissed off at the $60 price tag.

Yeah, right. I don't trust the opinion of anyone who comes to see a Broadway show in an ill-fitting skort, wearing an "Asian lady who hates sunlight" hat (nod to "Family Guy" for that line, often set brilliantly to song), which further obscures any decent view you might have had when you first sat down in your seat. It's a horrid slap in the face to any of the native element in the crowd, like some poor slob wearing ratty jeans and a baseball cap to a fancy restaurant. Take off your fucking hat, douche! Show some respect for masters of the arts. Jeezus.

As far as I'm concerned, the only musicals I've ever truly enjoyed are South Park: The Movie and Team America: World Police, and both had the added bonus of lampooning major American actors and our sometimes dubious foreign policies. I'm sure I'd love their actual Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon, but when I requested seeing that as a show for what was supposed to be part of "my" 40th birthday gift, it was vetoed by my family for not being mainstream and/or cheesy enough, but more about my rotten birthdays later on, in December, when it finally comes around close to Christmas, a time when I also get gypped out of any real, legitimate gift that may cater to any one of my one hundred million interests. Uh, thanks.  
Stay tuned, folks. I'm just getting warmed up.

Consuela, Part IV

http://hykez87.deviantart.com/art/La-Cucaracha-162143843?q=gallery%3Ahykez87%2F6386318&qo=17

Many moons ago, I lived in a section of East Flatbush that's been quaintly re-named "Kensington". It was a no-man's land, as far as Brooklyn goes. The nearest supermarket had saw dust on the floor, and the local bakery was Eastern European. There was a Kosher deli around the corner from the subway, a pizza place, a video rental store, an Irish bar, and that's about it. 

I lived there with a few college cohorts, because my aunt had an apartment that she left behind when she moved to be close to my dad. The market was soft, so the apartment sat empty until I occupied it post-college. It helped launched my career and those of my friends, because we split the maintenance fee as our rent. We would not have been able to live in the NYC area without it.

This was no hipster haven like Williamsburg pre-gentrification, with cool, arty lofts and warehouse spaces. It stayed an ethnic pocket that was not sophisticated. I was reminded of that every morning, when a car pulled up to the apartment building across the street blaring its' horn. It wasn't just any car noise, it played the opening ditty from "La Cucaracha". Several times. And every morning the windows slammed open, as the neighbors yelled curses at the driver in the car for disturbing their mornings' sleep. Welcome to the 'hood, honey.

Don't get me wrong, I schlepped to my low paying job via the local subway line, the only one in that neighborhood, for an hour each way every day, because the apartment was perfect for us at that time. There were doormen for security, and we were on a high floor. But this was deep in the heart of Brooklyn, not some fancy West Side joint, and we do shit differently here. There's less fake attitude, more noise, less political correctness, and a whole lot of real life. 

I remembered it yesterday clearly, when I heard a car zoom down my block blaring the same groovy "La Cucaracha" horn. What did I do? The exact same thing I did then—I went to the window to watch the spectacle. Unlike my Kensington years, no lady stepped out of the building across the street, dressed in a nurse's aide uniform, like they used to wear back in the day. And that was my Consuela moment. What's yours?

Consuela Wins Again

Like any New Yorker, I have my favorite pizza joint (Smiling Pizza in Park Slope, Brooklyn on 7th Avenue), and they are reliable. I love my neighborhood place; they make great pies and there's always a good vibe when you go there. They are actual Italians from Italy, not a t.v. show like The Jersey Shore. But, on one dark and stormy night, something went horribly awry. The conditions were stressful for any delivery person, and that fateful night, my paisan language skills went right out the car window. I had five achingly excruciating back-and-forth phone calls between the pizza place and the driver, explaining over and over the differences between a number street and a number avenue. It did not go well. 

At one point, I was sitting in the stairwell looking at the front door of the building, like any hard-up college freshman, thinking "What happened?" Minutes before, I had the last painful exchange with my head against the wall drawing numbers with my finger onto it, desperate to communicate with the driver. When he finally showed up, all was forgiven. He looked like a drowned puppy, so I tipped him heavy. Consuela The Overlord wins again.

The Holy Fonz

Catholics catch a lot of flack for the wackier elements of their faith, ones that I cherish for that very reason: there's walking on water, turning water into wine at a wedding (Who wouldn't want that? It certainly is cheaper than the HUGE tab that comes with an open bar. Especially at Irish-Catholic events.), getting beamed up into space, er, "Heaven" after death—you know, all that fun, cool stuff.

We laugh about it, (and sometimes cry, too), because religion is a human thing, and like any institution, people can either make it great or really effin' bad. This season is kind of a big deal; there's the build up with Mardi Gras, Lent, Palm Sunday, Good Friday and then Easter. It's the time period leading up to Jesus' crucifixion: The Betrayal, (for a few scheckels...eww), His arrest and capture, imprisonment and torture, public trial and condemnation by the mob, humiliation on the way to the site, and then Jesus was nailed to a cross with the other criminals and mocked while He died. It was way harsh.

So when I get a chance to have fun with the some of the more liturgical and dogmatic aspects to Christian ceremonies, it's a good time for me. No doubt, there are many disturbed and robotic people who just want something to belong to, and Seth McFarlane is there to mock them, as is fitting given their "Sheeple" mindset. No one does it better than a Catholic schoolboy ;) 

Here's a link to The Father, The Son, and The Holy Fonz, in its' entirety. NSFW!! Enjoy.

http://www.familyguyepisodes.tv/family_guy_season_4_episode_18_the_father_the_son_and_the_holy_fonz.html

Annoying Accents

I love regional accents. My family speaks with a hardcore "New Yawk" one, so it sounds like home to me. But there are some rather unpleasant atonal dialects in this beautiful patchwork nation of ours that are like nails on a chalkboard. Hello!! It's Friday peoples! I'd like to start off this new feature with an old commercial that instantly got under my skin. Many of you might remember the cell phone campaigns from a few years back with a caffeinated cheerleader and the bullshitting real estate agent.

Both irritating and instantly grating, to be sure, but the young cheerleader character had this sort of vague "Valley Girl" that's not really localized to SoCal anymore, to our collective great misfortune.
I remember a particularly bad elevator trip that included two younger co-workers. They ignored me and quite naturally so, since I am not of their tribe. They had this insane dialogue in a dialect that I have never been able to forget. Like, ever: "Omigod, I LUUUVV your dress. It's, like, retro, but in a cool way." "I knnnnnooooowww! And, like, I got it at Banana." (for those outside the tribe, that means Banana Republic, a clothing store). "Ooooh, noooo wayyyy. I totally used to shop there, then I stopped, but now their clothes are like, sooooo much better." "Yah. They must have gotten a new creative...blah blah blah." "Haha! Like, exactly...blah blah blah..."

For those of you who doubt the trauma-inducing aspects of this accent and manner of speaking, I submit to you this question: would you have been able to endure an elevator ride with that swirling around you? And I mean without throwing punches. I had to actually grit my teeth against the rising laughter, dig my nails into my palms, and face the wall. Yeah, it was like that. But I'm better now.

Hmm. Maybe not. Oh well.

Snack Time

Remember those After-School Special commercials about healthy eating? So do I. "I hanker for a hunk of cheese!" Let's revisit, shall we?

As adults, Family Guy gives us the natural conclusion to those inspired ads of yore: crack! Do you remember thinking that the people who made cartoons were on drugs? You were right. When in doubt, just check out any episode of Gumby. Stay tuned for more Springtime retro t.v. posts. They're a comin'! 

Consuela, Part II

I had a delightful chat today in an online group about Franco-Normande language roots. Yeah, etymology is pretty nerdy, but I am a bibliophile. Anyway, someone mentioned the informality with American names, and how we address one another. To this European, our former President "Jimmy" Carter seemed impossibly impolite and immature for using a boyish name, given that he's such an impressive public figure. Of course we respect our authority figures! We also use formal addresses with teachers, religious figures, political leaders, and other authority figures, as the situation dictates.

It brought me back to the brief time I had to live in a small German town for business, working in the company's atelier with the other artists and designers. Employees there used last names only, on the phone and in meetings. The head of the company is called "Herr" quite loudly, every time he is seen or greeted. It was still jarring to me a month after working there, because I had only heard it in documentaries about Nazism and Herr Hitler. My European co-workers thought it quite funny the first time they heard me greet the company president by first name. Given his rep as a ladies man, who knows what they thought of this informality between us.

Back home on U.S. soil, we hosted a German co-worker for a couple of weeks. At the time we were a mini United Nations: two gay men and a lesbian (all vocally out of the closest), a Jamaican accountant, a Puerto Rican receptionist, a book keeper from India, a Eurasian editor, and whatever nationality people think I am, which is usually French. She was charmed by our meeting round table, and the freedom with which we spoke. Since it was a very small branch of an overseas company, anyone in the office could pitch new ideas. And we called each other by first names, because it would be sheer lunacy for an open society like ours that is comprised of immigrants to keep track of every country on the planet's sometimes elaborate greeting rituals.

So, how does Consuela feature? Well, she IS our go-to symbol for cross-cultural snafus. If you're ever in doubt while travelling around our beautiful land, please know that it's more than acceptable to address an American you meet informally by their first name. 

That's democracy.

Cartoon Resolution for Grown-Ups

Sometimes, as kids, we longed for an ending that never happened on some of our favorite shows. The Roadrunner would get his due, and Bugs would finally get offed by Elmer. Luckily, Seth McFarland's Family Guy has provided us with just such an outlet to express our more, uh, mature attitudes about life. Experience has it's rewards. 

Needless, today's post is most definitely NOT suitable for the kiddies. Enjoy the thrills ;)

This clips runs a bit long, but hang in there. The punchline is killer.