My favorite new show this fall is "Scream Queens." I am, strictly speaking, not a fan of horror movies. Unless it involves the hi jinks of Abbott & Costello. Or the Bowery Boys. (I am seriously dating myself here...I feel compelled to clarify that I saw those movies on TV, not when they originally premiered on the big screen.)
I was only able to watch one season of "American Horror Story" and a couple of seasons of "True Blood." Too much mayhem and blood and creepy stuff for me. So when Kate and Tyler told me that I HAD to watch "Scream Queens," I acquiesced (caved) and said I'd watch one episode, just to get them off my back.
Oh.my.gosh. It is so inappropriately funny I can't stand it. I cannot believe some of the phrases that are allowed to be uttered on prime time television. It's "Mean Girls" + "Clueless" + "Glee" + "American Horror" + "Porky's" + "Animal House." It all adds up to a highly campy, over-the-top murder mystery, with never-ending plot twists and turns and extremely clever/cutting dialogue.
Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, who are the geniuses behind "Glee," "American Horror," and "Nip Tuck," have taken elements of their past triumphs and blended them into a crazy hour of smack downs, faux fur fashion shows, oddball and stereotyped characters/ It's magic in HD. Another show (a la "Glee") during which no societal group is spared, lampooning left, right and center.
And can we talk about cultural relevance? Quite regularly, the writers reference on-trend topics that are HILARIOUS. On the episode, "Chaneloween," I immediately knew what they were parodying; my kids didn't. How hip am I? I will be reminding them of that moment for years to come. Or until I forget that it happened.
I think one of the reasons I find it so funny is because it is SO over the top. Dialed down a notch or two it would be tasteless and one or two toes over the line as offensive. There are quite a few sexual innuendos, but they're done in such an unabashed, unapologetic way that's you can't help but laugh.
It doesn't hurt that Jamie Lee Curtis is one of the leads in the show. She's a "Scream Queen" in her own right and she's great. Emma Roberts is perfect as Chanel, and her minions, Chanel #s One, Two, Three, Four, Five and Six include Abigail Breslin and Lea Michele and Ariana Grande. Add in an always funny Niecy Nash and Nick Jonas and it's a surprisingly well blended cast.
My favorite character, however, is Chad Radwell (Glen Powell). He's a member of the Dickie Dollar Scholars fraternity and he is a swell compilation of several fraternity boys I knew in college. Prepped out to the max, fabulously rich and completely ego-centric. I can't wait to hear what's going to come out of his mouth, once he's removed his permanently placed silver spoon.
Yes. It's mindless TV. But I don't care. Plus, how am I ever going to find out who the Red Devil Killer is if I don't keep watching?
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Going Royal
If we're friends on Face Book, and assuming you read every single one of my posts (!), you would know this about me: I don't really care for sports, not having played any when I was young. Unless you count kick the can.
However, I graduated from a sports frenzied high school. Our Jefferson City Jays football team was amazing, winning a couple of state championships in a row. I think. I'm sure I'll be reminded if my memory is faulty. Well, that's already been established in myriad situations. But I'm talking specifically about that state championship thing.
Later on in life, I used to get very irritated when I was on staff at a church and we had to consider the city's sporting schedules before making plans to undertake anything that required a lot of folks.
And then there are the players' salaries. Massive amounts of hungry people could be fed, homeless be sheltered, diseases researched and cured with the billions paid to sports personnel. I haven't done the math because I only have ten fingers and ten toes. I think I'd even blow up my solar powered calculator attempting that equation.
And, can we talk about the tedium that sports watching entails? I think soccer is the worst culprit (sorry soccer fans and players...I still love YOU). When a score is 1-0 after ninety minutes that really just amounts to a lot of running around, kicking a ball, sometimes headbutting (why are no helmets involved) and quite a lot of flopping. I'll bet you're surprised that I know that term. Now THAT'S a reason to watch soccer...so I can yell, "He's TOTALLY flopping!"
Lastly, but probably most importantly...I can't handle close games. I can tune into the last few minutes of a basketball game and get completely tied up in knots if it's a three or four point game. I blame Brian Presberry for that. He made some crazy last second shot and our Jays won by one point against our arch nemesis, Columbia Hickman. I think I had already graduated because I can see it perfectly in my mind and I wasn't sitting with the million other Jayettes...I was across the gym. That doesn't really matter, except to point out that my brain stores ridiculous things that I need to get rid of to make room for things that matter now. Like why I got up and went into the kitchen. (That happened this morning. And, sadly, it's not the first time).
So that's why I don't care for sports.
But...something happened to me last month I haven't been able to decipher yet. I didn't watch one single baseball game the entire regular season. I heard from time to time that the Royals were doing well and I was like, "Oh, yea. That's good." I don't even think I watched any of the games against Houston. But by the time Toronto rolled into town I found myself oddly attracted to it. I watched all the games. Stayed up way late and considered asking my doctor for a prescription for nitroglycerin.
By the time the World Series rolled around I knew the batting lineup. What's up with that? By the end of the first game I knew which Mets players and pitchers were gonna give us trouble. "Us?" Somewhere between Toronto and the Mets I became a fanatic.
My kids were giving me funny looks. Ron just kept rolling his eyes. I would sit alone in our lower level (Ron won't let me call it a basement) and whoop and clap by myself. Kate and I would text like mad, emogi-ing hand clapping and thumbs up and smiley faces with tongues hanging out.
It was a bit ridiculous. Ok, more than a bit.
The last game, when it was tied in the ninth, I went upstairs to wake Ron up and watched the rest of it in our bedroom. The weirdest thing happened. It happens when I talk to the kids and we're watching the same thing...there's like a three or four second delay in what they're watching and what I see. Our windows were open and I could hear people cheering before I saw what was happening on the television. So...I knew they Royals had won before I saw it. I remember whispering "They did it! They did it!" before the final strike was thrown.
The next day I watched everything I could about the Royals' hard fought victory. I even watched a replay of the last three innings...and I still got nervous, even though I knew how it would end.
I debated back and forth about going to the parade. Tyler and Ron had to work and Kate doesn't love big crowds, so I stayed home and watched it all unfold on TV. It wasn't until the images started hitting Face Book that I was able to fully comprehend the magnitude of it all.
Amazing. Just amazing.
If I had to use one word to describe how I felt it would be...
Joy.
Those Boys in Blue played with pure joy. They love the game. They love each other. They have families who love and support them. They know each others' skill sets; combined they're a force to be reckoned with. They have freedom to play the best game they can, not dictated by an ego-driven manager. But it's the joy that spills over, like the Gatorade Salvy loves to splash around, that makes them so likable and fun to watch.
And the fans! Straight up beer-drinking, high fiving, Moose-calling, joy-filled men, women and children of all ages. They love their Royals and their Royals love them right back.
If wishes do come true...I'd keep this team intact for another 100 years. Or until their knees/arms give out.
I guess that makes me a fan, too. And I kind of like it.
When's Spring Training start? PLAY BALL!
However, I graduated from a sports frenzied high school. Our Jefferson City Jays football team was amazing, winning a couple of state championships in a row. I think. I'm sure I'll be reminded if my memory is faulty. Well, that's already been established in myriad situations. But I'm talking specifically about that state championship thing.
Later on in life, I used to get very irritated when I was on staff at a church and we had to consider the city's sporting schedules before making plans to undertake anything that required a lot of folks.
And then there are the players' salaries. Massive amounts of hungry people could be fed, homeless be sheltered, diseases researched and cured with the billions paid to sports personnel. I haven't done the math because I only have ten fingers and ten toes. I think I'd even blow up my solar powered calculator attempting that equation.
And, can we talk about the tedium that sports watching entails? I think soccer is the worst culprit (sorry soccer fans and players...I still love YOU). When a score is 1-0 after ninety minutes that really just amounts to a lot of running around, kicking a ball, sometimes headbutting (why are no helmets involved) and quite a lot of flopping. I'll bet you're surprised that I know that term. Now THAT'S a reason to watch soccer...so I can yell, "He's TOTALLY flopping!"
Lastly, but probably most importantly...I can't handle close games. I can tune into the last few minutes of a basketball game and get completely tied up in knots if it's a three or four point game. I blame Brian Presberry for that. He made some crazy last second shot and our Jays won by one point against our arch nemesis, Columbia Hickman. I think I had already graduated because I can see it perfectly in my mind and I wasn't sitting with the million other Jayettes...I was across the gym. That doesn't really matter, except to point out that my brain stores ridiculous things that I need to get rid of to make room for things that matter now. Like why I got up and went into the kitchen. (That happened this morning. And, sadly, it's not the first time).
So that's why I don't care for sports.
But...something happened to me last month I haven't been able to decipher yet. I didn't watch one single baseball game the entire regular season. I heard from time to time that the Royals were doing well and I was like, "Oh, yea. That's good." I don't even think I watched any of the games against Houston. But by the time Toronto rolled into town I found myself oddly attracted to it. I watched all the games. Stayed up way late and considered asking my doctor for a prescription for nitroglycerin.
By the time the World Series rolled around I knew the batting lineup. What's up with that? By the end of the first game I knew which Mets players and pitchers were gonna give us trouble. "Us?" Somewhere between Toronto and the Mets I became a fanatic.
My kids were giving me funny looks. Ron just kept rolling his eyes. I would sit alone in our lower level (Ron won't let me call it a basement) and whoop and clap by myself. Kate and I would text like mad, emogi-ing hand clapping and thumbs up and smiley faces with tongues hanging out.
It was a bit ridiculous. Ok, more than a bit.
The last game, when it was tied in the ninth, I went upstairs to wake Ron up and watched the rest of it in our bedroom. The weirdest thing happened. It happens when I talk to the kids and we're watching the same thing...there's like a three or four second delay in what they're watching and what I see. Our windows were open and I could hear people cheering before I saw what was happening on the television. So...I knew they Royals had won before I saw it. I remember whispering "They did it! They did it!" before the final strike was thrown.
The next day I watched everything I could about the Royals' hard fought victory. I even watched a replay of the last three innings...and I still got nervous, even though I knew how it would end.
I debated back and forth about going to the parade. Tyler and Ron had to work and Kate doesn't love big crowds, so I stayed home and watched it all unfold on TV. It wasn't until the images started hitting Face Book that I was able to fully comprehend the magnitude of it all.
Amazing. Just amazing.
If I had to use one word to describe how I felt it would be...
Joy.
Those Boys in Blue played with pure joy. They love the game. They love each other. They have families who love and support them. They know each others' skill sets; combined they're a force to be reckoned with. They have freedom to play the best game they can, not dictated by an ego-driven manager. But it's the joy that spills over, like the Gatorade Salvy loves to splash around, that makes them so likable and fun to watch.
And the fans! Straight up beer-drinking, high fiving, Moose-calling, joy-filled men, women and children of all ages. They love their Royals and their Royals love them right back.
If wishes do come true...I'd keep this team intact for another 100 years. Or until their knees/arms give out.
I guess that makes me a fan, too. And I kind of like it.
When's Spring Training start? PLAY BALL!
Monday, November 16, 2015
Bloom, Dammit!
Although folks would be hard pressed to catch a glimpse of it now, there was a day when I was SUPER into entertaining and puttin' on the dog. Southern Living and Martha Stewart Living provided my daily devotionals and, at times, I was able to channel Martha just by clicking my heels together three times and repeating "Use only the VERY BEST vanilla."
Southern Living has the best recipes out there, if case you're wondering. Never made a bad dish from that magazine. MS Living was chock full of ridiculous decor ideas that looked beautiful but required surgeon-esque skills and loads of specialty items. I didn't even attempt those crafty things because I'd read the directions and my eyes would start to glaze over.
I did, one holiday season, buy a crap ton of glitter and made dozens of ornaments and candles with the stuff (Word to the Wise: don't do the candles...the glitter caught on fire. I probably did it wrong). When we decorate at Christmas, there are still traces of that sparkly endeavor in every box we unpack.
It slowly became...a problem.
I had butter molds of butterflies and acorns and unicorns (not really). I combed the Colonial Williamsburg catalog for faux magnolia leaves and King Charles bedspreads. I created holiday menus and printed them out...mainly so I'd keep on track, but - truth be told - also so I could practice my taste tantalizing verbiage skills...fresh hot yeast rolls, with sweet cream butter and assorted jams. Homemade pumpkin spice with freshly whipped sweetened cream...
Very hoity toity.
But, then, after years of getting my kicks from all things fancy, I went into a self-imposed rehab. Actually, I got bariatric bypass surgery and couldn't really eat all those things anymore. So I tossed (or sold) all my butter molds, cancelled my Southern Living and Martha Stewart subscriptions and tried to develop some better habits.
Fast forward to last Saturday, when we were getting ready to come home from NOLA. I bought a couple of magazines (Southern Living and Martha Stewart Living, of course) because - horror of horrors - out plane wasn't equipped with WIFI. As I flipped through the pages of MSL, I noticed that they're still publishing Martha's monthly calendar of events. And I remembered that it always served as a huge source of "Oh my gosh, can you believe she's doing that?" moments.
Once again, it did not fail to entertain. Alongside her schedule of yoga, weight training and riding horses were her friends' and colleagues' birthdays, hair appointments, refrigerator cleanings, etc.
But...the one I love the most (and I remember seeing it on her calendar before...which leads me to believe the editors are cut-and-paste gurus) is the day she's set aside to force her forsythia and pussy willows to bloom.
Picture it. A cold, grey, concrete room with a card table, one folding chair and a naked light bulb haphazardly hung from the ceiling. Martha is in the chair. A lone stick in a clay pot is on the table.
Tension fills the air.
In a strong, direct "I will not be dismissed" voice, Martha commands, "You.WILL.Bloom."
"NOW!"
"Or I will twist you in two, you ungrateful twig of a tree."
Martha fixes her steely gaze on the naked branch. One minute passes. Two minutes. Thirty.
Finally, with a silent shudder and a spectacular clenching of its roots, a spec of yellow leaf begins to poke its head through the dormant bark.
Martha, her work completed, exits the room with a victorious stride, leaving the door open as a wide-eyed intern to timidly comes forward to finish the job.
Don't even try to tell me that's not the way she gets it done.
Southern Living has the best recipes out there, if case you're wondering. Never made a bad dish from that magazine. MS Living was chock full of ridiculous decor ideas that looked beautiful but required surgeon-esque skills and loads of specialty items. I didn't even attempt those crafty things because I'd read the directions and my eyes would start to glaze over.
I did, one holiday season, buy a crap ton of glitter and made dozens of ornaments and candles with the stuff (Word to the Wise: don't do the candles...the glitter caught on fire. I probably did it wrong). When we decorate at Christmas, there are still traces of that sparkly endeavor in every box we unpack.
It slowly became...a problem.
I had butter molds of butterflies and acorns and unicorns (not really). I combed the Colonial Williamsburg catalog for faux magnolia leaves and King Charles bedspreads. I created holiday menus and printed them out...mainly so I'd keep on track, but - truth be told - also so I could practice my taste tantalizing verbiage skills...fresh hot yeast rolls, with sweet cream butter and assorted jams. Homemade pumpkin spice with freshly whipped sweetened cream...
Very hoity toity.
But, then, after years of getting my kicks from all things fancy, I went into a self-imposed rehab. Actually, I got bariatric bypass surgery and couldn't really eat all those things anymore. So I tossed (or sold) all my butter molds, cancelled my Southern Living and Martha Stewart subscriptions and tried to develop some better habits.
Fast forward to last Saturday, when we were getting ready to come home from NOLA. I bought a couple of magazines (Southern Living and Martha Stewart Living, of course) because - horror of horrors - out plane wasn't equipped with WIFI. As I flipped through the pages of MSL, I noticed that they're still publishing Martha's monthly calendar of events. And I remembered that it always served as a huge source of "Oh my gosh, can you believe she's doing that?" moments.
Once again, it did not fail to entertain. Alongside her schedule of yoga, weight training and riding horses were her friends' and colleagues' birthdays, hair appointments, refrigerator cleanings, etc.
But...the one I love the most (and I remember seeing it on her calendar before...which leads me to believe the editors are cut-and-paste gurus) is the day she's set aside to force her forsythia and pussy willows to bloom.
Picture it. A cold, grey, concrete room with a card table, one folding chair and a naked light bulb haphazardly hung from the ceiling. Martha is in the chair. A lone stick in a clay pot is on the table.
Tension fills the air.
In a strong, direct "I will not be dismissed" voice, Martha commands, "You.WILL.Bloom."
"NOW!"
"Or I will twist you in two, you ungrateful twig of a tree."
Martha fixes her steely gaze on the naked branch. One minute passes. Two minutes. Thirty.
Finally, with a silent shudder and a spectacular clenching of its roots, a spec of yellow leaf begins to poke its head through the dormant bark.
Martha, her work completed, exits the room with a victorious stride, leaving the door open as a wide-eyed intern to timidly comes forward to finish the job.
Don't even try to tell me that's not the way she gets it done.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)