Merry Christmas

Many of you have been very kind to me and my blog this year. I wish you all a happy religious holiday, pagan ritual, drunken revelry or appalling consumerist bacchanal. And I hope you all have as much fun as this handsome devil with the new airplane, piano and baseball bat.

Theatre Review: Ho Ho Horrendous

A part of every critic’s job is sitting through the bad as well as the good. It is simply a hazard of the profession. However, enduring “Christmastime Is Here” as staged by Miss Othmar’s class at St. Paul Elementary School is a sacrifice not to be asked of anyone. A class of fourth-graders celebrating Christmas should be a joyous occasion, but last night’s performance is evidence that the legitimate stage is no place for childish revelry.

The problems began with the play’s director, Charlie Brown. Master Brown brought no coherence to the proceedings. A ham-handed retelling of the Nativity story (which inexplicably included a Christmas Queen) was followed by free form jazz music and strange dancing that would be more at home in a production of “Hair” than in a solemn holiday story. Two small twin girls danced in frightening unison like they were trying to remove water from their ears, and one young man bobbed his head in such a manner as to suggest that he had broken his neck! The strange goings on continued as a beagle portrayed all of the animals in the Nativity story. Dada-esque theater has its place, but in Master Brown’s hands it simply seemed like cheap shock tactics. This reviewer, for one, was previously unaware that a penguin was present at the birth of Christ.

Set design was practically nonexistent save for a tiny, barren Christmas tree that appeared unlikely to prolong its painful life enough to even see Christmas Day. The pathetic little tree was an apt symbol of Brown’s amateurish production and its odd juxtaposition of the sacred with the profane. It's quite apparent that Charlie Brown was hired to direct the play on the recommendation of his psychiatrist.

The evening finally came to a close with an overbearing recitation of a passage from the Gospel of St. Luke by Linus Van Pelt. After hearing Master Van Pelt describe the Nativity with his particular brand of pretentious faux humility, I’m sure he has a bright future as an oncologist, a philosophy professor or Alex Trebek’s replacement on Jeopardy!

All are encouraged to skip this holiday disaster. If you are so unfortunate as to receive tickets to this production for a Christmas present, you can be sure that you were deemed “naughty” this year.

Mom, Mom, Watch Me Dive!

Actually, it's "Blogland, Blogland, watch me take pictures!" But that doesn't have the same ring. I'm back home in New Jersey, where we are under 23 inches of snow. Here are some cool pictures.

My parents' house. That pine tree on the left was our Christmas tree one year, and then we replanted it. And fed it steroids.

This is the hill I used to go sledding on, and it's right across the street from the house, which was sweet.


Here's a little cove about a block away. We used to play hockey on this perfectly shaped little patch of ice. I really like this picture.


I saw this a few blocks away, and I just love the way the lights shine through the snow.


And last but not least, here is this year's batch of Christmas cookies. Ginger chocolate, hazelnut chocolate chip, cranberry pinwheel, almond roca, and green tea shortbread.

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

Happy Holidays from everyone at the Virtua Surgical Group! Except for Bob. Bob says you can go fuck yourself.

Actual Conversations With Real People, Vol. 9

Welcome to another installment of Actual Conversations With Real People. Today's real person is my three-year-old nephew.


WWW: Grandmom told me that you got in trouble at school. What happened?

Tot: I hit Shawn.

WWW: Why did you hit Shawn?

Tot: He was being mean at me!

WWW: He was being mean? What did he do?

Tot: He hit me back.

Rocking For The Weekend: The Dead Weather

The Dead Weather aren't purveyors of happy fun songs, like most of the ones I've posted. But "Treat Me Like Your Mother" is a perfect Friday song if your weekend plans include kicking ass. The Dead Weather consist of Dean Fertita from Queens of the Stone Age (guitar), Jack Lawrence from The Greenhornes and The Raconteurs (bass), Jack White from The White Stripes and The Raconteurs (drums), and Alison Mosshart from The Kills (lead vocals). You may also enjoy the awesome video, which includes lots of gratuitous violence.

Enjoy the weekend!

Porn Is The Cleanser

Things have been slow here at the blog lately - if it can be said that an anvil falling off a building slows when it hits the pavement. I actually have things to write about but cannot even begin to put words together and describe them. I need something to disrupt my inertia. And what shakes things up better than abject obscenity? Thus, I present you a completely silly and thoroughly appalling list of porn movie titles based on real movie titles. Please enjoy this quality filler comedy.



A warning...it really IS filthy. So if you're of a delicate constitution, go read Ziggy or something.




No, really.




Last chance.




I knew you'd still be here. Here you go, perv:

Sperms Of Endearment
Lay Anything
Herpes, The Love Bug
Guess Who's Coming On Dinner
Eat The Parents
Clitty Clitty Bang Bang
Willy Wonked Me In My Chocolate Factory
Grinding Nemo
The French Erection
Monty’s Python In The Holy Grail
Some Like Her Twat
Jack Off My Beanstalk
A Swish Called Wanda
12” Angry Men
Wangs of Desire

The G-Chat Diaries, Vol. 10

Chatter X: Words, I think I'm becoming a hippie.

WWW: Oh no!

Chatter X: I know! I've started becoming CONCERNED about things.

WWW: That is never a good sign.

Chatter X: I KNOW!

WWW: If you ever get the urge to wear Birkenstocks or leave your pits unshaved, please contact me first.

Chatter X: I've already had that urge... I couldn't get past how fugly Birkenstocks are, though.

WWW: Good for you! If there is any medicine or therapy you can use to avoid hippie-ism, I will be happy to donate.

Chatter X: I...I bought a Burt's Bees sampler pack and I...I actually like it...*cries*

WWW: There, there. Words is here. Maybe you should avoid driving past Whole Foods when you are out and about.

Chatter X: *bursts into tears* I DON'T EVEN DRIVVVVEEEEEE!

WWW: THAT'S RIGHT. This is worse than I thought. You are in Stage 3 Hippie-ism.

Chatter X: It was all so subtle that I didn't even notice it sneaking in!! Oh God what have I done...

WWW: It's not too late!

Chatter X: But I...I have opinions about things now! How do I get rid of them?!?!

WWW: You should start watching lots of E!

Chatter X: I want to fix the hippie-ism, not fall asleep from boredom.

WWW: You're not making this easy. Perhaps you could eat at fast food restaurants.

Chatter X: Fast food, okay that's good, I could try that...

WWW: You could also leave all the lights on. And stop recycling.

Chatter X: I...I don't know if I can do that. The recycling can is just...so near the trash can.

WWW: Oh! You could also start buying clothes made by companies who use sweatshop labor.

Chatter X: I already do that! I'm not a total hippie!

WWW: All is not lost!

Chatter X: However...I have been seriously considering...making my own clothing...I'm just lacking time to do it...

WWW: Oh, for fuck's sake. Do you want to beat this or not?

Chatter X: *cries some more*

WWW: You might as well be playing an acoustic guitar under a tree.

Chatter X: Oh god! Why! Why did this have to happen to me?!

WWW: That's not important now. What's important is that you figure a way to get better.

Chatter X: *sniffle* Okay..yes. You're absolutely right. I can do this. I CAN do this.

WWW: You just need baby steps. The next time you go grocery shopping or to a restaurant, I want you to think of only one thing. "How can I most gratuitously harm an animal with my dining choices today?"

Chatter X: Okay. This is good.

WWW: And just remember...I am on your side.

Chatter X: Thank you, Words. You have no idea how much that means to me.

WWW: I'm so glad I can help.

WWW: Mostly because I don't bang hippies.