I am so sorry I couldn’t make it to the show yesterday afternoon. Betty White phoned me up last minute. She said she found a litter of sick Golden Retriever puppies in a box out back of the The Bold and The Beautiful studio and that she needed my help to administer heartworm medication since it was sleeting and everyone else was at the Oscars and the puppies wouldn’t hold still. Betty appealed to my higher animal rights instincts. She remembered that I had once written a letter to John Kerry informing him that he did not get my vote because he hunts pheasants. Well, my driver took me immediately to meet Betty, who was very much inside the studio sipping on hot cocoa. There were no puppies. It was another duplicitous attempt to get me to talk with producers about a Mama’s Family reunion. She’s a wiley one, that Betty White.
“Pee” S (ha, ha) I love your blog. I only wish more people subscribed and linked to you so that you could get a book deal, too.
Yours,
Rue “Blanche” McClanahan
She flaked. I thought long and hard about how to break this news to my readers. I even timed a woman with blue-rinsed hair at the matinee show (2:35!) but it just wasn’t the same. Instead of Rue, I was rewarded with two old men filing past concessions on a child safety restraint, you know, one of those wrist leashes that keeps toddlers from bounding into traffic. One old man entered the bathroom and shut the door on his old man friend, trapping him outside.
He was confused and tugging on the cord. Unbearably sad. As sad as seeing someone’s purple photo album–full of photos– on the live third rail of the West Fouth stop.
This is my new montage of New York City winter.
The background music is Ray Lamontagne’s “Till the Sun Turns Black.” This morning it looped in my head on the walk to work.
Today’s the big day! If you haven’t entered the Rue did she wash her McClanahands contest, make sure to do so by 2PM. I’ve verified that she will be at the matinee. Stopwatch (check). Fully stocked concessions bar (check). Trenchcoat and wig (check).
I feel like I’m in an episode of 24. That’s because I have a defective power cord and my Mac battery icon is flashing red and I only have 0:40 minutes left to write. Last night, after Gutenberg!, I met Woody for our appointment at the Apple Genius Bar on 5th Avenue. (It actually took me a few tries just then before I spelled “genius” correctly. That’s one of many reasons I don’t work there.) Our cords stopped powering at the same time. What are the odds of this? I developed my own non-genius theory that sharing power cords is like sharing needles. When mine broke I started using his on my strung out Mac. I gave his back and then after a farewell green flare, nothing. What a piece of junkie.
Going to the Apple Genius Bar at midnight on a Saturday in freezing temperatures isn’t my idea of a good time. I don’t like negotiating those glass stairs, either. They make me think of an 80’s sitcom where the girl trips on Prom night and rips the back out of her dress.
Woody and I had the Mac daddy of geniuses. His name is Dave and if anybody from the Apple store is reading this, Dave deserves a raise. He was multi-tasking on five machines at once. At first, I felt like Dave was a dentist. I avoid the dentist not because of picks and drills, but guilt. My last dentist made me watch a flossing video that featured animated teeth. When food wedged and decayed between them, the teeth shed little enamel tears. My dentist said this was because I wasn’t flossing correctly. See: guilt.
0:28.
Dave came down pretty hard on Woody for setting his Mac on top of its Neoprene carrying case since wetsuits are made from the same conductive material and “Woody, dude, man, you’ll fry your battery with trapped heat.” What accusatory tough-love! What a dentist! But Dave spoke with such genius and sincerity that our respect superceded guilt.
Turns out my computer is registered with NYU, so even though I have Apple care, I’m not eligible for a replacement power cord until I transfer registration to my name. What a hassle after a midnight trip to a no alcohol bar. Power cords cost $80. Woody needed a new power cord and a new battery. I’m beginning to think Apple might be a bit rotten…
Not only is this Rue McClanahan day, but Oscar night! I will be a panelist at the Pieces party, making fun of celebrity-wear and performing Oscar winning songs (although I refuse to sing any Randy Newman.) I can hardly contain myself.
In honor of such a special occasion, I thought we’d play a game. It’s called Guess that Zellweger! OK. It’s real simple. Look at this picture of Renee. What is that scrunched-up face feeling? It’s hard to tell. Isn’t it.
Is she happy? Mad, glad, sad? Is she accepting an Oscar? Or did she and Kenny Chesney just sign divorce papers? Did she catch some concessions girl timing her in the bathroom?
Big shout-out to friend and musician (with a show Thursday night) John McGrew for telling them what’s up. I got my fifteen minutes of fame. Apparently, if a blog features a section that puns off of diarrhea, I’m the shit.
Don’t forget to enter the Rue-did-she-wash-her-McClanahands? contest. Right now, guesses are a bit on the high side. You might want to go with a breakaway answer like 30 seconds, roughly enough time for Rue to powder her nose and do a quick fennel-seed-in-the-teeth check.
And thanks for the positive feedback on Trybecca. Gosh ya’ll, I’m just a regular girl from North Carolina. Today saw a 90% rise in readership! Over 300 of you visited. It’s obvious this was due to Ash Wednesday. I sense that Catholic bloggers appreciate tasteful potty humor. Like how I refrained from writing Poo McClanahan or Golden Shower Girls. Hope you subscribe!
As many of you know, I’m Director of Human Resources for a small start-up company that runs academic summer camps. That means I’m in charge of hiring teachers. I print resumes using a benighted, slow software called Taleo, and then I pile them on the floor. There’s the “too educated” pile and the “your instead of you’re” pile and the “did I meet her at a party?” pile, and of course, the “call to interview” pile. My friends will tell you that in real life I’m the most non-judgemental person they know. While I’d like to think the same holds true in Human Resouces World, it doesn’t always. Sometimes when I’m piling resumes I hear the American Idol sliding guitar riff in my head (nnrrrr nrrrrrrrrrr!) and a British voice intoning: “That was awwwful. Wretched. If your lifeguarding duties were as good as your cover letter, a lot of people would be drowning.” There’s an applicant pool joke in there somewhere, too.
Yesterday, I interviewed a pre-med model hoping to teach Psychology at one of our camps. She got major points for effortlessly saying the word “plasticity” while dissing fake designer bags, then lost them for recommending “kid’s movies” as a preferable educational tool for high schoolers. It was up in the air, really, until I asked her to elaborate on this relevant experience:
Efficiently handled rats in an appropriate manner in accordance with NIH policy; implemented sacrifices in order to obtain data from taking blood samples of subjects via guillotine beheading
It’d been awhile since I’d gotten to ask a potential camp employee and current model about blood sacrifice and guillotine beheading. It was awesome. Basically, as part of her research at a Center for Alcohol Studies (doesn’t Lindsay Lohan take classes at one of those?) this girl would liquor up rats, observe their drunken behavior, swing them around by the tails to induce further discombobulation, and then–here it comes, the money shot–chop off their heads in the traditional french fashion. I was full of questions that had nothing to do with camp. Do you serve the rats generic or Top Shelf liquor? How do you know they’re drunk? Is it because you put them behind the wheel of a tiny car? Do you use an actual mini guillotine?
She walked me through the process in graphic detail. The phrase “bloated douchebag,” in reference to a particularly mean rat, was uttered. There were sweet smiles and plenty of air-guillotining, which is something like air-guitaring, only different.
Can you hear it now, too? The Idol music? (Nrrrrrrrr nrrrrrrrrrrrrr)
Nah, she was a smart, qualified girl. My interview game was a little off because right before, I’d overheard my boss off-handedly mention the asteroid scheduled to strike earth in the year 2036. My co-workers responded with a casual chorus of “Oh I know” and “Has NASA tagged it yet?” while of course I was like “What the fuck?!” It’s called Apophis. It’s 1000 feet wide. Thanks to Wikipedia, I soon learned that Apophis was the snakey deification of darkness and chaos. Even if NASA is on top of averting this rock–and I hope Lisa Nowak wasn’t Project Head–was naming it after an evil demon the best way to curtail mass panic? We’ve all seen “Deep Impact.” And the asteroid in that movie was only called a non-threatening Wolf Biederman.
I spent the remainder of my afternoon fearing Apophis and contemplating a space other than My. Apparently, it’s hard to have sex there. I think this diagram helps:
Happy President’s Day, or, as I like to call it, “Catch Up on Oscar Nominated Movies Day.” In my previous post I promised detailed holiday coverage, but I only left the apartment once today and that was to get a humus platter. I can tell you we had very little water pressure this morning and that my neighbors in Williamsburg are talking about Britney’s pageboy wig, not George Washington’s:
President’s Day, in my opinion, works against the President’s favor. Calling attention to a man and an administration that would best benefit from, say, “Don’t Read the Paper Day” strikes me as odd. It’s like waking up with an enormous lip blister, turning on the news, discovering it’s “National Cold Sore Prevention Day,” and going through with a presentation. It’s bad timing. The last thing this President needs is an American public with contemplative free time on a day devoted to him. It’s a recipe for rally: holiday halted trains and mail, vacation from mind numbing Excel spreadsheets, and long movie lines.
Well, that’s settled.
Does anybody still celebrate President’s Day? I’m reminded of Elaine Stritch in Sondheim’s Company asking in a drunken rasp: Does anybody…still wear…a hat? It’s confusing. Actually, Washington’s Birthday is still the official name for today. When Congress passed the 1968 Monday Holiday Act and moved the celebration to accomodate Lincoln’s Birthday (the holiday is now always after Lincoln’s birthday and before Washington’s), it popularized the broader yet inaccurate term President’s Day. So am I supposed to stick to the Congressionally mandated name and only honor Washington? Or Washington and Lincoln? Or all Presidents? Can’t I just go and see Pan’s Labyrinth?
I have no problem paying homage to George Washington, although if I’m truly honest with myself, it’s because I see him as Barry Bostwick. For a few months in seventh grade, I hibernated after school in my basement playing Duck Hunt and obsessively rewatching the eight hour George Washington mini-series. I didn’t much care for Bostwick’s farewell scene to the troops at Valley Forge but I liked the parts where a young Washington let a well-educated Jaclyn Smith take off his tri-cornered hat.
I am proud to live in an country that affords me some degree of self-determination. We are a nation of spunk and fortitude. Despite my cynicism, I can occasionally make out Gatsby’s green light through the smog–after all, why else would I drop money on blog business cards? We see something we want, we go after it. We grab the razor from the hands of the hairdresser. We teach our cats autonomy.
America, scoopnomore!
As victims of Presidential incompetency, we don’t kowtow, we fight back by purchasing “Number of Days Left in Office” keychains and downloading the Dixie Chicks.
In August 2004, on the eve of the Republican convention, I marched in the Anti-Bush rally. This was before we had the spirit sucked out of us, before we watched the map turn red. I remember two things about that afternoon. I remember inching up Manhattan in solidarity, harnessing a hope that would carry us not only from West Fourth to Times Square, but all the way to war’s end. I also remember marching alongside a boy I had met the night before, gotten drunk with, gone home with and, unfortunately, woken up with. We had absolutely nothing in common except, well, Absolut. And the dream of an ousted Bush. That morning, we agreed both were enough. We sipped coffee on a stoop. We amassed with our fellow protesters, held hands, and made our slow hungover way uptown crying “Four More Months!” This was my version of the 60’s. We kissed in view of a Bush marrionette. At Penn Station we hugged and promised to vote. I never saw him again.
I think about stuff like that on President’s Day, not this. I don’t believe in chronological order so much as emotional.
On a lighter note, isn’t James Polk better looking than anyone might have guessed?
And on a lighter but also heavier note, isn’t it funny that William Taft got stuck in the White House bathtub?
I don’t know what’s funnier: that he got stuck, or that he was taking a bath.
Thanks to all of you who devoted a portion of your President’s Day to reading and promoting my blog. Please keep passing me along! The upcoming weeks should be exciting here in Trybecca, what with the introduction of a more interactive interface. OK. That’s misleading. What I mean is, you all get to vote on stuff and win prizes. President’s Day, if anything, should remind you of your coggy role in the electoral machine.
This week, enter the Rue-did-she-wash-her-McClanahands? contest. That’s right. Next Sunday night, according to the Gutenberg! guest list, Blanche from Golden Girls will be paying a visit to Concessions.
Remember: I never accost celebrities for pictures and autographs. I time how long they stayed on the toilet and tell you whether or not they tipped me at Concessions.
To enter this week’s contest, simply email me (click on Talk to Me in the upper right hand corner) your full name, email address, and answers to the following questions:
1)How long will Rue McClanahan stay in the bathroom? (Note: not going is also an acceptable answer.)
2)What, if anything, will Rue McClanahan purchase at Concessions? Please indicate one or more of the following: Diet Coke * Coke * Poland Springs * Ginger Ale * Red Wine * White Wine * Heineken * Budweiser * Coors Light * Twizzlers * Snickers * Skittles * Kitt-Katt * Combos (cracker shell with cheddar cheese) * Plain M&Ms * Peanut M&Ms * Reeses Peanut Butter Cups (Note: the sign reads Resses)* Mentos
3)Will Rue McClanahan tip me? If so, how much?
The winner will receive two free tickets to Gutenberg!The Musical!, a Concessions gift basket, his/her picture on Trybecca, and a poetry book of my choosing.
Keep checking in this week for details on my upcoming performance of “My Heart Will Go On” in the sparkle pantsuit as a featured panelist at the Pieces Oscar party.
