I have become obsessed with several celebrities lately. ‘Celebrity’ might not be the best term for any of them, but it’s probably the kindest. Since the internet is the internet, there are myriad ways for me to indulge this new fixation. I can find dozens of pictures of them, read interviews with them and find news stories and gossip about their crazy lives. This only fuels the fire!
First Up: Gary Busey.
There is almost nothing about Gary Busey that doesn’t simultaneously fascinate and terrify me. I love his pearls of crackhead wisdom. His face looks like a bowl of angry bread pudding with dentures. He rambles on like a drunken prophet and you can’t help but think that he’s either out of his mind or he’s on a completely different level of consciousness than the rest of us. If I ever reached that level I would be dead in 5 minutes.
I marveled at his interviews from the DVD Extras for ‘Point Break’. While every other interview took place on a sound stage (and I think they interviewed everyone who had anything to do with that movie, from some random surfers who saw it to the guy who stocked the pastry cart), Gary was filmed on the porch of a cabin somewhere in the woods. I think he told the producers, “You want to talk to me? Fine. Come find me.” He is wearing a hunting cap, and even though you only see him from the shoulders down, it’s obvious to me that he is cradling a shotgun in his lap. His answers to questions are completely random and even though they probably tried to edit them into some semblance of a normal, linear conversation, it’s clear they would make the same amount of sense played both forwards and backwards.
As much time as I spend googling him, were I to actually meet Gary Busey on the street I would run the other way. This is a common theme among my internet obsessions.
Next Up: Pete Doherty.
[Subtitle: Molly Might Need to be on Clozapine]
Sharp Cheddar: Is fun to have around but sometimes hits a little too close to the mark with her jokes. Zesty.
Mild Cheddar: Bland, but dependable. She’s who you’d call if you wanted someone to see 27 Dresses with; if you actually want to see 27 Dresses. I do not.
Monterey Jack: Is that guy you are always trying to set friends up with, but it never pans out. He’s too nice or something. Or he sweats a lot, and tells meandering stories. Either or. Somehow off.
Swiss: This guy’s got a nutty flair, and an exotic European edge. But there’s something you don’t trust. Sometimes you feel like you can see right through him.
Me: I think we’re in too deep if we’re seriously considering this.
Robbins: He’s the only source we have! If we don’t make a deal with him, Couglin’s a dead man. So’s anyone else who gets caught on the inside.
Me: Couglin knew what he was getting into when he started.
Robbins: So you’re willing to leave a man behind?
Me: All I’m saying is, I don’t negotiate with criminals.
Robbins: I know. But you’ve got to look at it my way.
Me: I am, I just—
(Pause)
Me: Is that my stapler?
Robbins: You have to—what? Is that…are you serious?
Me: You heard me.
Robbins: It—no! It’s not…I brought it from home.
Me: It looks an awful lot like one I used to have that went missing.
Robbins: Can we please get back to—
Me: Look, there’s some sticky stuff on the top where I had a label with my name. You even peeled off my label!
Robbins: Would you mind if we did this later?
Me: I’m just saying. That’s not a cheap stapler.
Robbins: He’s the only source we have.
After a morning of exertion in my walk-in humidor (Mother Riche’s illustrious collection of the hand-mirrors of silver screen legends do not archive themselves), I like to begin the day with a hearty breakfast; namely, a raisin floating in a snifter of Grey Goose. I do not as a rule enjoy the sensation of physical effort, but I find that there are certain tasks which must be personally undertaken—especially those of a more delicate nature. (Joan Crawford’s mirror grew legs the last time I trusted my collection to a corrupt concierge.)
Yes, I have learnt my lesson well. Employ a single unsavory professional to dust and organize your jars of urine, and the scandalous unauthorized biographies practically write and publish themselves. As a side note, the unethical leaders of Butler University should be charged with criminal conduct for their school’s completely deceptive and misleading moniker.
It is thoughts such as these that leave me wistful for the simple, carefree days of my youth. My adopted Micronesian sibling and I summered with our Uncle Donald on West Egg for several weeks every August. Roughing it, good-naturedly, we fed ourselves by hand, slept in the same room on beds with only one sleep number, and showered under a single massaging jet.
Uncle Donald (or ‘Baron’, as he preferred to be called) was a roughneck tradesman who had a share in a modest sixty-acre alpaca ranch, a bootstrapping upstart business that was the first to corner the market on the alpaca wool nappies that have long enjoyed popularity on Park Avenue bottoms in cathedral-ceiling Park Avenue nurseries. Alpaca wool is said to have both soothing and odor-absorbing properties— after all, when was the last time you smelled an alpaca? There could have been one sitting right next to you on the Friday afternoon jet to Montenegro, reading an advance copy of the Times Sunday Book Review, and you, on the phone scheduling an emergency hot stone massage, would have thought to yourself, “Why, Diane Keaton is looking better than ever these days,” as it ordered a wheatgrass martini.
Kristyn Meyer folds her long legs beneath her in the coveted corner booth of Le Crepe Beret, a Manhattan hotspot that boasts a waiting list of several hundred hopeful diners each night. She orders a cup of bay leaf tea and a baked raisin, spreading her napkin gracefully over shapely knees.
“I love this place,” the dainty twenty-three year old says, leaning forward with impulsive charm. “I wish I could live here.” I nod, and she continues. “I’ve actually looked into buying one of the apartment buildings across the street, just so I can be closer. You never know when you’re going to be hit with a craving for one of Beret’s moss dumplings.” She chuckles ruefully.
“Unfortunately, the apartment deal fell through. They didn’t allow animals in the building, and I really love animals. I can’t live in a building that doesn’t have animals in it. They just contribute so much good emotional energy to a place, you know?”
With her shining eyes and laughing hair, it is difficult not to love this vivacious honey-blonde upon first meeting. Hollywood is well aware of Kristyn’s widespread appeal, which is why she has been cast as the female lead in the last four box-office smash romantic comedies, as well as the upcoming Sassy Dames, an eagerly anticipated contemporary remake of Gone With the Wind.
When I bring up her recent successes, though, her sunny disposition becomes overcast.
“It’s not easy being a celebrity, you know?” she muses. “If you wear the wrong pants out one day, then the next day, it’s like, everybody’s talking about it.”
Kristyn’s face now shows a ten percent chance of rain.
“My friends tell me I need to just live my life,” she muses, with a faraway gaze. “And I’m like, ‘you know what? That’s easy for you to say. Nobody cares what pants YOU wear!” She laughs. “I mean, am I right?” Her good humor is contagious; I notice that customers at surrounding tables are looking at us with bemused smiles.
The food arrives. “They make the best raisin here!” Kristyn says, clapping her hands excitedly. “I order it every time. I always tell myself, ‘Kristyn! Try something else! The fig looks good too!’ But then the when the waiter comes, I’m like, ‘I’ll have the raisin.’” She grins ruefully.
I ask her what her favorite food is.
She looks at me. “The raisin.”
Kristyn tells me that a combination of yoga, walking, and natural laxatives keep her looking trim and fit.
“I don’t know what I’d do without that regimen,” she says. “Walking just keeps me feeling so balanced. It’s like, whenever there’s stress in my life, I just walk around a little, and I can feel myself forgetting about it. It’s so soothing.”
I ask about the natural laxatives, and she looks at me sharply. “I didn’t say that. I don’t do anything like that.”
I decide to change the subject. Tabloids have recently reported that the percentage of celebrities undergoing plastic surgery and other extreme measures to maintain their looks have skyrocketed in recent years, to nearly 85%. Asked what she thinks of this, Kristyn shakes her head and puts down her last forkful.
“I just don’t understand it,” she says disdainfully. “I mean, putting plastic in your face and your boobs so they look better? Disgusting. And so pathetic. It’s like, if God wants you to be wrinkly and old, then you better be wrinkly and old, because that’s what God wants, you know?”
“Plus,” she adds impishly, “What’s so bad about wrinkles? Some of my favorite things are wrinkled.”
She winks at me, and quips, “Like raisins!”
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It’s time to pack your bags! You’re going on a trip to the moon!
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The temperature on the moon is negative seventy degrees. So make sure to pack warm socks, and a peanut butter sandwich.
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It takes many light years to reach the moon, so get comfortable! It’s a good thing you’re in a turbo-charged spaceship. If you were traveling to the moon by car, going eighty miles an hour, it would take a lot longer. If a baby were born the day you left, its great-great grandchildren would be dead before you got there. Bring some music to play during your trip.
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There is no food on the moon. There is no ice cream either. The longest a person can go without food is ten days. If they have water to drink, they can last for twenty days.
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There is no water on the moon, either.
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When you are in outer space, there is no gravity. You can float through the air. The food and liquid you brought aboard your spaceship can float as well!
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Be careful, and don’t bump your head on any sharp corners in your space cabin. If you bleed, your blood will float through the air in tiny red droplets. That might make you go crazy.
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In space, there is no one for millions of miles in any direction. Good thing you brought your Teddy Bear. I hope he likes you.
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You have landed on the moon! Be sure to take a picture out the window of your spaceship.
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Now that you are here, don’t go outside unless you are wearing a special Moonsuit. There is no oxygen in the moon’s atmosphere. If you leave your spaceship without a special Moonsuit, the atmospheric pressure will shrivel you until you look like a dried-up matchstick.
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So zip up your moonsuit, and put your helmet on tight!
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Step down from your ship. You are on the surface of the moon! Have a good look around. The night sky is beautiful.
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You can see planet Earth, a billion miles away. Did you tell your Mommy where you were going? Maybe it’s time to head back. She’s probably very worried.
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On the long ride home, think about all the fun you had on your trip to the moon! Remember how small your home planet looked from such a distance? Nothing really matters anymore, now that you have been so far from home.
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Nobody on Earth will really understand what you mean by that. It will make you feel like you are all alone in space again.
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You think you have left the moon, but you can never really leave it. It will always be with you.
THE END.
Dear Ms. Schoemann,
First of all, I would like to thank you for your patronage of Cooking Monthly, America’s leading resource for culinary information and advice. We truly appreciate your interest in our publication, and your obvious devotion to our goal of keeping the kitchen fun and lively.
As you well know, each issue of Cooking Monthly includes a feature known as “Kitchen Quick Tips”—ideas and suggestions for how to improve cooking methods and procedures, which are selected from reader submissions. The editing staff here at Cooking Monthly carefully reviews and considers each submission. That said, we would like to respectfully request that you cease sending us your “Quick Tips”. We appreciate your enthusiasm in this pursuit, but as of this month, none of your seventeen submissions have been remotely viable. A few have the potential to be deadly.
Your observation that ‘microwaving silverware and cutlery helps give your guests a warm and cozy impression during a cold winter meal’ made us wonder how you are still alive. We were surprised that you continued to send us tips after that.
Moreover, our staff can in no way endorse your suggestion to ‘pour breakfast cereal into a thermos and add the milk the night before. When you grab it in the morning, give it several firm shakes, and you’ve got a delicious breakfast beverage.’ Frankly, that idea made one of our editors ill.
While your discovery that a pint of Jack Daniels can be hidden in an oven mitt was certainly inventive, we failed to see how it was a useful cooking tip.
Furthermore, I would like to add that if any members of the Cooking Monthly staff ever attended a dinner party at which the table centerpiece was a roll of paper towels stood on end, wearing a baseball cap, we would leave immediately.
Granted, your ideas and suggestions did cause a stir among our writing staff, and did not go completely unappreciated, in a way. However, enough is enough. Please keep future tips to yourself—or, better yet, submit them to your local precinct. They would be well advised to keep an eye you.
Sincerely,
Harold Blige, Senior Editor
Cooking Monthly
Critics have long disagreed on the literary and historical significance of Emily Brown’s earliest known works, although it is interesting to note that of the many volumes of stories, diaries and poems attributed to her, only a very small number of these were written when the author was past the age of ten.
The reason for Brown’s mysterious and abrupt cessation in producing work has long been a subject of debate, and was the inspiration behind several fascinating dissertations by a number of established literary theorists. These include Theodore Klemp’s widely published essay “Emily Brown: Putting down the Pen after Puberty”, as well as Dr. Marvin Meddlestein’s critically acclaimed thesis, “The Fifth Grade: Did it Crush Her Creative Spirit?”
Two of Brown’s latest known works, written in the twilight of the spring before her tenth birthday and discovered by her mother while she was sifting through the back of Brown’s closet to locate the Easter decorations, seemed to support Meddlestein’s theory. One of these was an unfinished essay, written for school and never handed in, entitled “Why a No-TV Rule is a Bad Idea”. The second work, a poem entitled, “The Backyard is Totally Big Enough for Me to Have a Pony”, shows us the inner workings of a mind tormented by the restrictions enforced upon its owner’s vibrant imagination.
“The Morris twins each have their own ponies/ It is not fair/ That I can’t even have one pony” Brown writes. “The backyard is totally big enough/ For a little tiny pony to run around in/ Why do we have a big stupid dog/ And not a cute pony/ They eat sugar cubes.” (Brown, Collected Poems Vol. II, 1997)
When you get down to brass tacks, Patrick Ewing doesn’t stand a chance of being better than birds.
For one thing, as poetical as you might like to be in describing his graceful and airborne movements on the basketball field, Patrick Ewing can’t even fly. He doesn’t come close to flying, if flying describes a movement in which an object, such as bird or potentially Patrick Ewing if he could fly which he can’t, leaves the ground for a fairly long period of time. Let’s say at least a minute. I have never seen Patrick Ewing leave the ground for that long. I’m not saying I watch him all the time; but I’m sure that if he has I would have heard about it in the news. So, Patrick Ewing loses at flying, and birds win. Sure, you could argue that there are certain birds that can’t fly, like the kiwi and the ostrich. My response to that is, those are only a small fraction of the entire population of birds. Possibly there are small fractions of Patrick Ewing that can fly, like his shoes, particularly if they are thrown upwards with great force.
Then you have the matter of eating. Birdwatching has blossomed into a fine and respectable hobby in the last century. People even put feeders in their backyards and fill them with seeds in order to watch birds eat from the comfort of their homes. If I ever saw Patrick Ewing eating out of my birdfeeder I would immediately draw my blinds in protest. That is not where he belongs.
Now, don’t assume that I was not going to take into account the fact that there are many things that Patrick Ewing can do well, that birds can’t. This is a valid point. Patrick Ewing, from what I understand, is a basketball champion. He has game. And while birds also have game, it is more in the arena of worm location and nest building, neither of which will get you drafted into the NBA. However, while Patrick Ewing can brag about how many high scores he can get in a basketball game, he also has something that birds lack: arms. Birds really don’t have arms– they have wings, but wings serve one purpose only, while arms are useful in many various ways. So of course Patrick Ewing is good at basketball! But why isn’t he good at nest building? You would think, with arms like his, that he would also be a champion nest builder. And yet, you will find, that there is no record of any sort of nest that has ever been created by Patrick Ewing with his arms. This is because he is lazy, and because of that, he is far inferior to birds in every meaningful way. The early Patrick Ewing does not get the worm, because he never bothers to, even though he could easily do so with his arms.
I rest my case.
I Heard Tell 