Category Archives: Weird Weird Weird
Okay, I realize you have probably already seen this Prancercise workout video. It’s got five million hits on YouTube (I can personally account for at least three dozen), and its viralization has been endlessly covered from the Today Show to the HuffPo. But I have got to say that this is the weirdest shit I have seen (outside a lock-down ward) in a very long time, and I would be remiss if I didn’t point it out to you on the off chance it had escaped your notice.
Remember that weird kid in first grade who ate paste? I think we’ve finally found out what became of her.
“I cook to inspire my husband to pay attention to me.”
– Sonia Rumzi, Simple Conversation
As the quote above comes from a work of fiction, I am relieved to report it was never (to my knowledge) uttered by a real human being, though the fact that an author would even think it up is disturbing enough that it gave me pause.
I stumbled upon this little gem as I was trolling for snappy food and cooking quotes and was intrigued enough to look up the book, which apparently involves online dating, food and a woman so fascinatingly tragic she merits primary character status in a published work of fiction. It was reviewed by one reader as follows:
The characters I found humerus and charming.
Hmm, perhaps I’ll give this one a miss.
I do however, find the quote sufficiently alarming to issue the following warning: Ladies, if your husband isn’t paying attention to you (and you find that you give a shit), do NOT, under any circumstances, attempt to get his attention with a well prepared meal. This gives rise to unrealistic expectations and sets a dangerous marital precedent. Instead get a bikini wax, put on some lipstick and a pair of heels and give him another chance. Failing that, grab the Doritos and shoot out the TV. If he’s still tuned out, trade up. I hear this guy may be available, and apparently he’s more interested in drinks than dinner. Perfect!
This has been bugging me for some weeks now, and since I’m currently experiencing writer’s block that will probably require a six hour subway ride, an extended shamble through Times Square and half a gallon of vodka to clear, I figured I’d bring it up. I hope you don’t mind.
As I look through the stats for my tatty little corner of the interwebs, I frequently take note of which posts garner the most attention, or “hits” as those of us with great technical expertise call them. Almost invariably, this post is at or near the top of the list.
Now, when I wrote it way back in November of last year, nobody read it. I mean no one. Yet somehow it manages to attract multiple views on a regular basis, and for the life of me I can’t understand why.
Lots of people, and by that I mean a handful which is a lot by my standards, also take a look at a post I wrote about the perils and pleasures pink wine. That I can fathom. It was actually kind of funny and since we’ve become a nation of oenophiles (or filthy drunks as my Grammie Sue used to say), I can understand the interest. This post appeared about the same time as the pantry one, so maybe there’s some kind of unholy alliance happening between them. Or maybe it’s just a random event.
So anyways, if you can shed any light on this pantry business, I’d be most grateful. Whatever I did with that post, I’d like to start repeating it, so as to turn my little essay mosh pit into, if not a moneymaking effort, at least a break even proposition.
Yesterday, I was riding uptown on the number 1 train, or the IRT as those of us old enough to recall New York when it was worse (and we liked it that way) sometimes refer to it, when a group of Mexican buskers boarded my car and favored us all with a little musica. Now I always enjoy an impromptu concert during my commute and generally tip the performers to say thanks; yesterday’s trip was no exception.
But as they strummed and sang, it occurred to me that, as far as I could tell, they were singing exactly the same song that every Mexican group I have ever heard on the subway performs. You know the one — it’s an up-tempo, cheery number that’s rendered on a couple of guitars, occasionally accompanied by an accordion, and it usually features two vocalists. This one:
So what I’m wondering is this. Do they all really sing the same song, or do I just think so because I don’t speak Spanish and am completely tone deaf? Maybe it’s easier to dance if you only have one song or it could be that’s why so many musicians come here — to expand their repertoire.
So yesterday I’m sitting on the uptown F train wondering how the hell I’m going to get back in the swing, blogwise, after an extended hiatus from any serious writing. I mean I am racking my brain for inspiration and just coming up empty, teetering on the edge of some serious writer’s block and staring down the barrel of a full fledged panic attack.
And it is just then, in my moment of despair, that the gods of blogorreah smile down upon me and the proverbial clouds part — well actually the two fat guys standing directly in front of me took off for empty seats at either end of the car. So anyways I look up and I see this.
Yankees cologne. Yup, really. And just to be sure everyone can get in on the act, there’s also a fragrance for her. Look!
Now I’m not going to elaborate on the obvious, cheap references to the smell of Sabathia’s jock, a Bronx urinal or A-Rod’s preferred feminine wash; instead, I will just say, “Thank you, Mssrs Steinbrenner, Jeter and Rodriguez. You have reignited the flickering spark of snark in my twisted, Boston sports-obsessed mind and lit my way back to the land of the writing. Once again.”