Saturday, November 28, 2009

Danke Schoen

I am David Hasselhoff. And not because I was videotaped lying in a drunken heap on the floor scarfing cheeseburgers. (Well, not just because...)

According to my site statistics of late -- I am huge in Germany.

Perhaps the fact that I'm wearing a dirndl in my profile picture has finally paid off. Perhaps my German readers appreciate that I host a big Oktoberfest party every year. Perhaps my love of wieners is blatantly obvious.

Thank you, Germany. With apologies to the great JFK, "I am a (not worthy) donut."

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Breast Man

One Thanksgiving, I drove to Virginia Beach to have Thanksgiving Dinner with my parents. It was just going to be the three of us that year...having a small, quiet, family Thanksgiving.

Until my dad was (characteristically) inspired to do something really nice. He found out that an artist he worked with had nowhere to go for the holiday, so he invited the guy to share the day with us, too.

The man was a freakishly talented painter and a raging alcoholic. The guy didn't drive, so my father offered to pick him up and drive him to our house, with the stipulation that the invitation was contigent on the guy not having anything to drink that day.  (Let's be honest here...telling an alcoholic they cannot have booze on a holiday is like telling Lindsay Lohan that she should not wear leggings as pants -- even though they know the results will be disastrous, the allure is just too great.)

I'm pretty sure you can guess how this played out. The guy was tanked when my dad got to his house. My dad, not wanting the guy to be drunk and alone on Thanksgiving (showing of hands, please...how many of you would LOVE to be drunk and alone on Thanksgiving?), loaded the guy into the car and brought him over. He poured this guy into his chair at the dinner table and the guy proceeded to say the most foul, obscene and lecherous things to and about my mother and I all during dinner.

I could see my father's face getting redder as he tried to contain this guy's outbursts as much as possible and scolded him after each new rude remark. It was really, really uncomfortable. Until it got really, really funny. After a while, we all realized that this guy was so out of it that he had no idea what he was saying and each inappropriate comment became more hilarious. (Especially when we'd toss in asides like, "I bet this is just like the first Thanksgiving" and "Pass the stuffing, Sugar Tits.")

Dinner seemed to last an eternity, then my dad did the "driving home of drunken artist friend" that is so steeped in Thanksgiving tradition.

Hoping yours is memorable too,
Brutalism

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Eek! A Mouse

Late last night, we got back from our trip to Disney World. In the past five days, my child was made over princess style at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique (I threw up a little in my mouth as I was typing that), dined with Cinderella at her castle, ate breakfast with Minnie, Donald and Goofy, and observed giraffes, zebras and other animals from the balcony of our hotel room at the Animal Kingdom Lodge. (Envision Canetto and I looking pathetic while pulling out pocket linings here.)

I have lots to discuss from this trip including, but not limited to, the vast scooter brigade, the all-Christian-all-the-time programming on the hotel television (except for the Miley Cyrus channel), and the area of Fantasyland called "Pooh's Playful Spot." You read that right. Chewing gum is the devil, but they name a children's playground after a pantsless bear's privates.

Back in realityland,
Brutalism

Friday, November 13, 2009

Ass-ault On My Sense Of Justice

Did any of you see this a few weeks ago?

Man who threw feces in CA courtroom gets 31 years.

(Take a moment to peruse, then continue on to the commentary and discussion questions below...)

1) Please do not let it be lost on you that the Judge's name is Judge Brown.

2) I appreciate the clarification that it was "his" feces. Did they analyze it? Did they ask?  Is it any more or less gross or does it add anything to the story by specifically designating them (it?) as "his" feces? (As my friend, Simon, noted, "I can see him in the interview room: "Of course it was my own feces; what kind of weirdo do you take me for?")

3) How quickly do you think the juror dumped (pun intended) the computer case?

4) How does one sneak a bag of feces into a courtroom under their clothes? (This is a rhetorical question. RHETORICAL!)

5) If a feces-flinging robber heads north at 65 mph and passes an unsuspecting lawyer heading south going 45 mph, at what point does the lawyer decide that he might just want a nice data entry job?

Hoping they cannot find a jury of his peers,
Brutalism

Thursday, November 12, 2009

It's Real...And It's Spectacular

Yesterday, while spending several hours fostering my delusions of grandeur by adding snooty-toot titles in front of my name, I was at work, I received my first invitation to attend an event as a "key influencer."

And not just any event, an event at Radio City Music Hall for "bloggers and other key influencers" to celebrate The Christmas Spectacular in New York City. Which is only something I have wanted to see since I was a kid, having heard nothing but fantastic things about this for as long as I can remember. (It really is one of the quintessential New York City experiences...along with being urinated on and getting yelled at by a deli owner when you don't understand that a "regular" coffee is one that comes with milk and sugar.)

Assignment: In ten words or less, please let me know how I have influenced you, gentle Brutalism reader. Extra points if your comment is in the form of haiku, references fecal matter or is sent from a correctional facility.

The exclusive (If you wondered how much I loved typing that the party I was invited to is “exclusive” and thought “I bet she loved it a lot,”....you would be right.) party celebrates the 2009 Radio City Christmas Spectacular and would have me mingling with the world-famous Radio City Rockettes, Santa Claus, and other bloggers from the area. (Which, honestly, has been a fantasy of mine since forever. Except that in my version, the Rockettes are naked except for dirty argyle socks, Santa is a Siamese twin, and we are all eating Kentucky hot browns.) (I know. A rather pedestrian fantasy for someone who calls herself "Brutalism.")

So kill me. As awesome as that sounds, I have an awesome conflict and cannot go. This, my friends, is what is known as "bittersweet."

Make me feel better by going to see this fabulous show and by following the (aptly-named) Spectacular on Twitter and Facebook: www.twitter.com/rockettes and www.facebook.com/radiocitychristmas. And by sending me beer.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Most Excellent

Canetto suggested we purchase a membership to Wolf Trap because we want to get our Chris Isaak and Mamma Mia! tickets a day earlier than the people in steerage are major supporters of the arts.

Because I have to do everything, he made me complete the transaction (not a euphemism). And I have just this to say: Wolf Trap...your "title" section of the Membership form is an immature woman's playground.

The drop-down menu included the following:

Mr.
Mrs.
Ms.
Miss
Dr.
Drs.
Admiral
Ambassador
Attorney General
Baroness
Brigadier General
Brother
Capt.
Chairman
Cmdr.
Col.
Col. (R)
Colonel
Congressman
Congresswoman
Delegate
Father
General
Governor
Her Excellency
His Excellency
His Royal Highness
Judge
Lady
Lieutenant Governor
Lord
Lt.
Lt. Col.
Lt. Gen.
Lt. Gen. (R)
LTC
Madam
Major
Major General
Master
Mayor
President
Prince
Prof.
Professor
Rabbi
Rear Admiral
Representative
Reverend
Secretary
Senator
Sir
Sir/Madam
Sister
Supervisor
The Honorable
Vice Admiral

Moments ago, I received the following confirmation e-mail from Wolf Trap:

Dear Her Excellency Canedo:

We have charged your American Express $65.00 for your new Friend membership.

Let them eat cake,
Brutalism

Addenda:
1) Second runner up was going to be "Baroness and Rabbi Canedo"
2) Wolf Trap would probably be none the wiser had I not gone with the cheapest Membership option

Monday, November 09, 2009

It Feels Just Like I'm Walking On Broken Glass

When I was in junior high, my family moved into a new housing development in Virginia Beach. It was a beautiful neighborhood -- it had lots of mature trees that the developer built around, and many homes were on deep water. It was a lovely neighborhood in which to take walks and go exploring. It was also a lovely neighborhood in which teenagers, thanks to the few residents and secluded surroundings, would pull into undeveloped cul-de-sacs, park and drink a lot of beer (as evidenced by the sheer quantity of smashed beer bottles and empty cans in the middle of the cul-de-sacs after any weekend).

One Sunday afternoon, my best friend, Kathyconnolly, and I were doing some exploring and walked into one of these vacant cul-de-sacs. (Kathyconnolly and I met in the gifted program in 7th grade. The irony of that based on the events I'm about to share is really quite priceless.) We saw a huge pile of broken beer bottles in the middle and in a moment of what my mother likes to refer to as "missing out on the common sense gene" absolute fearlessnesss, I decided that I must walk across it barefoot.

Kathyconnolly, being the great and supportive friend that she is, told me I was an effing moron. Was I going to be deterred by her lack of joie de vivre? No way. Instead, I worked to persuade her about why this was a great idea. Notably, that "Loni Anderson had performed the same stunt on Circus of the Stars."

This is why I am not a lawyer. Can you just see me in the courtroom: "Your honor, the reason my client did this is because Loni Anderson did it on Circus of the Stars." It would come to be known in the law books as the "B-List Defense".

Anyway, bolstered by a confidence that is found only in the clinically insane (and Loni Anderson, apparently), I took off my (powder-blue) Docksiders and began my journey across the pile of (likely tetanus-ridden) smashed beer bottles. I made it approximately six inches in before my feet were shredded into bloody ribbons and I was screaming, "OW, OW, OW, OW, OW" while reaching for Kathyconnolly so she could rescue me from the jagged shards of hell.

I limped home, convincing her along the way that my parents didn't really need to hear about this little episode.

And by the way, here's my muse:



Big deal. I could have done it with the benefit of a beadazzled cape and a Loretta Swit introduction, too,
Brutalism

Friday, November 06, 2009

Coming Soon To A Theatre Near You

Often, I e-mail myself with (riotously funny) blog post ideas because if I don't, they immediately leave my booze-addled brain and I will be staring at a blank computer screen into the wee hours of the morning trying to remember the story that was finally going to put Brutalism on the map.

This also serves to provide the "full e-mail inbox" validation that I crave, and if that must be achieved by sending e-mail to myself, then so what? (Though I do wish I would stop sending myself performance enhancment product solicitations.)

I just came across one of these "e-mails to self" that I sent to me a few weeks ago. It includes the following suggested topics:
  • Disappearing after Children of the Corn late show with Erle
  • Simon -- G.G. Allin documentary, convincing me for years that I broke wind when I fell asleep in a room full of people (I didn't), threesome in New Orleans
  • Kath -- walking across broken glass a la Loni Anderson, Circus of the Stars
Much like movie trailers, I'm thinking these stories may be more compelling in the abbreviated format above. I ask you, gentle readers, do you want the whole story(ies) or is it more fun to let your minds wander?

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

The Curse Of The Minibar

(Originally posted 12/17/04 -- but deserves another run...)

Have I mentioned that I worked for THE ORGANIZATION THAT DOES NOT HATE FREEDOM for more than five years? One of the best jobs I ever had (and I've had a bunch of 'em). I worked with some of the most fun people during those five years, and I'm sure it had very little to do with the fact that I was single, in my 20s and drinking heavily.

I did a lot of things for NRA and one year I got put on a special project -- the Charlton Heston Celebrity Shoot out in Dana Point, California. Glamour! Excitement! "Celebrities!"

While there, I had a bet with a consultant as to which of us could get our picture taken with the funniest celebrity (funny in a B-list way, not in a "ha ha" way). I ended up winning -- finding and taking a picture with Jerry Mathers. The photo became my Christmas card that year with the greeting, "Merry Christmas. Love, Kathleen and the Beav." I gave one to a friend of mine in grad school who later became my husband. He still likes to joke that the reason he fell for me was that I so freely gave out my "beaver shot."
My Beaver shot.
Earlier in the evening, I was hanging out with Nat from the Peach Pit on Beverly Hills 90210. Seriously, at that time, he was my Brad Pitt -- I so loved 90210. I talked to Nat (still cannot remember his real name) in the bar for an hour or so -- don't remember a lot of it. About a week after I got back from the shoot, however, my sister (who lives in Florida) and I each received autographed head shots of Nat. Apparently, at some point in the evening, I wrote down both addresses and gushed enough to prompt the head shot sending.

But the best story......
One night, I stayed out til four in the morning, partying with some of the celebs at a party that only the cool kids were invited to. Now, because I worked for a non-profit, I was sharing a room with a co-worker on this particular trip. She had gone to bed around 10:00 that night and was fast asleep by the time I found my way back to the room. At this point, the minibar was just screaming to me, so I opened it, found a huge Hershey's chocolate bar and that's the last I remember -- UNTIL....at about 6:00am, I woke up to my roommate standing over my bed and yelling like a maniac. She was practically hysterical...pointing at me and screaming. I jumped up and also started screaming and ran to the bathroom to see what she was pointing at.

Apparently, in the dim light of the hotel room that morning, the choclate bar that I had fallen asleep with had smeared all over my face and bed, looking a lot like blood. She thought someone had come into the room and blugeoned me to death while she slept.

I was still clutching what remained of the chocolate bar -- apparently only willing to give it up once it was pried from my cold, dead hands.

Me and Robert Stack's daughter. She's handsy. Read comment thread.