Yummers

YOU! YOU BASTERD!

I  would never call myself a huge Quentin Tarantino fan.  Sure, I like most of his movies, but I never “rush” out to see them, and other than Pulp Fiction, and to a lesser extent Reservoir Dogs,  I don’t think his movies are amazing.

So, as I parked my ass into the seat for a Sunday afternoon showing of his latest flick, “Inglorious Basterds”, I was expecting to be entertained. However, I was not only entertained, I was  blown away.

The movie gets off to a rousing start with its opening chapter, “Once Upon a Time in Nazi-Occupied France,” when we are introduced to Tarantino’s single best character to date, the somewhat charming Nazi Col. Hans Landa,  played by the amazing Christoph Waltz, who won the Best Actor award for this role at the Cannes Film Festival.

Landa at first doesn’t seem befitting of his nickname, “The Jew Hunter.” During his talk with a local French dairy farmer, Landa is polite as can be, seemingly wanting to do little more than follow-up on a previous visit by another officer about a local Jewish family who may have fled, moving the conversation from German to French and finally to English. As they speak, we start to realize that moving to a language both Landa and the farmer know isn’t just for the audience’s benefit, giving them a moment’s reprise from what will be many subtitled sequences, but setting a trap for the farmer which will make many in the audience squirm as they realize what is about to happen.

Making audiences squirm seems to be what Tarantino wants to do most with “Basterds.” You may be aware from the commercials and trailers that Brad Pitt leads a group of Jewish-American soldiers who are set upon terrorizing the Nazis, leaving their marks by scalping those they kill and carving swastikas into those they leave alive. You may also be aware one of the Basterds, Sgt. Donny Donowitz (“Hostel” filmmaker Eli Roth) has a special skill amongst the team by taking a baseball bat to those who, as his Lieutenant likes to say, “want to die for their country”.

Many heads are scalped, a few are bashed in or carved up. Someone pokes their finger into a bullet wound to get to the truth of what just happened. Thousands of bullets fly, and a number of gallons of blood are splattered.  It’s quite gruesome at times.

Pitt is the name that will get butts into seats, but it’s not his movie. Along with Waltz, who is deserving of every accolade he’ll get the rest of the year, “Basterds” belongs to Mélanie Laurent, the equally little known French actress who plays Shosanna Dreyfus, a survivor of one of Landa’s hunts now operating a movie theatre in Paris under an assumed name, who devises a plan to take down the man who killed her family when an unexpected German movie premiere falls into her lap. And believe me, in one unforgettable piece of cinema,  this bitch means business when she decides to get her revenge.

With out ruining anything, the last shot of the film is of one of the “basterds” staring into the camera after he has just carved up a Nazi soldier.

“This may just be my masterpiece,” he says, of his handy work.

Fittingly, the same can be said of Tarantino’s latest film.

Rest In Peace Grandma Cheeney

I would like to offer my condolences, thoughts and prayers, to Tai and his family.

His grandmother, Christine Keating, lost a brave battle with cancer on Thursday night. She was 76.

She was a wonderful woman, both compassionate and feisty.  She was a woman of deep faith who is surely in a better place now.

May she Rest In Peace.

Always thought she was sexy. Odd, but sexy

Porkchop Pete’s Neighborhood Tag Sale

After much internal debate my father Pete finally decided to have a Tag Sale.

My family home is, to put it simply, filled with junk. The house, originally built in 1934 by my great grandfather Angelo, has accumulated quite the lot of needless items. Well, needless to my family anyway.

For years my sister and I have been trying to convince dad to have a Tag Sale rather than his prefered method of getting rid of old junk, which consisted of renting a dumpster and piling it with old furniture every few months.

I agreed to assist dad with his sale. He spent the week leading up to “the event” pricing everything in the house. I spent the week removing price tags from some of my things that there was no way I was selling for $2, if at all.

“Dad, Why are you selling my copy of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows,” I asked.

“Well, I never see you reading it,” dad countered.

Yep, it was gonna be one of those weeks.

The night before the sale Dad brought out the tables and lined up hundreds of items by the front door. At 5 a.m. he left the house and wandered the neighborhood putting up signs. At 7 a.m. he began to bring the items outside. At 7:05 his heart stopped. At 7:12 it began beating again.

The first sign of trouble came around 8 a.m: One hour before the posted start time.

An old couple pulled up to the house. (“early birds”, as they are called in the Tag Sale world.)

“Are you selling any fishing equipment”, the old man asked, as my father struggled to find the perfect placement for his scratched up Beatles record with teeth marks on the cover.

“We’re not selling anything till 9 o’ clock sir,” dad said, without so much as a glance in the old couple’s direction.

I asked my father why he hadn’t simply told them we had NO fishing equipment  rather than reply with his seemingly rude, “nothing till 9” comment.

“Cuz I’m too busy to deal with people right now,” he said.

Oh yeah, today was gonna be interesting.

Dad assigned me a ton of jobs and I couldn’t argue. I was in charge of the money, I was to answer questions about whether or not we had certain items, I was to handle negotiations and I was to keep an eye out for thieves. Yes, dad was really worried that someone was going to run off with his unopened bottle of Windshield Wiper fluid.

Dad’s job was to keep things neat. And he did.

After the vultures rifled through books and Cds and unfolded clothes, Dad had things back in order before the people got back in their cars.

I’d say for the first few hours things went smooth. People showed up. People bought stuff. Nothing was stolen. Then, the Spanish guy arrived.

He drove  a white van, already filled with junk. My aunt Barbara would later refer to this man as a “Tag Sale Locust” – traveling from sale to sale, filling his van with items from his various stops…as long as the price was right.

As soon as he picked up the first item, a Green Bay Packers mug, he said, “I give you one dollar”; a buck cheaper than the sticker price. I agreed to it.

Every item he touched, he asked for money off the marked price. And me, granted the power of negotiations from Dad, pretty much agreed to it. After all, he was buying a ton of stuff. Then, he set his sights on one of Dad’s prized possessions: His miniature model car collection.

Dad was asking $12 for the set of five cars. The guy offered $6. I countered with $10. The guy offered $7. Once again I said $10

“Seben Seben,” the man repeated, as he began putting the cars in his box.

I was about to let it go. The guy already spent about $25.  I figured he deserved the $5 discount. However, dad, who had been watching the situation unfold, disagreed.

Dad stepped in front of me, and, for the first time all day, was actually interacting directly with a customer.

“$7 is way too cheap,” dad said. “I can’t let this set go for anything less than $10.”

“Seben,”  the man said, as he put the last mini-car in his box.

Dad snapped.

“I said NO,” his voice rising, as he began pulling the cars, one by one, out of the man’s box.

“THESE – CARS- ARE- IN- MINT- CONDITION,” dad said, emphasizing each word as he took the cars from the man and put them back on their display shelf.

“Joo don’t wan my money,”  the man shot back.

“Not at that price I don’t,” dad said.

At that point the man rubbed his hands together, as if he was wiping away dirt and then showed his hands to my father, seemingly wiping himself clean of dad’s rudeness.

“Fine, den I buy nothing,” the man said.

“Good,” dad fired back, “then drag your ass.”

The  guy walked back to his van shaking his head, muttering under his breath in Spanish and, most importantly, taking his $25 with him.

“Dad, why didn’t you just give him the deal,” I asked. “He was spending a ton of money.”

“Because,” dad said, arranging his precious car collection, “there is a difference between making money and getting raped.”

Aside from that little bit of unpleasantness things went well for the rest of the day. Especially when all the old Italian guys from the neighborhood stopped by to shoot the shit and pop off about old times in the neighborhood.

I sat there counting the money as these old men told some crazy tales. I heard things like, “I tried to enlist in Vietnahm but they told me I was too violent,” and,  “Remember when the mob wanted me dead because I was dating the prettiest girl in town.”

The day wound down around 4. People, for the most part, had stopped coming. But it was okay. The majority of items had been sold. Dad had cleared about $300.

We sat down. I counted the money as Dad drank a beer and bragged about the efficient, orderly tag sale he’d pulled off.

“HEY,” Dad barked.

I jumped and immedietly looked up. There, sitting on our wall were two young boys. This was not the first time I had seen them today. They lived down the street and periodically through out the day they would park their bikes in front of the house, sit on the wall and watch people shop.

Everytime they arrived dad would snap his fingers at me to get my attention, then procede to tell me to keep an eye on them. As far as he was concerned, if anyone was going to steal anything, it was going to be them.

The boys sat frozen on the wall, obviosly startled by dad’s yell.

“What do you two want anyway,” dad asked, sternly. “You guys have been coming by all day and you just sit there staring at us.”

The younger boy, probably 7 years old, said nothing. The older brother, most likely about 10 years old, sheepishly pointed to a pile of my old football cards.

“You have any money,” dad asked, sarcastically.

Both boys shook their heads ‘No’

 With his thumb pointed down the street, followed by a jerk of the wrist and punctuated with a whistle, dad simply said, “Then beat it.”

The boys mounted their bikes and quickly rode away.

I’m sure they will tell all the neighborhood kids about the mean old man who lives at 152 Barton Street, and, in the process, turn my father into a popular target for a Halloween egging.

“Everybody wants something for nothing,” Dad said, taking a final swig of his beer. “Lets start bringing this shit back in the house.  I’m tired.”

Dad put his beer down, stood up and let out a mighty belch, letting the neighborhood know that Porkchop Pete’s Tag Sale had come to a close.

Mmm Bacon

Here is an actual conversation that took place in the dining hall at Boston College while we were visiting Bub back in 1997.

BUB: Whatever you guys want  is on me.

ADS: Really? You’re going to pay for all of us?

BUB: Yeah. I don’t actually pay cash. I just use my Eagle Points.

ADS: ( eyeing a tray of bacon) How much is the bacon?

CAFETERIA WORKER: 25 cent each.

ADS: Bub, we can really get whatever we want and you’ll pay?

BUB: Yes!

ADS: (turning back to the Cafeteria worker) I’ll have 15 slices of bacon, please.

Apparently this is called a “Secret Survey”

1.What’s in your wallet?

Hopefully the winning WIN 4 LIFE ticket

2. What’s under your bed?

The Sword of Gondor

3. What’s on that way top shelf or in the very far back of your closet?

Nagini

4.What’s in your underwear drawer?

Socks 

5. What’s in the trunk of your car?

Jimmy Hoffa, what’s left of him anyway

6. What’s in your desk or locker?

Tom Riddle’s Diary

7.Do you have a super-secret hiding place and what’s in it?

I do, and it holds a plastic baggie filled with Vicodin, and, after I stop at Taco Bell,  I should have them within the hour.

8. Do you feel guilty about something right now, if yes what?

Even though it’s raining, I should take Andy out before bed

9.What is the most embarassing thing in your room right now?

My Edward Cullen Poster

10. Have you done something recently you hope no one finds out about?

Oh yeah

11.What is your last thought before you fall asleep?

I hope I wake up

12. How long have those leftovers been in the fridge?

leftovers?

13. If I confiscated your computer and took a look around….what would I find?

That me and Pete Townsend are a lot alike

14. Do you sleep with anything?

Well, it’s been Andy for the last few days

15. What is your midnight snack weakness?

Peanut butter and fluff sandwich, although the bread is optional depending how tired I am.

16. Have you ever shoplifted?

Yes, but it was an accident, as in, I accidentally left the house with no money.

17. Have you ever vandalized anything?

No

18. Ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

This question is so lame it’s not even funny

19. What do you wait until no one is looking to do?

The Thriller Dance

20. Have you told the truth in this survey?

To tell you the truth, I’d be lying if I said I told the truth

My eyes opened today at 10 a.m. I slowly lifted my head, which felt like it weighed fifty pounds.  A small pool of drool had formed on my pillow.

Many times I have woken up this way on a Sunday morning, especially after a night out with friends.  But something about today felt different. I didn’t remember getting home last night. I didn’t remember getting into bed. Come to think of it, the last thing I remembered about the night was standing at the bar with Jay and Jamie. If memory served me correctly(and I don’t think it did), someone was trying to buy Jamie a shot. She turned to Jay and said, “If I start doing shots, we may end up taking the limo home.” Which meant, I too would be taking the limo home, because at that point, there was no way I was getting behind the wheel, and Jamie, being my “sober” ride, was about to get a lot less sober.

Apparently, the Tavern, yes the Tavern, has limo service. Apparently, for a mere $5 (a little more if you want to tip) an old beat up limousine will drive you home.

So, as I lay in bed, trying to piece together the last 10 hours, the only thing I recalled was a brief discussion about possibly taking the tavern limo home.

After I brushed my disgusting teeth, took a wiz, and smoked a cig, I called Jamie, hoping she could put the pieces together for me. No answer. Straight to voice mail.

As I attempted to nurse my hangover in the shower, I noticed my sore legs were covered with scrapes and bruises. The hot water also stung my back, which was, for some reason,  also scratched up. What the fuck did I get into last night?

The day progressed, and, when not vegging in front of the TV or trying to call Jamie, odd images flashed in my head. Images of me, inside a dark limo. Images of a creepy old man who may or may not have been our limo driver kept popping into my mind. If this creep wasn’t driving me somewhere, I could swear he was dragging me by my ankles through the woods. Was I recalling a dream I had last night, or something much much worse?

In the early hours of the afternoon my father agreed to drive me to the Tavern so I could pick up my Jeep, which I had left parked in the lot over night.

As I trudged to my Jeep I saw someone from the night before who was also picking up their vehicle.

“Looks like you had a rough night,” the person said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s why I didn’t drive home.”

“How did you get home?” the person asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” I laughed. “But I think I took the Tavern limo.”

The person laughed as if I told the funniest joke in the history of mankind.

“What’s so funny,” I wondered.

“I dunno,” the person said, “That’s just funny to me. Tavern Limo”

“Yeah, but it’s better than driving drunk,” I said.

At that point the person gave me a strange look, got into their car and told me to take care.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say, for some reason, they didn’t believe me about taking the limo home.

Before I left, I scanned the parking lot. The limo was not there. For my own piece of mind I decided to ask the bartender if she remembered how I got home.

I walked into the bar. A cute girl bartender, I think from the night before, was watching TV.

“Excuse me,” I said. “This is gonna sound odd, but I was here last night and I was just wondering…..did I take the limo home last night do you know?”

The bartender gave me the same odd look that I received in the parking lot moments earlier.

“You don’t remember me,” I said to the bartender.

“I remember you,” she said, “but I don’t know if you took a limo home.”

“I didn’t see it out there, does the guy just keep it at his house until night time,” I asked.

Once again, a strange look.

“Honestly,” the bartender said, seemingly annoyed that I was ruining her TV time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The limo guy,” I said, a bit frustrated. “I think I took the Tavern limo home last night but I don’t remember and it’s bugging me.”

“You must have had a lot to drink,” the bartender said, “because I’ve never heard of a tavern limo.”

At that point I thought maybe I was the butt of some big joke. The ultimate prank pulled on me for my years of deviousness.  Only thing was, I didn’t feel like playing along.

“You mean to tell me there is not a limousine service provided by THIS bar,” I asked.

“Well, I’ve been here almost a year,” the girl said, “and I’ve never heard of it.”

This was useless. I walked out.

I tried again to get a hold of Jamie. Once again, right to voice mail. I then began calling every person I remember seeing at the bar last night. They all went right to voice mail.

I had enough. I decided to drive straight to Jamie’s and ask her how the fuck we all got home. Thankfully, her and Jay’s cars were parked in the driveway. I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked. No one came. Odd thing was, the dog wasn’t barking either.

My heart was beating fast. I turned around, put my hand on my hips and exhaled. What the fuck is going on……

That was 5 hours ago. As I sit here typing this, I”m no closer to piecing together last night than I was this morning. I still haven’t been able to get a hold of ANYONE who I hung out with last night. I even drove back to the tavern a few hours ago, just to see if there was a limo parked out front. There wasn’t.

And, if my day couldn’t get any more frustrating, someone just pulled into my driveway, and I don’t feel like entertaining visitors right now.

While I’m sure it’s my mind playing tricks on me, If I had to bet, I’d say the car in my driveway right now looks like a limo. Only one way to find out…..I’ll be right back

(500) Days of Summer

I’m sure back in 1987,  girls all over America dragged their boyfriends (kicking and screaming) into the theaters to see the latest romantic comedy, Say Anything, starring a just getting started John Cusack.

Now 2o + years later, the story of Lloyd Dobbler and Diane Cord is a whole lot more of a guys movie than it is a “chick flik”. I mean, come on, what guy didn’t sympathize with Cusack’s Lloyd? A good looking, witty, kickboxing slacker with a heart.

So, my advice to any dude out there who may be dragged to the new film 500 Days of Summer:  Go willingly and keep an open mind. The reward is a great film. A Say Anything for present day, and,  possibly the best film I’ve seen this year.

The title, (500) Days of Summer,  comes from the name of the girl in the film, played by Zooey Deschanel, and the 500 day period during which she is a part of the main character’s life. Joseph Gordon-Levitt plays Tom Hansen, an architect working a crappy job at a greeting card company who becomes smitten by the new intern, Summer Finn. After some awkward attempts to catch her attention, he eventually wins her over and they have a whirlwind romance. Before long, however, the tide changes, and Summer starts to wonder if Tom is really the right man for her, which sends Tom spiraling into depression.

The film works best when the relationship is clicking and Tom is happy. The montage where Tom “struts” to work while dancing to Hall & Oats could become a classic.

When things go bad it’s hard not to hate Summer and sympathize with Tom, but don’t forget the movie is shown from Tom’s point of view so it’s kind of hard not to feel for the poor guy.

Thankfully, at the end of the film Tom sees things more clearly and, as expected, so do we as audience members. And, as I walked out of the theater I couldn’t help think that a sequel could possibly be filmed someday. (500) Days of Autumn, perhaps?

The term “romantic comedy” is not particularly well-regarded nowadays, thanks to years of formulaic and sappy love stories manufactured specifically as light entertainment for couples who are out on a date. But movies about relationships don’t always have to be cheesy and predictable.