Today my family dragged me to see “The Blind Side.”
It’s the one about a nouveau riche soccer mom who rescues a gentle giant teenager from being black in Memphis because it seems like the good christian thing to do for college football.
Sandra Bullock basically proves that if you henpeck your country music star husband who owns fifty Taco Bells into buying a pickup truck and a private tutor, you can teach any old kid from the projects to read at a fifth grade level as long as he’s got NFL potential.
The moral of the story is pretty simple — white people are benevolent do-gooders, and black people are helpless, scary animals.
Feel-good movie my ass. After watching that train wreck, my soul had never felt so empty.
Of course, everybody else loved it. Loved it.
Sitting in that theater — with that crowd — I was surrounded, completely engulfed by the shallow ignorance of the red state zeitgeist.
Call me an elitist bitch, but I can’t wait to get back to LA.
A state of drowsiness or lassitude following a meal related to activation of the parasympathetic nervous system in response to nutrients in the gastrointestinal tract caused by hormonal and neurochemical changes related to the rate at which glucose enters the bloodstream and its downstream effects on amino acid transport in the central nervous system.
Today I baked two pumpkin pies and built a croquembouche with spun caramel sugar and chocolate sauce.
This is what happens when I’m home for the holidays. I make bad ass desserts.
That, and I watch way too much History Channel. With my family it’s either the History Channel or Fox News, so I opt for the lesser of two evils.
It was a typical pre-Thanksgiving afternoon of stacking cream puffs and daydreaming about the kind of guy I’d like to share a sniper rifle with in World War II era Germany.
Yeah, if I had to do the whole World War thing, I’d definitely prefer to do it as a hot sniper couple — you know, lining up people in our crosshairs by day, and by night recreating that filthy hot sex scene between Jude Law and Rachel Weisz in “Enemy at the Gates.”
These are the things that fill my head when I’m surrounded by Republicans.
Anyways, tomorrow we all exchange Christmas lists.
“On bad sex… took your advice. Best night we had, for me at least. Made it all about me. He didn’t orgasm, and I didn’t care. He was thrilled by my change of attitude towards it all as well. Nice work Coke Talk, you did me well.”
You know that ugly feeling when a smug little man smiles at you like he just bought you on sale and suddenly your spine turns to glass and your ears become refrigerator coils and your guts squeeze dry and you're filled back up with the warm oily urge to cross the room for no other reason than to smash all five of your ring encrusted knuckles through the soft meat of his lower jaw and relish the sound of his teeth hitting linoleum like you'd just dropped a handful of Skittles?
I went to visit my friend in prison again. He’s bored as hell.
When I mentioned that I was writing a whacked-out advice column, he begged me to let him read it. He suggested I print it out and send it to him like a letter. I thought that was a damn fine idea.
As it was my first time writing to someone in the slammer, I decided to check the manual. Every correctional institution in California has it’s own fancy-pants website, wherein you’ll find a comprehensive list of do’s, don’ts, and other little known jailhouse etiquettes to observe when sending a friendly letter.
I was rather disheartened to learn that “letters and envelopes must be free from any white-out, lipstick marks, address labels, or stickers of any kind. No large cards, musical cards, cards with glitter or other items attached will be allowed.”
As tempting as it was, I resisted the urge to leave him a lipstick mark in white-out and glitter.
I followed the rules to the letter. Plain white paper. No paper clips or staples. No pictures or photocopies of pictures. It was a sixty page stack of dense black-and-white text that looked as boring as an insurance policy.
I slapped some stamps on that sucker and sent it off to the big house.
That was two weeks ago.
Guess what came back in the mail today? Yep. Return to motherfucking sender. At first, I thought I’d screwed up the address or something, but then I realized it had been opened.
Sure enough, there was a big red sticker on the front of the envelope with three check boxes. The first was labeled “Not in Custody,” the second was labeled “Need Inmate Number,” and the third was labeled “Unacceptable Items.”
Someone had checked the “Unacceptable Items” box.
Then, just to go the extra mile, they did something that made me very, very proud. Right there next to the checkbox, some corrections officer went out of his way to scribble out two additional words: