Smash His Camera

I watched "Smash His Camera" on Netflix the other night. The documentary explores the life and legacy of Ron Galella, one of the founding fathers of paparazzi-style photo journalism. Some critics claim that Galella's work is parasitic - in that it fed off the fame of subjects, in that he latched onto these stars with an irritating ferociousness similar to a flea with a Cannon. I felt this uncomfortable tension while at an exhibit of his at the Met last Spring. I was wary, even with the white walls, descriptive cards and glass. He got punched in the face by Marlon Brando. He was sued by Jackie O. He likes bunnies a lot. He is a New Jersey native. Love him or hate him, Galella's sparked more than one conversation. I guess that is enough of a reason to recommend "Smash His Camera." As the credits rolled, I felt entertained and mildly itchy.

Our 5 Best Tree Ornaments

1. Kyle's Dyslexic Stocking - a red construction paper beaut with Kyle's initials spelled out in glitter: K.Z.
No, not K.S.
K.Z.

2. My Wreath O' Beans from Girl Scouts - a medley of dried beans affixed to a cardboard circle covered in hot glue. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" quite like fiber.

3. Oma's Decapitated Snowmen Yarn Heads - cheerful, googly-eyed snowmen with felt stocking caps that appear to be oblivious to the rest of their missing limbs.

4. My *Vintage (*Old) Wise Man - a plastic, hollow, teardrop shaped ball that contains one Wise Man figure, a Pine tree and a Camel. I never bothered to question why there was a Pine tree in the middle of the desert or where his other two equally Wise companions were. The decoration took on a higher value when I saved it from the clammy hands of a strange Townie while at my local antique store.

5. The Glass Pickle - a pickle made of glass. According to German tradition, (which, I assume, uses a real pickle as opposed to a glass one) a pickle is hidden in the Christmas Tree. On Christmas morning, whoever spots the pickle first gets an extra present. I have yet to see either of my Parents follow through with this promise. Every time the pickle is found, we are lucky if we receive a pat on the back, let alone an additional gift. Maybe it's because the urgency is nonexistent. If the pickle was real, it would be problematic if it wasn't found. The smell of rotting dill would permeate the entire room, killing the mood. When someone found the pickle, it would be relief worthy of a reward. One less year without the risk of later finding a shriveled, blackened vegetable, one that could easily be mistaken for a frost-bitten thumb, nestled between the branches.

Home Alone Revisited

"Home Alone" reminds me of Thanksgiving. Back in the 90's, NBC used to broadcast the flick on Thanksgiving night. My family would return from Grandma's house, bloated with food. My younger siblings were promptly put to bed. I, on the other hand, was allowed to stay up well past my usual bedtime to watch "Home Alone" with my parents. Sandwiched between them on the couch, I felt a nuanced sense of happiness. For one, those two hours marked a time in which I experienced what only children receive every day of the year: undivided attention. Nobody elbowed me underneath the blanket, wandered in front of the TV or tried to steal my seat when I got up to pee. Similar Macaulay Culkin, by some miracle I had on this night made (most of ) my family disappear. The film also sparked excitement for the sheer fact that it signaled the transition from Thanksgiving to Christmas - a time marked by a continuous stream of presents, blinking lights, dresses with doily collars and further eating. "Home Alone" was either the instigator of pre-Christmas joy or the background noise that accompanied it. Irregardless, years later I began to question the awesome-ness of the film. Like many things related to kid-dom, quality is often on par with perception. So, I did what was best: I watched it again. Gotta say, I was still enormously entertained. The slap-stick humor didn't hold up as much in terms of instigating massive bouts of laughter (a guy getting conked in the head multiple times is gold when you are under the age of 1o) but everything else kept my interest. Beyond remaining engaged, there was an outcropping of new questions and details that I had not noticed previously such as:

1. When Kevin first meets the Snow Shovel Man, his hand is wrapped in a piece of bloody cloth. The second time SSM meets/scares Kevin is at a Drug Store. We see SSM bloody cloth hand yet again when he grips the counter. The third time Kevin encounters SSM is at church. SSM's appearance is more docile and his hand now sports a Band Aid, probably one from the box he picked up while at the Drug Store. The continuity between all three scenes is funny.

2. The main reason given for Kevin's isolation is broken power lines. YET Kevin's parents are still able to call neighbors and leave messages. Also, Kevin later uses the phone to report that his house is being robbed. Fishy.

3. Kevin's older brother is the older brother from "The Adventures of Pete and Pete"

4. What happens to the mess Kevin makes after booby-trapping his house? Does he clean up before everyone gets home? What about the really messy stuff, like the tar on the steps or fire-scorched toilet? When his family arrives, Kevin looks well rested and his cuticles are pristine. Fishy x2.

5. John Hughes is listed in the credits as the author of the original story concept. John Hughes wrote "Uncle Buck" which starred Macaulay Culkin and John Candy. Their appearance in "Home Alone" is probably related to the Hughes connection.

6. Humphrey Bogart, the grittiest of celestial celebrities, is in "Angels with Dirty Faces."

...On that note, keep the change ya filthy animal.

Thankskilling

In honor of Thanksgiving, I would like to present "Thankskilling" - a movie about a homocidal turkey. The film disturbed me to my very core and made me grateful that I have yet (to my knowledge) angered a vengeful bird. As "Thankskilling" illustrates, they don't forget easy.

Bear-Proof Jacket

Winter weather is upon us. When the temperature goes down, I want something that is going to defend me from both the bite of frost and the bite of bears. Hence, this jacket is top on my list of 'need to own' wardrobe additions.

Grab Baggage

Today on the front page of my local newspaper, there was a picture of a woman's butt cheeks being heaved around by a TSA employee, followed by the headline "U.S. Firm on Airport Security." Many have complained about these new pat-down standards. TSA has been advertising the mandates as a necessary evil - groping that is thwarting terrorism, one boob caress and groin tap at a time. While this may (or probably may not) be true, the way the media has portrayed the story is hilarious. Most of the time, articles come from the perspective of human rights violations. However, their hard-hitting quality immediately dissolves upon looking at coinciding sidebars - slapstick-y photos that reek of embarrassment and latex gloves. Inspired by such images, I decided to take cues from print news and fashion some headlines of my own. Enjoy.

TSA CRACKS DOWN ON HOLIDAY TRAVELERS

One passenger complains, "I just want to go home. My wife is making beef stroganoff for dinner."

AIRPORTS REMAIN ABREAST ON NEW SECURITY MEASURES

"All female chests are being classified as a double threat," says Janet Napolitano, chief of Homeland Security

PASSENGERS GET SHORT END OF THE STICK

"Before each flight, I like to put my wand in the toaster over so it isn't too cold," states Edna Williams, Newark TSA employee

Puppy Love

I was fortunate enough to attend a screening of "Love and Other Drugs" on Monday night. After the movie was finished, Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal appeared for a brief Q&A session. I have always found Jake Gyllenhaal to be attractive on screen. Up close, I was able to come to terms with why: Jake Gyllenhaal looks like a sleepy dog. During the whole interview, he was aloof, coming alive only when questions were thrown his way. His eyes were quite big and kind of droopy, his demeanor slouched. Celebrities are seen as THE beautiful people, the ones we are drawn to for aspiration or lust sake. I am beginning to think it is because they remind us of pleasant forms, complimentary details that are already engraved in our psyche. Sitting in my theater seat, studying Jake, my first thought was "Awww." My second thought was "I want to take you home with me." Pick ups at a Party? Pet Shop browsing? Maybe more synonymous then we think...

Aint Nothin' Sadder Than a Desperate Waiter

There is a new restaurant that opened up near my hometown - Cassia Grill.

The menu consists mainly of reasonably priced Turkish fare. My meal was delicious - stuffed grape leaves, dumplings, custard-y caramel dessert. However, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly sad while eating it. Aside from my friend and I, the place was empty. As a result of this, our waiter was overly eager to please. He recited the specials with extra care, chastised himself for spilling a few drops of coffee onto my saucer. Later he brought out complimentary truffles. Upon reassuring him that we didn't have any sort of walnut allergies, he placed the tray down on the table and explained with pride that he had made them himself. His broken English and cordial manners made us clutch our chests. The thought of him gingerly rolling balls of pliable chocolate in a kitchen late at night, half-absorbing an ESL cassette playing low nearby ("A little off the top please...I need just a trim.") was enough to make us cry. After we had finished our food, we found him stationed by the door, mint bowl in one hand, neatly wrapped leftovers in the other. In that moment, I wanted to gather him up in my arms, press his bearded face deep into my neck and sob "Don't give up on your dreams! You are a beautiful man! You have a truffle hobby for hell's sake! If anyone can make in the American food industry, it is you! YOU!" Instead, I took a mint from the bowl, looked deep into his eyes and vowed "I will return and bring others." He nodded his head solemnly. I am not sure if he believed me. Since then, I have kept my promise, spreading news of the establishment far and wide. Here I go again: anybody with an appetite should hit up Cassia Grill on Mansfield Road in Port Murray, NJ. You will leave full. You will also meet a server who possesses the heart of a saint and the passion of a dessert-making lion.

FIGHT for your RIGHT to PARRRKING!

Yesterday there was no parking at the bus stop. I parked in the lot of a breakfast joint next door instead. I've never done it before. The decision to leave my Volvo amidst Early Bird Special Loving Monte Carlos and Lincolns was an unfortunate byproduct of being extraordinarily late. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I took a spot at the edge of the pavement, next to a dumpster that smelled like congealed maple syrup and paper place mats.

When I returned that night, there was a MS Word document stuck under my windshield wiper. The piece of paper read, "THIS IS A PRIVATE LOT. VEHICLES MAY BE TOWED AT THE OWNERS EXPENSE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION." Cooperation wasn't really the right word, as it described a willing negotiator, as opposed to a bullied participant. I was thankful for the curt warning until I noticed my driver's side window. Someone had reiterated the message on the glass in wipe-off marker. The handwriting had a loopy quality reminiscent of an preteen girl. Hand drawn doodle stars garnished the bottom of the sill, along with a curly underline. Why the person felt it necessary to tag my vehicle with a neon run-d0wn of my discrepancy, I'll never know. The vandalism felt like a graffitied Scarlet A, meant to shame me in front of the upstanding, proper patron crowd.

Similar to the Hawthorne version, the mark was not easily removed. Even after an aggressive rub down courtesy of my sleeve and spit, the statement remained. I was pissed. I was also very tired. I ended up driving home as is. Each time I stopped at a sign or light, passerbys would stare, mouthing the words to themselves. I kept my eyes fixed on the road. By the time I pulled into my driveway, my anger had morphed into an activist stance. How wrong. How dare she, power-hungry Preteen Hostess Girl, touch my personal property? I even went so far as to take a picture of the window the next day in the hopes of having evidence to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. In all honesty, I probably won't do anything. My moral fire has been doused by residual laziness. Sitting here, looking at the photo, I am no longer perturbed...more like moderately amused. Is apathy bad if it lets you laugh later?