Mother's Day Sucks

Can I be honest with everybody? Sometimes honesty can be politically incorrect, or unpopular, but I want to be honest. Because honestly, yesterday sucked. It sucked hard. Mother’s Day 2010 wasn’t the suckiest day I ever had. That honor goes to the day I lost my son. It probably doesn’t even make the top ten of suckiest days in recent memory. In order the other nine are; the day after I lost my son, that day in November he suffered his hypoxic event, the day we sat in an office full of pediatric pulmonary, neurological, and internal medicine specialists and they told us some very hard truths about Ukiah’s condition and I had to contain my husband to not crawl over a conference table and throttle a doctor and we had to make some very hard choices about Ukiah’s condition and we had to draw some very hard lines in the sand that we wouldn’t be willing to cross to save his life, the three very, very close calls we had in the Hospital NICU and PICU (tied for fifth), the first two days of his life in which I was stuck in a hospital twenty miles away from the hospital he was stuck in and I couldn’t see him at all (tied for eighth) and every day I spent in the hospital in which another family lost a child and I was witness to their heartbreak and experienced my own heartbreak for them(that’s four days in total, tied for tenth). So obviously, yesterday doesn’t make the list.

But Mother’s Day sucked nonetheless. To start with, I was antsy and bitter about the whole Mother’s Day enterprise days, neigh weeks prior to the day. Then I went for my usual Sunday Morning bagel run and was accosted by the guy at the register with a simple question; “Are you a mother?” It was a simple question but I didn’t know how to answer it. So I told him no. “Well if you were I was going to wish you Happy Mother’s Day.” I couldn’t process it. Then I called my mother and told her the story (after wishing her a Happy Mother’s Day) and she was a little shocked that I didn’t say yes to that simple question. And then I snapped and said something more mean-spirited than I intended.

“I’m not a mother. What am I mothering now? A box?” I looked over at the pile of toys sitting on the fireplace tile and searched the center of the pile for the little white sterile-looking plastic box that held my son’s remains as I said it. I can’t hold the box, not like I held him. I can’t squeeze the box and kiss it’s head and tell it how much I love it. I can’t feed the box, change its diaper, administer it’s medications, suction it, play with it, run it through its exercises and do all the things I did with Ukiah that made me his mother. I don’t have the routines that comprised our days, I don’t have several different specialists to talk to, phone calls to make, all the thousands of details that comprised the label of Mother. I don’t have any of that now and I feel I’m completely unworthy of the title no matter how much anyone and everyone tells me I’m still worthy of it.

I guess in my heart I’ll always be his mother but how can I mother him when’s he’s gone somewhere I can’t follow? It seems empty now in a way I can’t describe. Chris said I was more worthy of the title than a lot of mothers out there because I did more for him in two years than some mothers are capable of. He also said that I should answer the question with an unequivocal yes any time I’m every asked the question. I’m not sure I have the heart, the confidence required to utter such words to such a question. Maybe someday, but today, yesterday, aren’t, weren’t those days.

I feel like maybe I and women like me should have our own day. An Unmother’s day of sorts because we had that title and wore that title proudly and then it was stripped from us brutally, as were our responsibilities, as was the very honor of calling the beautiful souls our children, and now we don’t have those things. We don’t have the very individual that so wonderfully graced us with the title. Although I will always be completely honored to say that I was Ukiah’s mother. I will proudly say I knew one of the strongest, most unique, most beautiful souls ever in existence and I am proud that I got to call him my son. I just wish he was still here so I could continue calling him my son and I still had the wonderful title of being his mother.

An Open Letter to Alexandre Bilodeau

Dear Alexandre Bilodeau;

Thank you for winning your mogul event (that was partly up to the judging, but whatever, you still won). Thank you for being the first Canadian to do so on home turf in 30 + years so that there was an interesting angle to your story so that the media cover the even more heartwarming story of your relationship to your brother. Thanks for putting your brother's story out there and thrusting Cerebral Palsy into the forefront of national and international media, however fleetingly. Thanks for saying out loud for everyone to here that we have a privilege, a right, and a responsibility to live our lives to the fullest, to push ourselves to be our best because people like Frederic do that on a daily basis, overcoming time and again their disabilities and doing it with smiles on their faces and joy in their hearts. Thanks for saying out loud that anything is possible because the doctors told Frederic and your parents that he wouldn't walk past ten years of age, and yet here he is, at 28 years of age, still walking, proving everyone wrong. Thank you.

Cerebral Palsy, and other neurological disorders like it are so often swept under the rug, hidden away from view, in terms of people's awareness of them, the toll they on the families effected by the disorders, the challenges posed, but also the rewards and invaluable life lessons that can be learned from people effected with Cerebral Palsy and the like. Every once and a while a news story will come along, like the high school baseball player with a mild form of Cerebral Palsy who was pitching like a pro despite his disability and yet because of it. But then it gets hidden from view again, forgotten. And yet here are Alexandre and Frederic, in the forefront, putting real faces to the disorder.

But there are so many other faces to the disorder, so many more stories to tell and so much more that can be done, not only to raise awareness for Cerebral Palsy and other neurological disorders, but to help people in Frederic's position, to be more independent despite their neurological deficits.

One of my favorite causes to champion right now is George Mark House. George Mark House is the first Pediatric Palliative care facility of its kind in the USA that provides end of life, transition care, and respite care to families who have children with a wide range of special needs. Without going into to much detail, I spent a considerable chunk of time there with my son this past year and have come to champion it for its top notch care and the wonderful service it provides.

Because of George Mark House, I was able to meet some remarkable people in similar situations to Frederic's. Each one of them had a unique, beautiful personality that was a treasure to behold. And each one of them is a remarkable individual I am proud and honored to know. I wish I could tell their stories, maybe one day I'll be allowed to. I wish that everyone was aware of their unique conditions. Maybe one day everyone will and will champion their disorder, but also their uniqueness, their incredible resilience and beauty.

Until then, we have incredible stories like Alexandre's and Frederic's and for that I can only say thank you again. Thank you for telling it, and thank you to the world for listening, however fleetingly, what these two unique individuals had to say. Thank You.

Sandwich Ennui...

....What I happen to be suffering from right now. I am so damnably bored of my sandwich that I'm depressed. I didn't think sandwiches could cause depression, but mine is right now. It's taking every bit of my will power not to break down and get something sweet and/or salty from the vending machine right now, I am that disgusted with my sandwich.

It's like sitting there, right now, mocking me with its mediocrity. The wilting lettuce, the soggy in places bread, the 'this was stolen from the government surplus' cheese, the oversalted ham are just too depressing for me to even contemplate. Somebody save me from the boring sandwich blues.

Made Up Band Names: Entry # (I have no clue)

Pillow Physics

TM a conversation FIghting Nun and I had at 4:00 in the Effing morning. Ahem:

Fighting Nun: (Thump)
Bloody Munchkin: OW!!! That was your Pillow in my eye.
FN: Uhm.... I couldn't help it... it was Pillow Physics.
BM: (Considers starting angry rant, gets distracted) You know, that would make a great band name.
FN: Not really. I mean its short of PP. That doesn't work on a lot of different levels.
BM: (Considering it) Hee! Actually that works on a LOT of different levels. They could have a banner behind them, all P. P. That's hilarious.
FN: It's four in the morning, you're not thinking clearly.
BM: I am thinking clearly, that this name is clearly AWESOME!
FN: Bedwetting is a serious matter.
BM: That could be the title of their first album. Heh!
FN: Please go to sleep.

My Son

I'd like to say everything in my life is fine, that everything is turning up roses and everything is just great. But I can't say that. I can't even come close. Any time I get even close to thinking it's all going to work for the best, another shoe drops. That shoe just so happens to be a 3 inch stilletto and it just planted it's heel sharply into my skull.

See it's about my son. My seven-month-4-day-old son who apparantly has had the odds stacked against him in every direction since the day he was born. I don't know just how unlucky one person can be, but he seems to prove that someone can be very unlucky indeed.

From the day he was born, he had to fight. Every breath was a battle he had to win to stay alive. Some days, he was Rocky Balboa, fighting gamely, doing everything he needed to in order to win. Other days, he was being beaten soundly by Dolf Lundgren and there were at least a few times he looked to be down for the count. (This exhausts my Rocky knowledge and thus endeth the metaphors).

But then he was home and he was more than just Rocky Balboa. He was amazing. He had a great smile, an incredible coo and an infectious laugh that you couldn't stop. He was beautiful, in every since of the word. He had philosopher's eyes, the type of pensive look that someone much older, much wiser might have been using to ponder the meaning of life.

And now he might never have any of that again, we might not ever have that again. On November 4, the date that brought so much change to America, that saw a new president voted into office, another change was brought into my life. A horrific one. My son had a rather catostrophic event occur that stopped him from breathing. In a few blinks of an eye, his life was almost snuffed out. No almost. It was snuffed out and brought back. But brought back in what form?

With the type of acute injury he suffered, there is some brain damage. Not the worse case they've ever seen, not the best either. He's going to be starting from scratch. He'll have to relearn everything, if he gets any of it back at all. There's no complete road map for an acute brain injury like this. He could suffer severe cerebral palsy or he could be completely normal five, ten years down the road. Nobody knows. He could never coo again, which means he could never speak, he could never walk, or he could do all of those things no sweat. We don't know. We hope, we pray for the best possible outcome, that we'll get to see that smile again, that philosophical look again, but we don't know.

I don't know what to do any more, other than what I'm doing, but it doesn't feel like enough. I wish I knew what to do. As a parent, we'll do anything to make sure our kids are healthy and happy. If I was told that jumping on one foot everyday for the rest of my life would make my son better, I happily would. I'd become a rocket scientist/neurosurgeon/oper singer if I could just see his smile one more time. Hell, with all the medical terminology I have memorized for my son's care, I'm halfway to neurosurgeon now. The other two don't sound like much a stretch.
But that's not how things work. All I can do is be there for him. I sing him songs, I read him books, I soothe him, I play with him and I pray to every diety I've ever even heard of that it does the job. I try to have faith, faith that it will be o.k. I try not to get to eye-rollingly bored answering the same questions from family, friends, co-workers and everybody else over and over again. I try to ignore the annoyed feeling I get when people use the same voice they use with their 5-year-old when she's bumped her head. "Are youuuu Ooookay? Do yooouuu neeeed anything?" like Jesus Christ, my son is in the hospital, I didn't just scrape my knee and come to you whimpering, use your grown-up voice. I try to save all my dark emotions for the dark corners of our bedroom at night. I try to bolster Fighting Nun when he gets down. I try to let him bolster me when I get down. I try to hope. I try to hold on to this fantasy I have of watching my son play soccer with a bunch of four and five year-olds because I need that more than anything in the world. Also, watching four and five year-olds play soccer should be considered performance art because awesome. I try to picture the three of us (with the dog) on a beach somewhere, enjoying a day of sun, wind and water and I hope and pray I get that because God Damnit I F@#*ing deserve it.

Strange Musings on Dreams

So, I don't exactly know why, but I have been having the strangest dreams. I've blamed their occurance on the pregnancy, which may or may not be the reason. Truth is, I've always had wierd dreams (Suzanne Summers having all the answers, anyone remember that?) but pregnancy has somehow turned up the coocoo factor in my dreams. There was a dream involving Jessica Alba and Josh Hartnett and me and apparantly I was a spy that infiltrated Jessica Alba's brothel while Josh Hartnett kept Jessica Alba busy (I have no idea). And then there was another involving Sir Elton John, which I don't even remember the lead up to that one (Again, no idea). I just recently had a dream that my neighbor was housing a horse and a donkey in his backyard and there was something else about that dream that I can't quite remember that made it wierd.

But no dream has been quite as odd as the one this morning. So I'm watching a Monk episode in my dream. Nothing new there, but the episode was called Mr. Monk Versus the Killer Vampire and Kiefer Sutherland, bedecked in The Lost Boys leather jacket and looking badass, was said killer vampire, but then Monk discovers that Kiefer is killing people because they have drugs planted inside their bodies (which ew) and Kiefer wasn't just killing people because he was a vampire but because he had a drug ring and then Monk kills Kiefer Sutherland, but it wasn't Kiefer Sutherland's character he killed, but actually Kiefer Sutherland and I'm yelling "Tony Shaloub what did you do!!" And then I'm at Kiefer Sutherland's funeral procession yelling things like "Kiefer was my favorite Lost Boy", "I'll never be able to watch Stand By Me again" and, my personal favorite "First Renfro, then Ledger, now Sutherland!!! How will I go on?" I remember vaguely thinking "And he just got out of prison too!" when I woke up and then I had to briefly calm myself and remind myself that we are, as far as I know, not living in a Kieferless world, which automatically calmed me. Say what you want about the guy, the wierd Christmas tree attack, the erratic DUI behavior, the TV show I don't watch. But the world is better with him in it. And definately with Donald in it too. (He's one of my favorite characters on Dirty Sexy Money. How could I not love the Sutherlands?)

But now I keep worrying that there might be something slightly prophetic about the dream. At first I thought it might be tied to something regarding my unborn son who will share Sutherland's namesake (yes, Kiefer will be involved in my son's name. Shut up. I don't care what you think! I think the name is cool.) so I was worried that there might be something wrong with the little man. That was until the thing began his rigorous karate training on my ribs and bladder. Then I knew everything was fine. So now I'm worried for the actual Kiefer, and by extension, Tony Shaloub. Like, periodically checking Defamer to make sure nothing strange or worrisome comes up on Kiefer today worried. No, I don't get it either. I'm pregnant, hormonal and neurotic. That's my excuse. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go scour the internets to make sure nothing has happened to Kiefer.

My Big Fat Redneck Wedding

As a self-described pop-culture knuckle-dragger, I like to think there aren't too many things out there that are too base for me to watch. I mean, I use to watch Jackass, which I think is in and of itself a hero's trial. But there comes a point where I look at some of the stuff on television and think "That's way beyond, even for me." Last night that theory got tested. So usually Monday nights are kinda packed for me. I mean, I got Prison Break recording on one TV, I'm watching How I Met your Mother and Big Bang Theory on another. I'm contemplating how I might fit in Heroes (But thankfully G4 has taken the worrying out of that equation). But last night I had none of that. Blah-blah-writer's-strike-blah.

Fighting Nun and I were at a loss. He was flipping through channels and happened to stumble upon "My Big Fat Redneck Wedding" on CMT. (Yes, that's how desperate we were.) Which I vetoed. Then I made my famous call to the Chinese Place, then I went and picked up my order, which meant the veto was lifted in my absence. I get back only to realize that not only has Fighting Nun been watching it, he wants to rewind back to the beginning so that I might also bask in its glory. And then he tells me that Tom Arnold is hosting it, which lead to an argument about whether or not Tom Arnold could technically be considered a redneck over egg rolls. I had to finally concede to Fighting Nun's argument that Tom Arnold is truly a redneck. I mean the evidence is truly staggering in Fighting Nun's favor, I couldn't deny.

Then I sat down and watched the show. I have never watched a show that made me feel simultaneously dumb and way smart at the same time. I mean seriously. I know I dropped a few
IQ points just by watching the show but then I felt a whole lot smarter about myself because I know I've had a lot of stupid ideas in my time on this planet but I count myself lucky that outfitting my bridal party in camouflage doesn't happen to be amongst those ideas. Yes, you read that right. The bride-to-be not only outfitted her bridesmaids and groomsmen in camouflage, it was camo she bought at Wal-mart. On top of that, the groom wore a camo tux jacket. Those three words do not go together and yet I saw it with my very own eyes. And I'm not even at the best part yet. Her bridal party got camo pedicures. I'm sitting there, plate of Chinese food in front of me, about to take a bite of Sesame Chicken and then I see the camo pedicures and my mouth drops, I'm not even sure where the piece of sesame chicken I was eating went. I had to literally pick my jaw off my plate and put it back into place.

It was either at this point in the show or earlier, when the groom had his bachelor party which basically involved the groom and his cohorts shooting fireworks at each other, when Fighting Nun looked at me earnestly and said "Do you think Al Queada and Osama watch this and think 'America is fighting the war on terror to preserve that?", which seriously. And this was just the first episode. The second episode was just as mind-boggling but for completely different reasons. The necessity of a wedding dress to have pockets so the bride has some place to put her smokes for one, or a hard and grizzled cowboy going lingerie shopping, which, it really was as good as it sounds.

Somewhere, between the camo wedding and the grizzled cowboy wedding, presided over a minister who was ordained in prison (!), Fighting Nun said "Well, now I know how I'll be spending my time until the writer's strike is over." Which, yeah I don't know. Yes, on the one hand you have the unchecked use of animal taxidermy as wedding decorations (yes, that actually happened) but on the other hand, well you have your own self-preservation to think about. (But I probably will track down the next episode because the trailer for it was so awesome. It had possibly the best line ever, to wit "Come on honey, let's go constipate our marriage." As much as I appreciate writers, no writer would be dumb enough to think of that!) So My Big Fat Redneck Wedding. Come for the ill-advised use of camouflage and Tom Arnold's (surprisingly) fun remarks about the proceedings, but don't stay too long. Your sanity will thank you.

Figure Skating Rules!!!

So, It's been a couple of days, but I still haven't been able to get it out of my head....

Did anybody seem to catch the Figure Skating National Championships that NBC featured over the weekend? I couldn't have been the only dork, could I? And it's not like I was really looking for Figure Skating so much as it found me really and truly, but that's besides the point. So there I was watching figure skating on a Saturday afternoon and it just so happened to be my favorite figure skating event: Pairs. I love pairs, which may or may not surprise some people. I'm sure, that with my undying Filippe Candelero love, you'd think I'd be all about men's but no, The Pairs event has my heart. Call it risidual The Cutting Edge love if you will, but Pairs is where the money's at.

So I'm sitting there, basking in the awesomeness that is Pairs, watching the last Pairs couple, Inoue and Baldwin, skate. Not the best program. There was that little bauble, they weren't going to get first. O.k. whatever. So there program finishes, but the camera hasn't let off them because they haven't gotten off the ice... and then. And then! He (Baldwin) propose to his partner (Inoue). On the Ice! In front of all the spectators, all the cameras, everyone. Just bends down and proposes right there!!! And She says yes!!! OMG!!! Holy Crap people! That was so awesome! That was so Ice Castles and The Cutting Edge combined kind of awesome. Take "We forgot about the flowers" throw in a little "Just remember who said it First" and you only maybe get close to how awesome that was!!! Fighting Nun, who was playing video games upstairs had to run down and ask me what I was squealing at, it was that kind of awesome. Yes I squealed! Yes I cried just a little bit. (Yes, Fighting Nun rolled his eyes at me and told me to keep my squealing down.) I'm not even going to blame pregnancy hormones on what happened!!! That kind of moment deserves real tears! That was so awesome! I love figure skating!!!

My Vajajay Rides the Short Bus

Dear The Soup;

Thanks for being the inspiration behind my blog post title today! I couldn't have done it without Oprah's Vajajay and you!

Love;

The Bloody Munchkin

Ahem. O.k., so this is going to be an awefully long post that might only tangentially relate to the blog post title, but we'll see. So, uhm, I'm going to come right out and say it. I'm pregnant. I'm with child. I'm Juno (which if you haven't seen this movie, please, please go see it. I haven't given it a full review because I can't say anything that tons of movie bloggers haven't said better already. I'm looking directly at you Reel Fanatic!). While this doesn't really excuse or explain why I haven't been blogging regularly, it's the explanation I'm sticking with.

Let me start out by saying that this pregnancy has been a rollercoaster ride. Highest of highs, bottoming out into lowest of lows. AND that's not even my mood swings! (Rim Shot) Although I think Fighting Nun would disagree with that contention. It has really felt like one thing after another. First trimester? I had to go into the emergency room because of strange intestinal pain. Doctors couldn't quite figure it out, but the Ultrasound technician had a pretty good idea as to what it was. Wanna know what it was? Guess, come on, guess! I dare you! Trapped Gas. That's right. I went to the emergency room because I couldn't fart. Do you know the mileage a grown man with the humor of a twelve-year-old can get out of the term trapped gas??? You really don't want to know that answer but I now do. Thanks Fighting Nun. So that was dive number one in this roller coaster I call pregnancy, and then the roller coaster started climbing up and up again. Things were good.

Cut to Trimester two. Cut to the Ultrasound technician telling us it's a boy. It was a high point! But the roller coaster wouldn't dip on us would it? Would it? Cut to ten minutes later when a nice seeming but utterly unhelpful paranatalogist gut punches with some news that took us a whole week to comprehend. First, we were told there might be an issue with the baby's heart and secondly we were told he had a cleft palate. Up to that point we didn't really have a reference point to what either of those would mean. And there's the dip in the roller coaster which plummeted us, followed by a bunch of loopty-loop thingies. Follow that up with a trip to a pediatric heart specialist guy dude thingie and a clean bill of health on the baby's heart. Aaaaaand We're climbing again! Follow that up with a talk with an incredibly nice nurse for a cranial-facial specialist that specializes in clefts and we're still on the rise, although a bit unsteady. We haven't unclenched our hands from the bars yet, but we can breathe just a little bit.

Which now brings me to the blog post title. So, about three weeks ago, there was something weird.... going on.... down there. In the you know what. A day went by, I let it slide, but things were still freaky in vajajayville in ways that I didn't really have a reference point for. Finally, I call my OB, who was conveniently on vacation. I call the doctor taking his patients and they tell me to go directly to the hospital, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. Aaaaaand there's another plummet. Woooo! 3 hours and who knows how many thousands of dollars billed to my insurance later, and we still weren't any closer to what's wrong. It's been this on and off thing that we don't quite understand and has had me a bit concerned (read: freaked out) off and on for a few weeks now. Which brings me to a conversation Fighting Nun and I had that I probably shouldn't repeat, but I'm gonna anyway:

Cut to a car ride where I'm explaining my concern with... that region. Bloody Munchkin: It's still kinda... freaky.
Fighting Nun: I wouldn't worry too much about it though.
Bloody Munchkin: Why not?
Fighting Nun: Well you're vagina has always been.... special.
Bloody Munchkin: What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Fighting Nun: Well, I mean come on, think of your history here. Your whooha has always needed... special consideration.
Bloody Munchkin: Just what are you trying to say? That my vagina is in special ed classes?
Fighting Nun: Yeah, basically. Your vagina rides the short bus.

So, my vagina rides the short bus. I'm not sure where that conversation fits in terms of the roller coaster, maybe a lull in the ride perhaps? Since then, I've had the good luck of having to give blood for a gestational diabetes test that came back high (a little bit of a dip) which means I had to take another blood test that made my arms look like a) I had become a heroine junkie, b) someone had screwed up and put the stigmata on my body on the wrong place, c) I had been bitten by really wee vampires who couldn't make my neck or D) all of the above. I can't decide which. I think I'm going with D though.

Which brings us to now. So far during this roller coaster, I've come to realize I have a problem with trapped gas, I'm going to have a unique child with a cleft lip and my vagina rides the short bus. And crazily enough, I don't see the ride ending anytime soon. I'm going to hold on to the bars and hope for the best. Wish me luck.

Dear semi-teenage heartthrobs I used to have a crush on:

Stop Dying. No. I mean it. First Renfro, now Ledger. I just, I just..... man, I can't even put it into words. I haven't been this depressed over celebrity deaths since, probably Brandis, but I'm going to go even further back. River Phoenix. That one happened in my teens, and because River was River and I was a gushing teenage girl, I. Was. Devastated.

And now, I had barely dealt with Renfro and my heart as been ripped out again by Ledger? And thanks to the rule of three, I'm wondering who is going to die to make the trifecta, which has me more nervous than I've ever been for some of my idols of years past. God. I can't even get my head around this. I'm going to curl up in a ball and hide in a corner now....

The Baldwin Conspiracy Theory

I've had Baldwins on the brain lately. I think that it's due to the fact that they are inescapable. I mean, you've got Alec who is basically everywhere. And then, like a bad sore, Stephen keeps popping up everywhere all "Look at me I can ride a bull, look at me I'm on Celebrity Apprentice. Look, look, look over here." And you look, even though you don't want to, but mostly you're looking to see if his hair has grown out appropriately after Stephen let Vanilla Ice of all people take clippers to it. And then, on top of that now you've got Daniel's bloated figure haunting you from the VH1 channel. The only one I haven't seen lately is Billy, which I can never tell if that's a good sign or not. Like he's always hiding under a rock with Chyna and then all the sudden he'll pop out and say "Boo!" and then he'll go back into hiding and I have no idea what he's doing. And in my mind he was always the superior Baldwin anyway. And look, it's not like I don't know how that arguement goes all "Billy was in Sliver! I can not abide the movie or that Baldwin! Alec is the superior Baldwin! Look at his body of work." To which I say look at his body! There are many things I don't want to do in this lifetime and one of them is not to see Alec, Daniel, or Stephen shirtless and I definately don't want to see all three shirtless at the same time because. Yeech. The four Baldwin brothers are like the evolution of man chart, you know the one, where they show apes, then the cro-magnun and eventually it gets to us? Yeah, the Baldwins are like that except what that chart happens to be showing us is the evolution of Bloat, with Daniel back with the apes, Stephen somewhere with the Cro-Mags, Alec just a step above that until finally we reach Daniel, who is as good a picture of unbloated normalcy the Baldwins are ever going to show off. But all this is besides the point.

So last night, with absolutely nothing on TV, we decided to watch Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew on the aforementioned VH1. Tigerlady T told me to watch it because she said it was the trainwreck to end all trainwrecks and I have to say I agree with her. I mean it's really not pretty, what with Conway screaming and yelping and DEAR GOD THE ICY HOT! THE WRONG THINGS THAT WERE DONE IN THIS EPISODE IN THE NAME OF ICY HOT! I mean, I was convinced a disgusting porn was around the corner and what with Marey Carey in rehab, I'm amazed I wasn't wrong. And then of course, there's Daniel, or Daniel's bloated figure or the Ghost of Bloat Future or whatever you want to call him. The only thing more far-reaching in size than Daniel's Bloat was Daniel's Self-Righteousness, which for someone who has snorted a horse's weight in cocaine, I'm amazed he has that at that great a degree. But oh wait, he's a Baldwin, I shouldn't be surprised. Because of Daniel's bloat, or inspite of it, or who knows, Fighting Nun and I were still talking about him and the Baldwin's this morning, and more importantly we stumbled upon one of the greater conspiracy theories of all time. To wit:

Bloody Munchkin: What are you thinking about?
Fighting Nun, with a disgusted sigh: Daniel.
BM: Ugh. God I know. Clearly the most inferior Baldwin, not that he knows it at all.
FN: Isn't the Baldwin that died the most inferior Baldwin? You know, because he's dead?
BM: To my knowledge, no Baldwin has died although Daniel's been to the brink many a time, God knows.
FN: Then who am I thinking of? Chris... Chris?
BM: Penn. Penn's aren't Baldwins. Thank God for that. But I always get the Penns and the Arquettes mixed up. I don't know why I think Alexis Arquette is a Penn, I just do.
FN: Actually come to think of it, I have the same problem with Andy Garcia and the Baldwins.
BM: Wait. What?
FN: Andy Garcia. I think he's a Baldwin.
BM, utterly dumbstruck: How could you get Andy Garcia mixed up with a Baldwin?
FN: I don't know, I just do.
BM: You do realize that Andy Garcia happens to be Cuban right? And the Baldwins are... the Baldwins.
FN: I know, I know, but think about it. Maybe papa Baldwin decided to schtoop Senorita Garcia and the fruits of the union happened to be Andy Garcia and as some sort of extortion, Mama Garcia forced papa Baldwin to put her son through acting with the lot of the Baldwins.
BM, still dumbstruck: I have no idea how to even process this. You have a crazy yet beautiful mind.

With that, I kissed my husband good-bye and tried to forget the silliness that was the Garcia-Baldwin relation theory. But now? It's just off the wall enough to be true. I can just see it, Papa Baldwin handing Alec's leftover scripts to Andy. "Alec's been asked to play this casino owner for this movie with like Clooney or whatever, but he's already doing that with William H. Macey. Maybe you would want a shot at that?" In fact, I want to live in a world where this very thing is true, that Andy Garcia is the ill-begotten half-brother of the rest of the Baldwins, trying to live out from under their shadow, which is a sizeable task. Because have you seen the size of Daniel Baldwin's shadow? Mr. Burns is calling Daniel right now so that he can use Daniel's Bloat Ridden body to blot out the sun in another attempt to leave Springfield in darkness yet again. (Dude, I have a million Daniel Baldwin Bloat Jokes. I hope I don't get sued.) In the meantime, I'll see what I can't do about arranging a Baldwin-Garcia paternity test.

Random Thoughts of Crispin Glover

So this morning I'm driving into work and listening to my favorite morning show, Energy 92.7 because I secretly (or not so secretly) think Greg the Gay Sportcaster is my gay counterpart and I would love to buy him a Cosmo and dish. So I'm listening this morning and I squeal really loudly because their guest this morning was Crispin Glover. Crispin "my density" Glover. On my radio!!!

See, I have this strange thing with Crispin. And it's not a thing per say. I don't secretly harbor a crush on the guy, mostly because he rocks strange haircuts and relies on velvet a little heavily. But I find him really interesting. Not for the wacked-out, drinks-too-much-absynthe, dates a strange cadre of women including but not limited to: some Penthouse Pen-up from the nineties, some strange blonde chick, and of course my personal favorite, Courtney Peldon , way he is. But I like him for other reasons, partly because he's doing things the way he wants to do them and has no qualms about it. He's financing his own movies, he's always questioning the way things are done in Hollywood and regardless of his other personal quirks, I have to say I respect that.

Around the time Willard was released, which I'm ashamed to say I saw in theatres, and o.k. I don't mean to digress too much, but that movie blew. And it wasn't for lack of trying that it blew. R. Lee Ermey did what R. Lee Ermey does best. He got all growly and spittley and you hated him although you secretly loved him because he was just disgusting but he was having fun being disgusting and as usual you could see bits of scenery in his teeth because he forgot to floss. Crispin got in there and did the work and that chick from Mulholland Drive was doing her darnedest, but it was all for not pretty much for not. Again, not blaming any of principles, but the movie blew. But so anyway, at the time Willard was released I still had my Rolling Stone subscription and there was an article in there with Crispin and I found myself drawn to it for reasons I was unsure of and, long story short, I ended up liking the guy.

Sure, there are several times since then that I've seriously questioned if he's a few slices short of a loaf, but he's still never boring. Like this morning. I mean, he doesn't exactly radio interview very well. There's a lilt or an intonation to his voice that is kind of disconcerting and dude, using a lot of big words for the 8 A.M. "Don't bother me, the Starbucks hasn't kicked in" crowd, now aren't we?

Apparantly he's in town to screen one of his movies, which is supposedly the second in this wierd trilogy he has planned. So the screening isn't just a movie screening, but then he does a whole Q and A session plus he reads excerpts from his book and Oh my God am I tempted to go, for no other reason than to say I went and saw his special brand of off the wall in person for myself. I mean, I know it's a trek to San Francisco and I don't especially revel in the thought of going to the Castro, but still. To see his special brand of Crispinness, I'm really tempted. Whatever Crispin's ills are, he doesn't seem to take the easy way out. It could be argued that he's kooky and on the fringes just for the sake of being on the fringes, but I actually think it's geniune. I don't think Crispin has any other choice than to be Crispin and instead of doing what Hollywood and people expect, he instead becomes even more Crispin and does what they wouldn't. He turned down a part in the Back to the Future sequels. He turned up Charlie's Angels and didn't speak but yelled wierdly and it was awesome. He's a special breed unto himself and I kind of wish I could see it in person.

Beauty and the Geek Season 4, Episode 2

So last night Fighting Nun went to the last SF Giants home game of the season last night, which you'd think I'd bitch about, not getting to go and all, but actually going to do just the opposite. I mean first off, the Giants had a crappy season this year so I knew I wasn't going to miss much. Secondly, Fighting Nun's absence last night meant I got to watch a whole plethora of guilt pleasures that Fighting Nun would normally veto. America's Next Top Model followed by Gossip Girl (which, I didn't get to see last week's premiere, but Love! Flustercuck is now my favorite new word!) followed by the Tivoed episode of Beauty and the Geek that Fighting Nun didn't want to finish the night before??? Pop-culture knuckle-dragger heaven people! I absolutely basked in the glow of all the sugary nonsense. That is not to say that I didn't remember to record Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares because Fighting Nun and I are nothing if not Gordon's bitches. Or would it be better if I called ourselve's Ramsey's bitches? I wonder... Ramsey's Bitches is now my favorite new band name.

But I digress. My main purpose for starting this post wasn't to ennumerate my number of TV loves. My main purpose right now is to bitch, quite loudly and at length. 'And about what?' you might ask. And to that question I will point you directly to Sam, who was the male 'beauty' introduced in the second episode of Beauty and Geek. Oh my God I can not stand this guy. I shook my hand furiously at the TV last night in his direction I can't stand him that much.

I haven't had this much of an irrational hate on for a reality show character since Diggity Dave on Pimp My Ride. And believe you me, that's saying something. I mean I have had nothing but seething hate for Diggity Dave for two years. I constently find myself yelling insults at the TV while he's on it, like this: "Shut Up Diggity Dave and what kind of nickname is that anyway and stop with the punk rock preening because someone who either has a line of hair products or is shilling for a line of hair products (Yes I know he's involved in a hair care line, no I can't unlearn that fact, I've tried. Yes it annoys me.) can not be punk rock, because if you you're on TV and you schill hair products you are essentially Cher and if you are essentially Cher then you are not punk rock, you are a poser and you suck, DIGGITY DAVE and stop rocking the tattoos and the black nail polish and I hope your stupid hair spikes get caught in something and get ripped off your head not enough to kill or seriously injure you but just enough to wipe that stupid hairstyle off your head and your stupid sneering wannabe rockstar grin off your face. Stop preening and giving yourself a virtual handjob any time you do something you think is cool on camera. HAAAAATTTTTEEEEEE!!"

And the problem I have with Diggity Dave is the same problem I have with this Sam guy on Beauty and the Geek. The preening, the arrogance, and yet the outright obviousness that the lights are on upstairs up nobody's home. Drives me nuts. Not actually nuts enough to stop watching either Pimp My Ride (Xzibit is my co-pilot. Don't judge me) or Beauty and the Geek, but just nuts enough for me to rant irrationally about it (I SAID, don't judge me).

Sam is just so... actually he's so many things that it's hard for me to list them all. First off, I never need to see him with his shirt off ever again, because his precisely oiled pecs are blinding me. And if they show another clips package of him getting ready, I will absolutely vomit. Which makes me beg the question, why did give his preening special treatment but they usually gloss over the beauties going through the same routine? I don't understand it. Something else I don't understand? How somebody with that shiny a forehead things he's God gift to women. Clean and Clear called. They want you to schlock their Oil Blotting Tissues, Douche. And then to top it all off, during his challenge, which I pretty much put on mute because even in his voice grates on me, right after he finished his debate, he gives the judges and the room A Blue Steel and then, AND THEN, he makes finger guns. O.k., first off, there are only two people certified to operate the Blue Steel and that's Derek Zoolander and Micheal Scofield, and the fact that Sam even tried to attempt it tarnished both of their reputations. HATE!!! HATEY HATE!!! And then, to top that all off... He wins. He blue steels and finger guns himself to immunity???? What kind of world are we living in here??? I have to go lie down. And then his team put Tony and Amanda up for Elimination?

Which, tiny, off-topic nit to pick here. Is it just me or do the asian geeks frequently and summarily get the shaft early on in the show? Last season it was the guy who drew that boob and season before that? Rubiks cube guy both cut within the first two, three episodes tops. What is with that?

Anyhoooo, where was I. Oh yeah. Bit me Sam. No, I take that back Shut Up Sam! Shut up Sam's hair and Shut up Sam's beauty regimen and shut up the future storyline in which he 'hooks up' with one of the other beauties in the house (I just became a little bit barfy this then. Hooks Up. Blech). Just Grrrr. Shut Up. So, I'm not exactly sure what my point was but sometimes irrational rants are their own reward.

Beauty and The Geek: Season 4 opener

It's back on bitches. Beauty and The Geek is back!!!! And this season could be pretty darn good. I didn't get through all of the season premiere yet, mostly because Fighting Nun and I had the same fight, err I mean discussion, we always have about this show, to wit: "Why are watching this show again?" "Because of the potentiality for Awesome." "That makes no sense. This show is not awesome. It's lame." "No it's not!" "So why are you forcing me to watch this?" "I'm not forcing you to watch it. I'll watch it on my own free time if you're that offended." "But why are you watching it?" "Because, Krakow. You know what, just read my blog and figure it out. Shut up and watch a Tivoed episode of Dirty Jobs and leave me alone." So I've had to postpone my viewing for later.

I did get through the casting section of the episode this morning, which left in my mind two interesting points. 1) Do I really need to watch a casting episode? How is this really supposed to interest me? Do they have casting specials for Survivor or any of that junk? No, and if they do, I'm not watching it. But I am watching this casting special for one good reason and one reason only, which brings me to my next point. 2) Nate. And Jenny Lee. They hosted the casting special!!! And they still look like they are dating and they are soooooo cute together. And Nate! He looks are dapper and put together and awesome!!! And Jenny Lee still looks like Jenny Lee but she's all cute with Nate and somebody please tell me they're engaged to be married and are going to run off and have hundreds of cute babies!!! So awesome. I love Jenny Lee and Nate! He cut his hand on a tree for her! They must stay together. And if I am forced to watch the casting special for this show, then they must host it from here to eternity.

O.k., that's all I got. I'll report back once I've finished the episode.

Blades of Glory: Movie Review

O.k. so here's the thing. By all accounts, this movie should've been totally in my wheel house. I mean, I was all set to like this one. Remember? Remember? And I did like parts of it, but there were just so many things I just couldn't get behind. Amy Poehler's ridiculous blathering and guilt-tripping of her sister and Jenna Fischer's just utter pointlessness to the movie. It didn't work for me and I wanted it to so badly.

I mean from the get-go it had a lot of potential. I mean Fichtner!!!! You all know how I feel about Fichtner, and the fact that he can make any movie better just for the sole fact that he is in it. But this movie brought to light a new rule regarding Fichtner that I had not considered until this very movie, which I will call the Fichtner Proportion. Basically, Fichtner's tendancy to make any movie better is directly related to the actual amount of screen time he is actually given in a movie. Let me give you a couple of examples. In Prison Break (which, let me stop right there for a second. How awesome was the new season premiere and just how ruley is this new premise people? So ruley, so awesome!!! That's how.), he's currently getting alot of screen time which means a usually awesome Prison Break gets catapulted to an A+ just on principle. And then you have movies like Go and Ultraviolet which benefitted from his brief yet still very tangable appearances. But with Blades of Glory? I'd say he had 2 or 3 minutes with only a handful of lines tops. It's William Fichtner. The Ruley William Fichtner and you deign to give him just a smarmy cameo?!?!?! Fichtner deserves better than that and so does his hair!!! (I don't know why I said that, I've just always liked his hair). So basically, if Fichtner would have had a better role (Heder's adoptive father. As if Fichtner would ever adopt such a wet blanket!) and more screen time (Ten, fifteen minutes, that's all I ask!), this movie would've been a B+ easy. As it is, C, C- if that.

Regardless of this movie being Fichtner-lite though, it basically suffered from the same things I thought it was going to. To be a Will Ferrell vehicle is to be the same jokes recycled over and over again. To be a John Heder movie is to watch John Heder play the same hapless character over and over again. And Will Arnett. He could've been so good in this role, it's just that with the material given, he didn't have the opportunity. He was too busy being overshadowed by Amy Poehler who was in turn being overshadowed or devoured by her garrish wigs, I can't decide which. Although Will did have the best line of the whole movie ("We just disappointed Marky Mark.... And the funky bunch." Classic. I've got to remember that the next time I can't remember all the lyrics to Good Vibrations.)

Also, poor Scott Hamilton. Also, also, don't think I didn't notice the whole Cutting Edge take-off, and don't think I wasn't offended by it either, because I did and I totally am. Lame! Super Lame! Not as lame as Jenna Fischer's plotline, but still. You're on probation Ferrell. Don't screw up this bad again.

Movie Review: Sherrybaby

O.k., so here's the thing. It's not that I didn't like the movie. I mean, on some level I liked it o.k., I guess. It's just that this happens to be one of those movies that was better in theory than in practice. I mean, for starters you've got Maggie Gyllenhaal in it, who gets a lifelong pass for me on the strength of Secretary alone and then, to top that all off, you've got the Trejo. We all know how I feel about the Trejo. I've made it abundantly clear that the Trejo is awesome. And I have to stop right there to ask the following question: There is a documentary abou the Trejo and nobody told me???? Even though everybody knew that it would be right in my wheelhouse??? And then I have to find out about it through TigerladyT, as she makes an offhanded comment about it all "Yeah, I just netflixed the documentary on him awhile back. It was really good." and then I Kyle's mom it, all "What What What?!?!?" and she's all "Yeah, the docu on Trejo." and I'm all flabbergasted and an almost guilty feeling overcomes me because how could I, a Trejo Enthusiast, not know about a Trejo documentary? Ahem. Back to the point.

So if someone was to stick both of these very awesome actors that I like and respect in a movie together, what could go wrong? Alot apparantly, a whole lot.

It's not that they weren't working their butts off (although the less said about Trejo's butt in boxer shorts, the better off we all are), but you can only do so much with the material you're given and as far as I'm concerned, the material is weak. Super weak. I can't speak to how true to life Maggie's performance is, and, not that I'm knocking on authenticity or anything, but at some level it just didn't work, again not Maggie's fault but more the fault of what her motivation was at the time or what the script was asking of her.There were so many scenes that just felt overwrought and then there were others that just fell flat.

And then there were was one scene in particular that was unneccessary and kind of sickening.
The scene with her dad, which establishes the character's motivations toward drug use because of past abuse, was just there for the shock value. I get that it was somewhat of a plot pusher, but the way in which it was shown... look it's not like I'm some prude, or I don't get the director's artistic decisions or whatever, but no. First of all, I think they established early on in the movie by forcing the character into a lot of unsavory sexual relationship, that there was some form of abuse in the character's past. I was already aware of it before that scene. That scene didn't prove anything other than that she was in a screwed up family/ And I'm not saying this sort of thing shouldn't be portrayed, because it does happen and people have a right to put it out there, but I think there's a line in which things like that are maybe said not shown. It wasn't an artistic decision I would've made if I were in the director's shoes is all.

But then it was just left there. She never mentions it, it's never mentioned, it's just dropped while the movie rambles on its conclusion, which was what exactly? Look I don't need my hand held and I don't need it all in a nice tidy box, but I needed something that the movie just didn't feel like providing.

Shoalin Monks vs. Ninjas

O.k., so I read this story. I was lead to this story by the tag "Shoalin Temple: Our Monks could beat up your ninjas." which totally caught me because; Awesome. So I'm thinking this could be great, but then I read the whole story and it sounds, well, very high school. The Shoalin monks are up in arms because of some he said, she said crap posted on the internets? And they are demanding an apology for something somebody posted on a forum? Really? *Head Tilt* Really?

Is this what years of Kung Fu teaches you to do? Do you think this is how James Carrodine would've handled the situation? Let's just take a step back and ask ourselves WWGD (What would Grasshopper do)? I think the answer is obvious, he would've tried to turn the other cheek and walk the path to nonviolence, then he would've kicked some ass. So I ask the wonderful Shoalin Monks to do the right thing in this situation: Challenge some Ninjas to a duel and then make it a Pay-per-view event and above all else, let me watch, because Awesome.

But I must note from watching that one episode of Samuari Jack where he goes to the Shoalin Temple over and over, that the best and most likely outcome is that instead of fighting each other, They end up showing each other your best Water Beetle, become friends and then try to find a portal in time so that Jack can go back in time to destroy Aku. I'm just saying.

Assholes with Cats

I realize the world is full of assholes. In the close to three decades I've been on this earth, I've been around more than my share, so I don't usually comment on them. But today I came across a special brand of asshole-ry that has pissed me off enough to write.

We've had these neighbors for close to a year. They lived across the street from us, and although there were signs of douche-baggery, I didn't give them much time or space in my thoughts. Well apparently a lot of people in our HOA did and raised enough ruckus that their landlord renting the house out to them called paid to their bullshit and had them move. I hadn't really registered an opinion on this fact other than "meh, whatever" until this morning.

The main crux of the issue is their cat. It is this lovable calico-ish cat. Any time I was out in the neighborhood without my dog Kissinger by my side, the cat would be rather personable. It would come up while I was at the mail box and I'd pet it and it would pur and it was just a sweet cat with a nature and personality probably not well suited for the dilweeds it was living with.

This morning as I started my morning walk with our dog Kissinger, I spotted another neighbor standing in dilweed's yard. I asked what was up and she informed me that the neighbors left their cat. That's right, up and left the thing on the stoop, with a little tray of water and food and moved. No note, didn't go to the neighbors about the situation or anything, just left the cat alone, on the stoop of the house, terrified and anxious.


My heart plummeted. I asked what would happen to the cat and the neighbor informed me that another neighbor had offered to take it in. I said I'd happily take it if it didn't work out with the other neighbors because no cat, no dog, no animal in which we as humans have decided to take on as pets, which in my mind means a member of the family should be left so cruelly, should be abandoned and not looked after by someone. If you had the presence of mind to take in an animal at some point, you better damn well have the presence of mind to continue care for that animal even when an inconvenience such as moving gets in the way or don't get a pet at all. It's a simple fact. If these owners knew for a fact they couldn't take the cat to wherever they were going, fine. Beat down a couple of doors in the neighborhood and see if anybody would be willing to take it in. Do not, I repeat DO NOT leave the thing on the front porch and expect it look after itself, you uncaring jerk-wads of the HIGHEST ORDER. GRRRRRRRR!

I hope the cat gets a better home and people than it got before, I hope the douchey neighbors don't come back in an effort to get the cat back for the simple fact that I will have to give them a piece of my mind and it will not be pretty. I don't and haven't really gotten adamant about animal rights on this blog for various reasons. I didn't register an opinion about the Vick dog-fighting scandal because it wasn't my place. But as a loving owner of a dog, a wonderful, sweet natured by previously abused dog who is now a (somewhat) well-adjusted (yet still neurotic) member of our family, I am going to register an opinion about certain responsibilities and rules we as pet owners should respect and abandoning a sweet cat on your doorstep is one of those things you just DO NOT do.

If you're reading this today and are as angry as I am, consider donating a little time or a little money to your local no-kill animal shelter or SPCA. Let's undo a little of the bad karma that bad pet-owners put out there by acts like these.

It's my birfday!

So, yeah, today's my birthday. Woo. (Streamers falling down, confetti in the air.) It's not that I could care less, it's just that more important, pressing things in my life have seemed to make having a birthday less of an issue.

For instance, this time last year? If pressed I would've asked for the Invader Zim box set (which I have now) and some other pop-culture related ephimera. Today, right now? All I want is a nap, a long, beautious, wonderful nap that last from here to Thanksgiving, followed immediately by a siesta and capped off with a bout of sleeping so furious and grand it makes Rumpelstilskin's sleeping fest look like naptime in a romper room. Is this wrong?

Don't get me wrong, any pop-culture donations (up to and including the new My So-Called Life DVD set) are welcome and appreciated, but if you could find a way to conk me out until, say the new Prison Break season starts, I'd really appreciate it.

My Boys: Season 2

O.k., we all know how I felt about it last season, how it's this wierd paradox for me and every time I see Kyle Howard, I have all these complex emotions, because there are too many complicated memories of wierd movies he did as a kid, blah blah blah. But I still like it, which is odd, because we had put off watching any of the season 2 episodes until they were just sitting there on the Tivo, pouting at us. So we finally broke down and started watching them the other night and I think we've finally caught up on the season. Which brings me to my point, which is that I have to apologize to Fighting Nun for something:

Dear Fighting Nun;

I'm sorry for trying not to squeal when Jeremy Sisto suddenly appeared in the episode and ending up letting out a little mouse squeak any way because, well Sisto. I know I should be able to control that better, but Sisto. I wasn't prepared for Sisto. And yes, I know what your arguement is going to be, I didn't squeal at all during the episode and a half of Kidnapped that I watched, I should have impulse control but see, I have an arguement for that. I was prepared for the Sisto then. I knew he was on the show and was going to be all badass. I had a system of checks and balances to keep the Sisto Squeals at bay. (Yes, that's its technical term, yes I've been diagnosed). And finally, after five seasons of Six Feet Under, I was able to keep my squeals to a minimum when Billy unexpectedly showed up in an episode and I wasn't prepared for it. It took awhile and I thank you for being patient. I know my wierd thing for Creepy Jesus is hard to handle, but it's Sisto.

But last night? Sisto just showing up all scruffy and rough? It took me a second, because his first scene was of him on a computer screen, so I couldn't tell it was him until I heard his voice. My inner monologue went something like this: "Is that? Nooooo. Couldn't be. Oh my god it totally is. It's SISTO!" And then, well. I had no place for it. I let a little squee slip. He has the effect on me. And his character? Although somewhat douchey by the end, was totally perfect for Jeremy to be playing. That dash of mysteriousness, that hint of something deeper. It's Sisto. And God, the way Jordana Spiro's character kind of became all melty and cute-voiced whenever she talked to him? I totally get that, because hello! Sisto!!! And, O.k. Thorn? Awesome name for Sisto. It's the kind of awesome name you'd expect a hot, you-still-have-somewhat-unrequited-feelings-for ex-boyfriend to have.

My only complaint? Other than the douchey way his character left things with the main character? Please tell me the bloaty thing he was going through was for the role and he's not suffering from the spread. Because that would really depress me. It's the Sisto! He's better than that. And if it's actually for his new stint on Law and Order or Law and Order: Criminal Intent or some such crap I won't be watching, well then I have actual incentive not to be watching. Not that the Sisto isn't still worthwhile in all his forms, but I don't watch and of the Law and Order shows and now that Jerry Orbach's no longer with us, it would be even harder for me to tune in. I'm weird that way.

So, sorry Fighting Nun. And sorry for a three paragraph treatsy on the subject of Sisto as well. I'll try and do better next time.

Anyhoo, My Boys, Sisto. Good Combination.