I am reaching for a glass

I am back in Maryland and have many back-logged mental blog posts that I could not be bothered to write while I was on a Costa Rican beach.

This, however, is not one of those. This is about American cinema, specifically two somewhat recent movie-going ventures: ‘Charlie Wilson’s War’ and the new ‘National Treasure’ movie whose subheading I did not manage to catch as that is how much it matters.

First, Charlie Wilson. This man makes me want to be in politics. Much like ‘Bad Santa’, the film makes alcoholism attractive again, something to aspire to, even. They just make it look so easy…the magic of film. Otherwise, there is little to say about it. It was charming and timely and all those nice things, but mostly it made me want to be a booze hound. Also, I went with my family on Christmas day which warrants a bit of commentary.

As is always the case, the Jews of Bethesda were out in full force. Quite a lot of Jew-fros in pea coats talking about our traditions of Chinese food on that most Hallmark, I mean holy, of days. I have also recently discovered, however, that Christmas movies are not just for Jews anymore. As one gentile friend explained it to me, their family, by some holy writ, has to spend the entire day together. Well, after the morning gifting festivities expire, they too tire of simply staring at each other, so they take an excursion to stare at something else for a while. The movies are perfect: a family can see one together, stay together the whole day without drawing blood, and have something to talk about over dinner.

Unless they saw National Treasure 2, in which case they will have gone home, gone straight for the bottle, and either drawn blood before dinner or passed out and skipped it entirely.

I have a theory as to why it was SO bad, and it’s not necessarily the writers’ fault. This was the first PG movie I had seen since Home Alone, and I think that the genre of PG movies died with that film. Think about it…G-rated movies are still incredible, but they are generally animated and full of hilarious innuendo that is meant to go over the kids’ heads and reach a larger, parental audience. Then there is PG-13, the live-action-practically-anything-goes-but-you-can-only-say-”fuck”-once-rating. Brilliant teen and light adventure movies (including, I believe, National Treasure 1) end up PG-13. The theory goes, then, that National Treasure 2 was written as a PG movie, as a piece of throwaway crap that couldn’t do or say anything exciting in spite of the hot actress and legacy of a good-bad-movie left by the first film.

That being said, the kids in the audience liked it. Perhaps my standards for bad movies are too high (or is it low?). The best I have seen in that category lately is “Gray Matters”. It really warrants its own post but this one is already far too long so don’t ask, just rent. At the very least, here is the IMDB link.

“crack cream”

No, it’s not what you think. It’s this treat called Tati, and there’s crack in it. And what I have to say about it is something akin to Mike Myer’s rant (as his Scottish father) in “So I Married an Axe Murderer” about the owner of Kentucky Fried Chicken who he simply refers to as, “the Colonel”. Much like the Colonel, who “puts an addictive chemical in his chicken to make you crave it fortnightly!”, the makers of Tati put what can only be crack in this delicious creation, making us crave it all day everyday.

Tati is, essentially, an ice cream sandwich — but oh how it’s so much more! It is vanilla ice cream, very creamy, very melty, sandwiched between two graham crackery cookies that taste like they have been fried in honey. Between the cookies and the ice cream is a subtle layer of chocolate sauce, unhardened. The creation is divine. It comes in this adorablely wasteful plastic tub with a yellow lid and a little button on the bottom which you can push to expel the cookie — you know, so it feels like you are working for your treat. All of this you do immediately upon exiting the store, actually in the doorway next to the trash can. The entire thing takes less than two minutes to consume, and by that point the cookies have completely softened into the ice cream, and into your belly.

And then you want another one. Immediately. But you don’t get one because you know it’s crack and it’s not good for you. You already had your fix for the day and you don’t want it to get out of control. But then you go into withdrawal, and the cycle begins again when you “break down” and buy one the next day.

Tessa and I had a most intellectual conversation about crack creme today:

Me: I think they would be more satisfying if the cookie were harder. The whole thing wouldn’t melt so fast.

Tessa: I think it would be more satisfying if there weren’t crack in it.

As always, she proves the wiser.

Brother that movie reference was for you. Now go cry yourself to sleep on your giant pillow.

Papa Hemingway

I thought she was joking. No way is there a mostly anecdotal biography of Ernest H. titled “Papa Hemingway”! On this rare occasion, however, Tessa spoke the truth and was kind enough to read some of her favorite gems to me while I was suffering from a mysterious flu-like illness.

El mejor: Papa H. was cheating on his first wife and as soon as they were divorced and he married his mistress, he became impotent. He tried everything to overcome his ailment, visiting doctors, drinking calf’s blood, the works. Finally his new wife, a devout Catholic, suggested that he go to church and pray about it. Papa H. was at the end of his rope at this point so he went and said a little prayer. When he came home, he claims they “made love like they invented it”, and he has been a Catholic ever since. I have hardly known a better reason to practice religion.