Magic Mike: The American Dream

Happy Fourth of July, bitches. I trust that my all fellow Americans are having a grand, ole American time enjoying family, friends, freedom, and staring bemused at Jeff Goldblum wielding a laptop computer with a mobile phone attached, I repeat, attached to it. I know I am. Yes, I have no doubt this is happening in homes across America as far as AMC programming can reach. Outside, I hear the occasional pop and blast of distant fireworks. Although I am happily typing on my computer and enjoying the physiological effects of ice cream, beer, and spaghetti bolognese, perhaps I need to celebrate this day of independence with a little more fervor and enthusiasm. Perhaps it is the boundless wisdom I have acquired in my wizened twenty-four years that has prompted me to appreciate the little things in life. Then again, perhaps it is the stirring sound of President Bill Pullman's voice blasting out of the living room that fills me with hope and pride.

One of the little things I am grateful for that America has given me is the gift of Magic Mike. Oh yes, last weekend, America gave me the gift of Magic Mike, and I eagerly accepted this gift. Thank you, America. This is the national treasure that even Nicolas Cage cannot snatch. Jenna's post-wedding posse and I journeyed out into a night that would change our lives forever. At least for about two hours. It was a night that transported me back to my splash-zone seat at Thunder from Down Under, and a night that reminded me to be thankful for my health, home, and Ginuine's incomparable hit, "Pony."

Never before has a film inspired me to enter all domains henceforth in a flurry of smoke and laser lights.  And why not? I believe that all Americans, nay, all peoples from all corners of the world should have the privilege of crossing a threshold shrouded in smoke and laser lights. Going to work? Smoke and lights! Getting on the train? Smoke and lights! Going to Luby's? Smoke and lights with minimal flashing so as not to induce seizures. Not since Harry Potter have I heard such spirited cheers and colorful comments from the audience and have aforementioned cheers and comments met with equally zealous cries of approval and agreement. Everyone in the audience was cordial and respectful of one another. We were respectful because there was a greater agenda at hand, an agenda that united us as a people, and it involved disrespecting a man in a thong.  Magic Mike took me to church, and when the preacher shouted, "Get it, girl!" I cried, "Amen!

Much like church, I left the holy gathering feeling cleansed and spiritually uplifted. I was reminded of what is important in life, to not stress out about silly things like designer purses, grown-up jobs, and whether or not Chad will think I'm pretty at our high school reunion. In our short time on Earth (which would have been even shorter if Will Smith hadn't saved us), we need to spend more time enjoying ourselves and less time worrying. Why is this fireman not seeking out the source of all this smoke? Don't worry about it, he's not going to be a fireman anymore once the uniform comes off. Why is Matt Bomer still wearing socks while he gyrates atop a woman on a gurney? Details, baby, details. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.

I highly recommend Magic Mike. It is an inspirational film that teaches life lessons of appreciation, motivation, and acceptance. Upon viewing it, I appreciated the wide assortment of men presented to me in such pristine physical condition. Then I was motivated to work hard in life so as to be able to afford a plaster bust of Matthew McConaughey's head and matching oil painting to adorn my future house with. In the end, I realized that Channing Tatum is about as eloquent as Independence Day is realistic... and I accepted that.

The Rise of Valentine's Day Part II

Following up on last night's post regarding my anxiously awaited dinner shift at Ocean's, allow me to regale you with a tale that neither Nostradamus, Professor Trelawney, nor I saw coming. (you can read last night's post here http://legendarywig.blogspot.com/2012/02/rise-of-valentines-day.html)

Our hearty staff braced for the worst tonight. A torrent of happy, rabid couples looking for a romantic dinner loomed just beyond the horizon, we were sure of it. The foreboding moments before turning on the open sign felt like that aerial shot of Agamemnon's fleet in Troy; a thousand ships bringing suburbanites with dangerous appetites for love and shellfish to our shores. Aye, I was Hector readying my battalion, for I had the most years of experience at Oceans... also because I too have a chiseled jaw and a burly chest carved by the gods themselves. But I digress.

First a few regulars came in. Then a slow conveyer of customers began setting the moderate pace that would dictate the night. Everything was fine! My crew and I could handle this. There was no need to call for reinforcements or whip out the readymade altar for a quick bargaining with the gods to take back my chest of envy in return for mercy on this restaurant. No, everything was fine. It was smooth sailing in the horizon.

At the height of the dinner rush, a typical octogenarian couple entered the building and sat at my table. When I approached them to give my usual, enthusiastic speech, I realized that I had just transported into an Eli Roth movie. Upon the old man's bald head rested a boiling pustule of mammoth proportions. I stifled a shudder and diverted my eyes from what looked to be a goddamn oatmeal cookie of horror pasted on his head. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for this visual and gastrointestinal assault. While both he and his lady friend were cordial and generally nice people, the blight on his head made me want to run away shrieking "Troll! In the dungeon!!!" Perhaps that makes me a heartless person, but that's because my heart seemed to have left my body and perched itself on top of his head where it now sat pulsating and staring at me. Judge me all you want, but you weren't there. You didn't witness the horror that happened next.

When I returned to take their order, I avoided the glare of his massive boil by staring down at his menu while he decided on what he wanted to eat. I thought, "This is safe. Don't look at it, I'll just take their order and... what the sweet baby Jesus on a biscuit is that?" I notice a red dot on the page of his menu. A dark red dot. Against my better judgement, I peered up, following the red dot's trajectory until I reached the site of its launch. Sweet Lady Gagalupe of the Holy Pokerface, it was just as I feared. His boiling pustule had breached its containment. The cherry on top of his cranial sundae of nightmares was dribbling down and planting itself deep in the fibers of our menu. I suddenly felt the cold sweat creep all over my body. Did someone turn on a fan? I started to feel a little lightheaded as I took the now-contaminated menu from his hand. 

"Keep it together, man. Don't freak out...." I thought to myself as I walked away as steadily as I could, holding the infected menu out in front of me like a bomb. Normally I am not a weenie by any means when it comes to blood, but this time I felt like I deserved an Oscar just for acting normal after coming into such close proximity to a real life creature from The Walking Dead. I am proud to say that I did not throw up, faint, or cry. While my instincts told me to burn the menu, I put it in isolation containment for disinfection at the end of the night. At least the page that came in direct contact with the droplet was a throwaway Valentine special.

Later on I was informed by my co-worker Justin that the blight on the old man's head was not a boil. It was some sort of medical Play-Doh that doctors put on one's head after removing infected flesh. Well this was something I did not know. I'm not a doctor. I'm not George Clooney. I don't know anything about medical Play-Doh. What I do know is that there is a doctor out there who is being remiss with his Play-Doh seals. Never before has the term "paper-bag it" ever  been so appropriate at a restaurant.

Happy Valentine's Day!

click to enlarge the horror!

The Rise of Valentine's Day Part I

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I'm sure you and your significant other will have a delightful day expressing love for one another and feeling that warm sensation in your heart and in your pants. That is all good and well, but for me, Valentine's Day means one thing: the dinner shift at Ocean's Seafood and Grill. Tomorrow night, I expect to be bombarded by hoards of googly-eyed, happy, shiny people seeking a romantic evening. I can't even run away from my doom. In fact, I must do the complete opposite of run away; I have to cordially greet them and do my utmost to make sure that their evening is as romantic as it is delicious. If need be, I am prepared to dazzle them with my rendition of Celine Dion's "The Power of Love." There will not be a dry eye in the house due to the sheer magnificence of my voice, as well as to cataracts and glaucoma (our patrons are rather seasoned members of society). As I cater to their every whim and fancy, I am forced to acknowledge and dignify every question of,


"So do YOU have a boyfriend?"

"What are YOU doing for Valentine's Day?"

"What is this corkage fee, do you even know who I am, you sniveling imbecile in an apron?"


with a smile and speedy response that assures them that their night is not ruined, that they are winners because someone loves them and cared enough to join them for a seafood dinner special.

Am I bitter? No, I love all holidays. I find any excuse to celebrate and eat more decadently than usual. If I had my own kitchen I would even bake a Kwanzaa cake a la Sandra Lee, the whitest slice of white bread of a lady on Food Network. Holidays are about sharing happiness, and it just seems to me that Valentine's Day is the most obnoxious holiday that is exclusive and does not promote sharing. Share the love, people! I see people sucking each other's faces off like the facehugger in Alien, and not ONCE do they ask me if I want a bite.

Tomorrow night I am going to be giving my attention, giving my seafood recommendations, and giving a complimentary salad with every meal to these obnoxious facehuggers. I am going to be giving delicious plates of noodles to go with your incessant canoodling, and what will you give back to me? Empty plates! You probably won't even save me a piece! If it weren't for a juicy tip at the end of the bill, I would not hesitate to besiege you with my scorned and seething interpretation of One Republic's "Apologize."

With Valentine's Day looming its sweet, ruffly head tomorrow, I share with you my series of personalized Valentine cards, inspired by the Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Not only do apes and I share DNA, but we also share similar feelings in regards to Valentine's Day.

You Can Break Bread, But Can You Break A Hundred?

As I sit here munching on a fistful of cold turkey, I look back on my actions tonight and think, "My God, what have I done?" The day began last night with the preparations for our massive feast. This particular feast was different from any other of its kind before, in that this year we paid tribute to our gods of food and wine. No, not that fat bastard Dionysus. I'm talking about our Lord Alton Christ, Lady Giadalupe de Laurentiis, and Paulallah Deen. As with every year, we attempted a classy, Norman Rockwell style Thanksgiving, so we turned to our gods of Food Network. With the help of Mr. Brown, we prepared a beautiful turkey that did not have its legs wide open on the table spilling out vegetables and herbs like some Dollar General hooker. Yes, I have no doubt that vegetables and herbs would come tumbling out of a Dollar General hooker. The green bean casserole blessed by Paula was the biggest hit; there's barely any left. Giada's gravy... what can I say about Giada's gravy? It was a tasty addition to the meal, and I highly recommend it to anyone wanting to try a new gravy. One bit of advice: don't go overboard with the herbs. If you are a herb zealot or you have palsy and you're using the jar like a Shake Weight, then you are going to end up with zombie gravy.

 A beautiful plate full of picture perfect foods marred by a viscous, green-tinged fluid flowing over everything. An attempt at a classy holiday foiled again. That tasty little devil... well at least I didn't go full-on classy; I wore my gay hoodie (no really, I bought it from the FCKH8 campaign), roll-up sweat pants and knee-high sailor socks. It's really the only way to eat to maximum capacity short of eating in the nude. I'm very classy in that I wore clothes at all. People should appreciate that I have the good graces to put pants on before stepping out the door.

I've got Thanksgiving working like a well-oiled machine. I always eat sparingly throughout the day so that I have an appetite for the main feast. Once the big meal happens, I go nuts. I am in my own world as I eat, and this world has mashed potato clouds and turkey beds. The showers dispense gravy onto my gloriously distended, naked body. Aw yeah, we've all been to that world, and if you haven't, then you need to eat something else, none of that holistic vegan shit. After I finish eating I always feel awful. I've stuffed myself silly, and now I feel remorseful of my actions. "Did I really need that second helping? Why am I eating a third helping? What even is this???" By the end of the meal, I am usually so engorged with food that even my mind becomes compromised. I find myself thinking about how to execute the simplest gestures, like taking the spoon out of my mouth before going to sleep.

The next best part about Thanksgiving is Black Friday: the day we revert to our instincts as hunters and gatherers. Black Friday works perfectly with Thanksgiving in that after I've become bloated and slightly remorseful from my overindulgence, I can then burn off the excess calories by shopping. I've satiated myself at a physiological level, and now I want to satisfy myself on a material level. This year was the first year I went out alone, without my comrades in arms Jenna and Suzanne. This was also the first year that many stores opened at midnight rather than 4 or 5 in the morning. Battling Black Friday alone without sleep is one of the strangest, most discombobulating experiences of my life. It has left me feeling physically and mentally exhausted. My body is sore from constantly snatching, dodging, lifting, carrying and beelining around stores. I have been without sleep for so long that at one point on an escalator at Macy's, I had the semi-lucid thought, "I just might fall backwards down the escalator with this box of Pyrex containers." I seemed to have overexerted my brain by mentally computing too many discounts on prices, thus leading to my dizziness and growing paranoia. At one point I was looking for a pen in my purse, and a salesperson asked me if I needed any help. Immediately I thought, "She thinks I'm shoplifting!" so I began jingling my keys in my purse like it's one of those pneumatic drills. I'm jingling away as if to say, "See, I'm just a normal person looking for her keys! Perfectly normal!" As the salesperson walked away I felt triumphant in my poise under pressure. Then I felt slightly foolish. Towards the end of the night I started becoming delirious in the rush, thinking, "Yes, everybody needs a cheeseboard! This cropped military jacket makes me look stunning! I do need both seasons of White Collar!" When I regained a small sense of reason, it turned out that I was just getting hungry, my body was getting hot and cold flashes from the lack of sleep, and I didn't really want to buy two seasons of White Collar; I just wanted to buy Matt Bomer.  Fighting a constant state of delirium and unsteadiness, I somehow made it through Target, Best Buy, Wal-Mart, Macys, and a mall. I got the car home in one piece, amazing even myself. Now I sit here in my room, delighted at the prospect of going to sleep and eventually waking up to enjoy the four seasons of Psych I've just purchased. Of course, there is always Cyber Monday to look forward to.