Show them your face!

When I heard that The Americans had been passed over for Emmy nominations in major categories, I flew into a red Stalinist rage. There are spoilers ahead for people who haven’t seen the show. If you haven’t, binge watch it. It’s amazing and fun as hell.

The premise of the show is irresistible to me: Married Soviet spies posing as American citizens in the early ‘80s. The show centers on husband and wife Elizabeth Jennings (Keri Russell) and Phillip Jennings (Matthew Rhys), who struggle with problems in their marriage and whether they are becoming seduced by the American lifestyle. There are all sorts of fun plays on Cold War history as we know more than the characters. After President Reagan gets shot, Elizabeth fears that there will be a coup, being so used to USSR instability that she cannot comprehend an orderly transition of power. The spies ponder whether the Star Wars missile defense program is a ploy to get the Soviet Union to spend itself into bankruptcy in a bid to keep up with the US, which we know to be true in hindsight.

Oh, and the spies also get to disguise themselves in the most fetching wigs and fashions of 1981.

So after the Emmy nominations, I was as enraged as Russell’s character in the first season’s best scene. After spy handler Claudia (Margo Martindale) takes Elizabeth hostage and plays mind games with her as a loyalty test, Elizabeth beats the living hell out of Claudia in a blind rage. Elizabeth tells Claudia she has a message for the KGB: “Show them your face!” she screams as the bloodied woman. “That’s my message to them!” It’s an electrifying scene; the kind that makes you jump out of your chair.

Russell, Rhys and Martindale give superb performances. Also great is Noah Emmerich as the FBI agent Stan, who is placid on the surface but holding back a great deal of anger and sadness at the unspecified trauma that happened during his time infiltrating the KKK. I’m also liking Nina (Annet Mahendru), a woman who works for the Soviet Embassy, who becomes a double agent for Stan but rediscovers her patriotism and betrays him.

Gregory was such a great character and it’s a shame they killed him. There was nobody else like him on TV: An African-American civil rights activist recruited into the Communist Party. His death scene was really well done but he had so much potential. They should have shipped him to Moscow and kept him as a spoiler just in case events warranted.

The spy stuff on The Americans is thrilling but the show is also powerful when it examines the tension and tough decisions in marriage. In a gut wrenching scene, the Jenningses need to decide who will go on the more risky spy mission, based on who will be better off with the kids if the other parent gets killed. There is also the elephant in the room: What will happen when the kids discover their parents are Russian spies whose marriage was a sham and that their very births were part of a long con to convince people their parents were a normal couple?

The way the first season ended was perfect: A gravely injured Elizabeth tells her estranged husband to “come home” in Russian. Given that the spies are told never to speak their native language, it’s a stunning moment. It’s also an effective bookend to the moment in the pilot when Elizabeth tells Phillip her original Russian name for the first time.

Watch The Americans. Do it now.

I had the most Bazaar dream

I dreamed that Madonna was testifying before the British Parliament, which was meeting in the parking lot of the old Bazaar (where else?).

I was sitting in the car watching her talk about some kind of scandal involving children’s television or something like that. She was wearing a pink suit but then changed into a white dress with a white blindfold over her face. As she was leaving, Madonna dramatically walked backwards wearing the blindfold as some sort of symbolic protest. She ducked into the beer distributor and the testimony was over.

Madonna was driving some sort of huge powder blue car from the ‘50s or ‘60s. I decided I would time my leaving the shopping center so my car would pull up to the light at Baltimore Pike at the same time hers did. We would roll down our windows and chat with each other. I would tell her I enjoyed her testimony before the House of Commons and a lifelong friendship would ensue between us.

What can we take away from this dream? Three things: I like Madonna, I still miss the Bazaar and there’s been so much inescapable fuss over the royal baby that all things British are now intruding on my dreams.  

Table for One

In the midst of all my business travels, I seem to have conquered one of my minor phobias. I am in Las Vegas and Monday night, I had dinner at a restaurant by myself.

I had always been a little afraid to eat alone. I guess I always thought that once I walked into a restaurant and asked for a table for one, the hostess would laugh and when I sat down alone, everyone would look at me pityingly. I’d be that loser who didn’t have anybody to dine with. Ironically, whenever I see somebody eating alone, I would never think of him as a loser. I always admired that someone would be courageous enough to do something I couldn’t.

I guess I just stopped caring what strangers thought. When you’re in a convention type destination, you can tell that people eating alone are just by themselves on business and are not some sad, friendless losers. I don’t really mind eating alone now. I bring a book to pass the time while I wait for my food. If I’m by myself, I’ll go to a mid-priced place because I feel there’s no point in going to a five-star restaurant unless I have someone to share it with.

It’s better than room service. I do sometimes order in if I’m jet-lagged and don’t feel like leaving the room but the dinners aren’t very good. It’s too much food and something about it just doesn’t sit right with me. I’ll order breakfast once in awhile if I don’t feel like cleaning up enough to go downstairs but mostly, I’ll suck it up and go to the hotel restaurant.

Plus, room service is laughably expensive. With the delivery charge and all the other charges, you can pay $50 for an omelet. The company will pay for it but I don’t want to abuse that. It’s the same food in the restaurants but cheaper.

At times I do blow off the free hotel breakfast and opt to pay for something elsewhere. If I’m in a hurry, I’ll eat the free stuff but sometimes it’s just nasty congealed eggs and limp bagels and I’d rather pay, especially since you can go to a diner and get a perfectly decent breakfast for like $10. When we were in Ohio for Christmas, Steve and I took one look at the Holiday Inn breakfast and decided to go to Cracker Barrel. It was sooo bad but sooo good. I guess I’m a breakfast snob because I think free crap is still crap.

I get sick of eating at these conferences. Las Vegas in particular is a fat festival. I can feel myself actually getting fatter. I can feel the lard accumulating on my carcass. I don’t eat much for lunch at home but I end up having these heavy lunches with doctors when I travel. It can be nice to get home and just cook something simple for myself.

Bloody bollocks, guv'nah

Editor's note: Well, it looks like Waity Katie and her lazy womb are off the hook. But I still thought I'd share this rant I wrote in the heat of passion because I am not yet ready to forget or forgive. 

 I could not be more bloody livid at the Duchess of Cambridge for having the gall — the absolute, unmitigated gall — of not going into labor yet. My God, how much longer must we wait for this Royal Baby? Does that woman not know how disruptive it has been that she is still heavy with child? I am knackered because this is all bollocks. Bloody bollocks, guv’nah.

I know that woman’s pregnancy has certainly turned my life upside down. All month long I have faithfully watched the legions of photographers camped outside the London hospital, breathlessly awaiting the crowning of the head that will someday be crowned. I have spent entire workdays with my unblinking eyes trained on a live feed of the hospital, to the detriment of my work. My eyes track the movements of the smallest life forms to cross the screen. At home, I am a zombie, refreshing the BBC website every few seconds, just hoping the next click will bring the news of a dilated royal cervix. I have lately taken to waking up in the middle of the night to check for news, as one would awaken to feed a newborn. I have neglected hygiene, chores and human contact.

And for what, I ask?

Kate Middleton and Prince William simply need to be more honest with us. For Christ’s sake, the couple hasn’t even provided a due date, let alone the common courtesy of sharing ultrasounds and medical updates on a regular basis. The rumors had said the baby was due in mid-July so on July 15, I was on pins and needles all day. I was so nervous that I called in sick and stayed home to await the news of the baby that I assumed would come that day. Midnight struck in Greenwich and no baby. Now I’m hearing the baby has days to go. I cancelled my vacation because I certainly don’t want to be caught unawares.

And how am I supposed to send William and Kate a present if I don’t know the gender? I have a whole room at home full of clothes and toys ready to go, a set in pink and a set in blue, but I can’t send either yet. Why are they making me look like an idiot?

Oh, well. I guess I’ll continue to pass the time by doodling prospective boy and girl baby names. So until baby Philip Charles Diana Victoria George Elizabeth Nigel Mary Margaret Derek Ke$ha Albert arrives, don’t expect me to return your messages.

Brrr!

You know what the worst thing is about this time of year? The cold.

With our central air set at 72 efficient degrees, our house is chilly enough to hang a side of beef in the dining room. It is torture, I tell you. The worst — The Worst! — is when I’m just trying to read a book or watch TV and I can feel the goosebumps starting on my skin. Sometimes I have to go outside just to warm up. Can you imagine?

There is no relief at night. I can barely sleep, what with the air from the vent giving me chills. It’s gotten so bad some nights that I actually have to pull on the quilt as well as the blanket. What is this, Russia? The noise of the central air can sometimes keep me up, too.

We are very unfortunate.

I don’t even get a break at work. I get chills just sitting in this office. Why, it must be 70 degrees in here! My keyboard just clatters as my hands shake and I have to keep retyping things because I make mistakes. If it gets bad enough, I may be forced to bring in a jacket. Call OSHA!

I just wish more people would consider the atmospheric plight of the white collar office workers.

Memo to Justin Bieber

Lately I’ve been reading about your antics: Threatening to beat up paparazzi photographers, getting drunk and peeing in a mop bucket, complaining about not winning music awards. Although you’ve traveled the world and made millions, you still have a lot of life ahead of you so I have some advice for you:

Just keep on doing what you’ve been doing. You’re the best!

Honestly, when I heard you were drunk and pissed in that bucket and cursed out a photo of President Clinton, I thought: There’s a young person who really has his act together. There’s someone who really comports himself with poise in the public eye. That’s behavior that your fans should emulate.

You know why else you’re great, Justin? The whining (or as you Canadians would say, whinging). I was charmed and beguiled by your reaction when your latest album didn’t win any Grammys. Rather than taking the high road and realizing that your career is young and you have many awards ahead, you chose to stomp around and throw a tantrum on Twitter. Finally, a celebrity with some self-awareness.

Your trip to the Anne Frank house just confirmed why I am so impressed by you. Sure, you could have signed the guest book and kept a low profile like the other visitors, focusing on the memory of the dead. Instead, you mentioned how you hoped Anne was a Belieber, keeping the focus squarely on you, which is as it should be in any memorial to a child who died in the Holocaust.

I admit I was skeptical when I first became aware of you. Your music and image seemed geared toward tweens and way too young for me to enjoy. But you’ve really evolved into a mature adult. When you swagger around with your shirt off and curse a blue streak at photographers, I think, “There’s a real man.” It’s a great look for you, Justin.

Speaking of great looks, I have to commend your fashion sense. I am loving that you look like you stepped out of the video for Bell Biv Devoe’s “Do Me.” It has a certain sophistication; a certain je ne sais quoi that will prove timeless in the decades to come.

And those pants with the drop crotch? They are true haute couture. You know you’re on the right track sartorially when people wonder how you can walk without tripping. I’d like to see the inseam drop even lower. Lower. Lower. That’s it. Perfect!

So keep up the good work, Justin. You’re right on track.

Bitchy Resting Face

All my life, I have suffered from a debilitating medical condition. It has made me the target of ridicule and stares from strangers on the street. It has literally made me miserable. I had nowhere to turn; no support group; no name for my affliction.

Until now. Now I hear I have something called Bitchy Resting Face.

Perhaps you’ve heard of this. I am one of thousands of Americans whose face does not default to a smile when at rest. My neutral face is either blank or a scowl. I could be deliriously happy but look like my dog just died. And now my condition has a name. And I am filled with relief (but of course, you won’t know that because I will still look sad/angry).  

We definitely need to raise awareness of Bitchy Resting Face because a lot of people try to help me and though their hearts are in the right place, they are misguided. I have had total strangers on the street tell me some version of “Smile. It can’t be that bad.”

This does not help my disease for several reasons. First off, telling a stranger to smile is actually more depressing than cheering because it implies that there is something wrong with me or wrong with my face. This is just how I look and I can’t do too much about that. Hey, you might be ugly and I might not like that, but I’m not going to tell you to change your appearance. I’m going to do something called “mind my own business” because I don’t know you.

My face and I do not need an intervention. We are fine. And I will not remember you as some kind of guardian angel who turns my life around with your simple, kind comments.

But let’s say I do decide to do something about my Bitchy Resting Face because hey, everyone can smile, right? Well, unless they’re having a stroke. Someone says, “Smile!” I plaster on a fake smile. The person says, “That’s not a real smile.” Really? You can’t command someone to express an emotion and expect it to be genuine? Who knew? 

Now that Bitchy Resting Face finally has the validation it deserves, I would like to offer my sour-faced peers some advice for what to say when someone tells you to “Smile!”

·      “No.”

·      “I thought they canceled Candid Camera.”

·      “Mind your own business.”

·      “Frown. Oh, wait — I thought we were doing one of those free association things. Like you say ‘black’ and I say ‘white.’ Who are you again?”

·      “Walk away and I might.”

·      “Oh, my God, are you from a modeling agency?! I always had a feeling I’d get discovered outside the Wawa someday and now I have been! It’s funny — I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long and now it’s here and I don’t know what to say! Make sure you get my good side!”

·      “(bursts into tears and runs away)”

Since my affliction now has international attention, I assume awareness fundraising for Bitchy Resting Face cannot be far behind. I’m organizing a 5K to benefit me and people like me and I hope to get together that race soon. On second thought, let’s skip organizing anything. Just go outside and run around for awhile. And write me a check when you’re done. 

Just Like Water, Only Less Convenient

Now that summer is in full swing, it’s time we discussed one of the season’s most special treats. It’s time we had an in-depth discussion of the wonders of watermelon.

The people at the National Watermelon Promotion Board were savvy enough to send this to my workplace to see if they could get promotion for their fruit in our medical magazine. Unfortunately, while there’s just not space for this in our publication, I thought I’d do my part and promote the watermelon here.

Watermelon is OK. I’ll eat it if it’s out but I won't seek it out. I guess it’s a healthy fruit since it’s mostly water but sometimes I want my water without the inconvenience of picking seeds out of my teeth.

The people at Big Watermelon are changing my perception, however. They have built an empire on this unwieldy fruit. They are on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and YouTube. Their literature has one of those smart phone codes and the little squares are red and green like watermelons. They even sent me a CD-ROM (WOW!) of information.

The colorful pamphlet contains so many mouth-watering recipes (they are guaranteed to be mouth watering because when you eat watermelon, you are basically drinking water). They suggest chipotle wings, which go so much better if I have to pick seeds out of my teeth in addition to watching for bones. The mozzarella sandwich is a great idea since nothing pairs with a slice of cheese better than an ephemeral fruit. The flip-flop cake is not only cute but the combination of lines of sugary icing on top of a bed of watermelon looks delicious. In the morning, who doesn’t have time to sit down and enjoy a six-layer (only six?) breakfast trifle with watermelon? As the pamphlet notes, you can serve that at your next garden party! Because we all live in Downton Abbey!

Best of all, watermelon is great on the grill. The best part is when the heat melts it into red water.

So won’t you check out the wonders of summer watermelon? It’s just like water, only less convenient.  

Enjoy the processed hog anus

It was their faces that turned my stomach on today’s morning shows. Alarmingly pink and bloated with hot dog particles sputtering from their mouths. I got the sense that the second the cameras were off, these people vomited in a great reverse-swallow shower of processed pork, drenching the Fourth of July crowd in the pre-digested symbolism of their unholy hunger.

Oh, I’m sorry. Does my description make you sick? It should because it made me sick to watch it. It should make everyone sick because the very idea is sickening on several levels. I have railed against competitive eating before. After watching a clip from the hot dog eating contest this morning, I must again vent my disgust at this whole gluttonous, knuckle-dragging endeavor.

Purely on a level of taste, it makes me bottomlessly sick to watch people eat hot dogs. For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to stand those nasty pork tubes so the idea of people shoving a bunch of them down their throats is instant ipecac for me. For me, a hot dog will forever be what it was on The Simpsons: A combination of a shoe, a pigeon, a rat and a raccoon.  

But it doesn’t matter what these people eat because I have no sense of humor or fun when it comes to competitive eating. I can put up with a lot of stupid shit but as far as competitive eating, I’m out. At the risk of sounding like a nagging parent, there are people in this country who don’t have enough to eat. The rest of us should at least have the decency not to shovel as much shit as we can down our gullets. The people in these contests should have some fucking dignity.

I think it’s hilarious that this pig contest took place in the same New York where the mayor is banning large sodas due to concerns of gluttony but has no problem with people eating dozens of hot dogs in two minutes. So you can cram as much processed hog anus into your intestines as you can but you can only have a small soda to help the filth down sluice down your throat. Because the real problem in that tableau is high fructose corn syrup.

But of course, barely suppressing your hot dog vomit long enough to collect a prize is a tradition and as we all know, all traditions are beyond criticism and I should lighten up and USA! USA! USA!

No documentaries and no stand-up comedy

Never ask me to watch a documentary or stand-up comedy. Those are two types of movies that I have no interest in.

The only type of documentary I would watch is a biography of a celebrity. Otherwise, forget it. If your subject is interesting enough, I’ll read a book on it, but I won’t watch a documentary movie. I suppose I reserve movies for fiction only.

I don’t like those documentaries that have a preconceived notion for which the directors find evidence to prove. Documentaries should be more along the lines of a scientist testing a hypothesis without any bias. So I have no interest in watching movies by Michael Moore or Bill Maher or hagiographies of Sarah Palin because I know what the conclusion will be. I mean, is anyone really surprised that Maher concludes that religions are all a little bit wacky? I could have told you that right off and saved you two hours. I agree with Al Gore about the environment but I certainly won’t watch him talk about it. Just give me your ideas in bullet point form and I’ll try to be more conscientious.

This will sound awful but I especially have no interest in documentaries on people who are downtrodden. This includes inner city kids who get that one shot at redemption when their school enters a contest to OH GOD I’M SO BORED. Just write me something and I’ll read it.

As for stand-up comedy, maybe I would enjoy a show if I ever saw one live. But when we’re looking for something on Netflix, the absolute last category for me would be a stand-up comedy special. I guess I just need my comedy to be fiction. I don’t understand why the idea of watching someone tell jokes in front of an audience fills me with aggravation and boredom but it does.

Plus, stand-up comedians as a group seem very thin-skinned and self-important. I keep reading these debates about what type of jokes are appropriate (rape, etc.) and comedians seem to get extremely offended at any type of criticism and carry on as if their choice of joke is the most important issue facing us today. And it just isn’t — not to me, anyway.

Also of little importance is whether or not comedians get heckled or under what circumstances people are allowed to heckle them or how they handle heckling. I keep seeing articles about this stuff and I feel like it’s a subject that is of interest to comedians and nobody else. Airing this out in public is like a company going public with boring inside baseball debates that are better left in the conference room. It’s a shame you got heckled but it’s basically a bad day at work for you. I’m sure you’ll live. Millions do after they have a bad day. I have bad days at work too but I keep the saga to myself and certainly don’t bore the generally public with it like stand-up comedians do.