Mascot Challenge 2011!!!

It's not that I don't know anything about college basketball. It's more like: The NCAA tournament is such a wonderfully bizarre, unpredictable sporting event, I don't know how a person could enjoy themselves if they actually sat down and tried to predict what 'should' happen. So I just try to figure out what mascots would win in a fight. I've been doing this for years - and fully committed to it the year the Wichita State Shockers pulled exactly as many upsets as I'd predicted, based on the awesomeness of their mascot.

And also: yeah, I pay almost zero attention to college basketball during the regular season. Currently, I'm 8th out of 71. But I have no shot unless the Gators take the whole thing. I really, really counted on the angry drunken Irish mob mentality to show up and defeat the Seminoles. So close to St. Patrick's Day! Damn my sentimentality towards my heritage. I should have known those bastards would be too hungover on Sunday to get much of anything done.

Winter 2010, Nutshellized

"Right behind lack of confidence, and right before lack of knowledge about general American History, lack of manners is one of my ultimate turn-offs." - March 10, 2010

One of my favorite things about GMail is how easy it is to play 'One year Ago Today'.

Last winter was so weird. I wrote that to J + S (our on-going three-way journal, coming up on it's second anniversary) after cutting off relations with one gentleman companion after he displayed an egregious intellectual error. A few weeks later, I was sort-of email dumped by a guy I hadn't really been dating.

The first incident occurred after Gentleman #1 made the mistake of asking whether the Pilgrims and Columbus were contemporary travelers. No, he didn't say it like that. I think he said 'didn't they happen at the same time?' Which, I guess if you look at them both like diseases, isn't completely off base. We were driving down the highway, and I don't even know what inspired the comment. I just remember being really, really startled. Like, dude, we grew up in Massachusetts. It's like, Pilgrim Central. And Columbus? Did you not attend elementary school? You didn't learn the rhyme about 1492? No?

It wasn't like I demanded that he pull the car over right then and there. But I never saw him again after that weekend - and we had been hanging out a lot. In retrospect, it was a pretty shitty way to handle the whole situation.

A few weeks later, I went out with a friend-of-a-friend. He wasn't much like the dudes I usually hung out with, and I figured it was worth a shot. We had two of the chastest dates I've ever been on. Tuesday night dates with plenty of beer and zero sparks. This was in early February. I'm forever getting involved with people at the beginning of February, and making that whole Valentine's Dilemma all the more awkward. Anyway, a week or so after our last date he sent me this relatively convoluted, totally indirect email about how 'something happened' with someone else and how he hoped I wouldn't be mad at our mutual friend, because 'he was the dud'. Dude, obviously you're the dud. You're referring to people as 'duds'.

Then I started sleeping with my roommate. That was actually the least awkward of all of the above situations. There was a while where I felt like I should teach a class on How to Sleep With Your Roommate and Have It Not Be Awkward. One time we even high-fived over the not-awkwardness. Lesson One: Make sure your roommate is someone you're cool high-fiving over vague social relations concepts. Lesson Two: Make sure there's a shelf-life on the roommate situation. Preferably, one of you should move out of the house (and the city, and the state) within three or four months. Lesson Three: Have other roommates. Lesson Four: Don't tell them.

Anyway, that's what was happening one year ago today. 2010 was crazy.

Things I Am Not So Good At:

Pouring wine, from a box on a shelf above my head, in the dark.

Why would a person keep a box of wine on a shelf above their head?

?

?

This picture was the fruit from the Google Image tree of: Red Wine Fail. What?

Sorry, I always looks for the picture after I write...whatever this is. And it's always a random combination of words - you know, what everyone got tired of doing when they were in fifth grade/2005? It still delights me, every time.

Notes on the Recent Past

Recommendations of Late:

R Kelly's new album, 'Love Letter'. If you are a Kells fan, this is him at his finest. If you are not an R. Kelly fan, something is the matter with you. Listen to this album, and remedy said matter.

Adele's new album, '21'. She's just fucking crazy.

Learning to make your own tomato-basil-mozzarella salad. I think grown ups call it caprese.

Occasionally substituting rosemary for basil because for some reason Whole Foods only sells basil in enormous quantities.

The movie 'Youth in Revolt'. I LOVED that movie. It's the best thing I've seen in recent memory.

Using a bag of frozen peas as a hangover headache remedy when you feel too barfy to take Advil.

Things to Avoid:

Drinking 12-plus mimosas in a sitting.

The movie 'Dogtooth'. Unless you want to be seriously disturbed by some Greeks for two hours. When it was over, I looked at Baylor* and literally said 'What the fuck just happened?' I get that it's incredibly daring and shocking and definitely causes a person to think, which is kind of the purpose of art and all, but...okay, there's one part where I was laughing because the Son character runs across the lawn in a particularly hilarious way that reminded me my favorite scene in 'The 'Burbs' (A movie I DO, whole-heartedly, unabashedly recommend. It's goddamned hilarious.) and then I cut off my laughter mid-chuckle, because suddenly he's stabbing a cat in the stomach with a pair of garden shears. I think I mostly hate it because no one else I know has seen it, and I just want to TALK to somebody about this mess.

Smoking a lot of cigarettes when you haven't in a while.

Licking a lot of envelopes in a hurry.

Wearing pants. Pants are the worst.

ps: I got this picture when I GoogleImage searched 'R Kelly Tomato'. I don't know WHAT this has to do with tomatoes, but it's R Kelly singing, wearing a t-shirt with a picture of R Kelly singing. Which is just amazing.

*Baylor's a dog, but he has pretty solid opinions on movies and shit.

Charlie Sheen's Reluctant Mistress

The other day, a friend and I were talking about Twitter. More specifically, about whether or not I should join Twitter, and, were I to join, what my Twitter-name should be. There's probably a more techno-elegant name for that. Anyway, he suggested that I "just pick a celebrity, and throw a 'not' in there. Like - NOTCharlieSheen.' A few minutes later, we had my new favorite band name: Charlie Sheen's Reluctant Mistress (it's too long for that Twitter-name business.). And over the next few hours, I had a lot of thoughts about Charlie Sheen.

It appears that he's been in the news more than usual lately, for the sort of Charlie Sheen-esque escapades you'd expect. Rehab! Sex Tapes! Divorces! Why is anyone surprised? Why are these women in his life AT ALL SURPRISED BY HIS INSANITY, EVER?

The whole reason 'Reluctant Mistress' is awesome, to me, is because it indicates that one should be somewhat-to-extremely embarrassed to reveal their romantic affiliation with the dude. Because homeboy is a train wreck.

Ladies - it's fucking CHARLIE SHEEN. Charlie Sheen. If you turned to me randomly, at any time of day, and said "Quick: name the celebrity you think is most likely to be snorting a line of cocaine off a woman's body at this very moment?" My answer will ALWAYS be: "I don't know, Charlie Sheen?" Three years ago, if it were after midnight, I might be like "Possibly Steve-O. Or Russell Brand. But if they are, Charlie Sheen is probably with them. Charlie Sheen probably started it." But now it's 2011, and Steve-O is all straight edge (probably for the best) and Russell Brand is all wifey-ed up with Katy Perry (eh...is anything really for the best when a Katy-with-a-'y' hooks up with a guy who exclusively wears skinny leather pants and a lot of eyeliner? We'll call this a draw.) But Charlie Sheen is still bankrolling porn stars to hang out with him at days-long parties, where he greets guests at the door in a wine-stained shirt and, apparently, gold teeth.

So, ladies who make the - likely substance addled, but presumably consensual - decision to make things official with Mr. Sheen...what the hell were you expecting?

Given everything, it's surprising to me that Two and a Half Men is still on the air. Not because it's stupid - it's really no stupider than 90% of the other shit that's on network television right now. My own personal problems with the show stem mostly from the fact that I hate to think that Duckie grew up to be some awkward, marginally employed loser with a borderline retarded, loafy child relegated to living in his brother's house with a wardrobe consisting entirely of ill-fitting shorts and belts that look like they're apologizing for being so...braided. And, I hate that creepy kid and the housekeeper character is terrifying. Charlie Sheen is the character on the show I'd actually most like to hang out with.

I have to stop writing now. I can't believe I just said that. Putting the wine DOWN.

If Pandora Were A Person...

10:25 p.m.. On a Sunday. The Sunday after Christmas. It is snowing. Sort of.

Pandora plays Mobb Deep's 'Hell On Earth'.

Pandora: What kk? What?

Me: Are you trying to get me pumped up right now?

Pandora: Yes. You look like you're falling asleep over there. It's time. For you to get pumped up!

Me: For what, exactly?

Pandora: I want you to get really pumped up --

Pandora plays 'Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthing Ta F' With'.

Pandora: to MAKE YOUR LUNCH FOR TOMORROW! YESSSS!!!

Me: I have to admit, I'm legitimately excited to make to go make my lunch right now. Spinach salads better recognize!!! But why are you using all this motivational goodness up on me right now?

Pandora: I know you, love. Better than anyone else. And I care about your well-being in a completely proportionate amount. If I'd played that one-two while you were getting ready to go out last Saturday? Scary things might have happened. That close to the full moon and the solstice AND the eclipse? People might have died. Or at least disappeared. Wait, what are -- are you doing the butterfly right now? Hang on.

Pandora plays SWV's 'Rain'.

Pandora: Are you...is that a little better? I don't want you to stab yourself over there.

Me: That was exactly what I needed. Now I'm relaxed. Unpumped, a little. But still ready to continue chopping. Also, the SVW got me thinking about Taj, the lady in the group who got to be in SVW, marry Eddie George, and then was on fucking Survivor. Like, she is so awesome. Holy shit, I just Googled her to link to her name, and her Wikipedia page is unexpectedly inspiring. I was not expecting to read that and be like 'what an incredible story!' She is going to be so creeped out when I write her a letter asking if I can write her biography.

Pandora: Can you repeat that? I didn't catch it all, I'm playing pretty loudly right now. You turn it up a few notches when you're two to three glasses into the bottle. I'm not judging. I just notice these things. Hello, my whole appeal is in the observational data I gather and process. What were were talking about? Taj. Don't look at me like that! I mean it. I want to know. It's not silly. Tell me again. Oh my god, you're just going to tell me later anyway, spit it out. No, I'm not laughing. No. No (snort) I'm sorry, honey, now you're making me laugh. With your angry face. It's a perverse reaction, I know. Didn't I just get you all pumped up to make that salad? I can't relax for a minute? I'm listening to these songs too. Are you...what, you're not talking to me now? Don't test me, child.

Pandora plays an insipid commercial block, then threatens with the monthly listening limit warning.

"I *@/$!*>/* the Spiders on the Wall..."

I realize I'm probably a hundred years behind the times on this one, but this made my entire week.

I just wish I could have been in the room when Anonymous Stoner put all the glorious dots together and realized how amazingly twisted each and every episode of Sesame Street becomes when specific verbs are consistently replaced with a 'bleep'.

Fucking genius.

More About the Homeless...

(Yes, same tune.)

Maybe it's just been on my mind: the homeless and their technical status, or lack thereof. Whatever the reason, this morning it seemed like the Common was fucking littered with possible homeless people. I don't mean that in a derogatory way. I mean that the PHP were scattered, everywhere, in strange locations, in a way reminiscent of what occurs when my housemate's Boston Terrier gets into the bathroom trash. Okay, calling PHP trash is not the point. I'm just going to move away from that to get to the real point:

The crazy array of PHP this morning included one dude who was not only 'possibly' homeless, he also appeared to be 'possibly dead'. Like, as I passed by I tried to focus on his ribcage-area to see if it was rising and falling. I couldn't tell. I figured he MUST be alive, given that there were approximately 600 people around, including a bunch of dudes with hard hats on working on the historic cemetery wall against which his corpse-like personage was smushed. But what if EVERYONE assumed that? He looked like, seriously uncomfortable*.

What are you supposed to do in that situation? Call someone? The police? I don't want to call the police. Because if he's not dead, and he just passed out there, in the Common, all wedged against a wall...he probably had some weird shit happen to him last night, you know? He'll have enough to deal with when he wakes up, I don't want to cause an extra headache for the poor dude. His head probably hurts enough.

I am constantly haunted by the feeling that I skipped school the day They explained all The Rules.

*This bugged me out enough throughout the morning that I went back to check on him at lunch. He was gone. Which, I realize, means nothing. If anyone happens to learn the fate of the passed out Hispanic gentleman of medium stature wearing a grey t-shirt with a leaf stenciled on the shoulder, would you please let me know?

Rolling Like the Homeless...

Do you ever spy someone wandering around the city, and then find yourself unable to determine whether that particular individual is homeless, or if they've just been travelling for an extremely long time and are having, like, a really tough go of it?

.

It happens to me almost daily. It doesn't help that I walk through Boston Common on my way to work every morning - a place populated by peoples in various states of homelessness, as well as hippies, students, demonstrators of ranging passions, tour guides dressed in colonial garb, worker bees eating lunch, wild children, harried nannies, and lost tourists evidencing different levels of distress.

.

So I mean, there's really no way to know, with certainty, whether that dude is homeless, or if his luggage just totally sucks and he had to wrap his suitcase with twine somewhere in Iowa after the group of German house musicians he was hitch-hiking with parted ways. And that lady might be homeless, or she might just be having the worst time finding the airport EVER. And what is THAT DUDE's deal? Why is he sticking his entire head in that faucet? To wash it? To get water? Because he isn't able to do those things indoors? Or because it's been approximately 400 degrees for most of the summer, and one's hydration-situation can get pretty dire in a hurry? Oooh, although that's no reason to be sleeping on a piece of cardboard under a tree! Wait, but is someone filming you? Fucking Emerson kids.

.

So then...what is homeless, anyway? What are the parameters? Why do I obsess over this stuff? Especially when it completely, totally doesn't matter? Because, in the end, you can't determine that kind of status with any real certainty?* I guess it's better than obsessing over something I saw last night on E News. Or what Frances Rivera was wearing on the Real News, even though that is admittedly, really fun to obsess over.

.

You know what? All I can do is control my own actions. I'm just going to buy some really top-notch luggage and hope I avoid confusing people. You all can choose your obsessions accordingly. Just...don't let those Emerson kids record your image for too long, okay? I think they might be trying to capture your soul.

.

.

*I take that back, I think. Because if all of your shit** is in a shopping cart, that's a pretty reliable indicator of...domestic flexibility.

.

.

** If 'all of your shit' translates to 'garbage bags full of aluminum cans', then you have bigger problems than I'm ready to address right now. I'm sorry.

I Know Some People Would Rather Keep Gin In the Desk...

Quick, everybody: whatever document you're working on, just take three minutes and draw a monster on it with whatever 'Paint' feature your computer has. Seriously: a monster. Make it up. Just draw it right on there. Finished? Nice. How much better did your day just get?

.

You can use my example above as inspiration.

.

Actually I don't see why it has to be one or the other: Gin In the Desk v. Computer Assisted Doodles. Try both. I predict spectacular results. You might want to save it for Friday afternoon, though.

Great Balls of...Poop.

I was walking my dog through the park last weekend, and, halfway across the field, he stopped and took a poop. That is not strange, I realize.

After he was done, I took a plastic shopping bag out of my purse, did that thing where you make the bag like a glove and pick all the poop nuggets up out of the grass, and then turn the bag inside out so the poop is all contained inside and hope-hope-hope that you didn't get any on your hands, tied the gross little doo-doo package up, and carried it with us until we reached the trash can at the edge of the field. I realize: None of this is strange.

Except for the fact that it was. It was completely bizarre, foreign, alien. It was a tiny moment, the sort that's repeated all over the world a hundred times a second, it was not special. It is not important that I save all my plastic bags now, it is not globally relevant that I put some of those saved bags in my purse to take with me every time I take the dog out. It does not matter that I stopped to pick it up off the grass, the fact that I was the only human around to notice and still picked it all up does not make this a noteworthy event, save for this: It was huge.

It was - on a slightly different level- like the day I remembered, all on my own, that stores always stock the Q-Tips in the baby aisle, and so to avoid seething myself into an accidental brain hemorrhage, I should just look there first and bypass the cosmetics and bath aisles altogether, even though, yes, it makes SO MUCH SENSE to stock them in those places, as well.

Trivial as they might seem, those fell into the 'Watershed' category in my library of experiences. A few years ago, I would not have stopped to pick up shit when I could be reasonably sure that no one was there to judge me for my laziness, my lack of respect for shared public spaces, or my inability to get over the general ickiness factor of touching poop, even through a plastic bag. And, more importantly, I think, I don't pick up after my dog now because people will judge me if I behave otherwise. I do it because I'll be the one judging myself if I behave otherwise. Because people's kids play on that field, man, and how messed up of me is it to leave landmines of crap scattered across a field for a kid to step in, or slip on? People cut through that field on the way to the train station on the regular. Those people, many of them anyway, are going to work - work! Imagine what a terrible start to the day that would be! They'd smell like shit, and then the train would smell like shit, and then possibly their office if they hadn't realized they were the crap-carrier by that point...I could ruin the mornings of dozens of people I'll never even meet. Or, I could get the fuck over myself and pick up my dog's shit.

Growing Up is a sneaky little bastard, no? Attempt to cut him off at the pass, sure, knock yourself out. You'll run into him in the supermarket, Aisle 9, loading up on Q-Tips and Baby Powder. He's not so bad. Plus, they sell wine in the supermarket now! Take GU, go see what reds are on sale.

Dream Log

I had a sex dream about Jaime-Lynn Siegler once. You know - Meadow. From the Sopranos?

We were in a dormitory - what I imagine a boarding school dormitory might have looked like in a time before ascots were ironic; all dark wood and dim lighting.

Jamie-Lynn and I were alone. In the room, in the dorm, we were the only people on the entire campus. We didn’t talk about the Soprano’s. We kept our underwear on and kissed each other’s stomachs, and we stared out the window for hours without leaving bed.

When the sun came, the courtyard in front of her dorm filled up with cars. Every type of car. They - the cars, and people who drove them - held all sorts of events while we watched from the window. There were drag races and a demolition derby, and even a relay to see who could change a tire the fastest.

When they were done, the grass of the courtyard had been utterly ruined, and Jamie-Lynn pulled the blinds. She said she was starving, and we talked about where we should eat until I woke up.

Fruitful Discoveries, I Shall Share

Recommended: Bananas.

Not Recommended: Leaving an already extremely ripe banana in your desk over a long weekend.

Not Entirely Unpleasant Side Effect of Above Caution: Subtle banana scent adopted by desk, cubicle and surrounding environs.

Miss Heigl If You're Nasty

Just now I thought to myself: 'That Katherine Heigl seems like a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I want very much to like her, so I would like to know why she feels the need to go and make movies like '27 Dresses' and this new 'The Ugly Truth' thing that seems so dreadful it makes my brain sore, because that makes me feel like maybe she's an idiot who I've just talked myself into liking because she's funny and weird and doesn't care that people know she smokes and her skin is divine and she looks lovely in satin and that's a very hard fabric to pull off, especially in warmer climates.'

Then I was like: 'I am also a smart, opinionated and somewhat unpredictable lady, and I smoke sometimes and if someone offered me a million dollars I would make the shit out of a crap movie like 27 Dresses and this evening I left the house wearing a pile of extra long tank tops, leggings and some Reefs that the dog chewed most of the toe off of five years ago so maybe I should QUIT JUDGING Katherine Heigl.'

Check Yourself Before You...

Do you ever do something that requires you to have a 'let's be real here for a second' moment with yourself? And then when your feeble attempt at self parenting totally fails you just start having a lot of questions about your potential for success as like, a functioning member of society?

Like, when it's 2.00 in the morning and you totally have to be awake for work in not-a-whole lot of hours, and you should be at least trying to sleep, but instead you're sitting in bed smoking cloves and listening to some weird mix of like, Babyface and Stevie Wonder and Tori Amos that you made in 1996? And then you're like "What the fuck are you doing man?" But, rather than your self-check resulting in an actual change in your behavior, you just CONTINUE whatever the fuck meaningless shit you're doing, because damn, you put SWV on this mix, too?!?

No? This doesn't happen to you?

The Favorite Son of Greenfield Mass

Tom Bergeron has a book!!!

I love that man. And this picture is the best fucking thing I have ever seen. I want this on a t-shirt.

Band Names, As Inspired by the 2008 Summer Olympic Games

- The Elementary Backstroke

- The Crazed BeeKeeper Outfits

- Panda Babymaking

- Like He Knows What a Whitman's Sampler is, You Fucking Lesbian.

- Bob Costas' Boner

- Pieter van der Hoogenband

- Tancock, of Britain

- On a Completely Unrelated Note, I'm Hard.

- Sewer Rat Love Product

- In Re: An Ugly French Swimmer

- I Think My Mom Could Probably Anchor This Relay

An Open Letter to Our President Elect

Dear Mr. Barack Obama,

I'm reading the news lately, and I'm noticing: people have some high fucking expectations where you're concerned. Even though we haven't yet struggled out from beneath the slow moving plague of shock and appall that was the presidency of George W. Bush, the American people are somehow of the belief that you're already well on your way to revitalizing the economy, solving the foreclosure crisis, curing AIDS, feeding every hungry child- and healthily, so as not to contribute to the obesity epidemic, finding homes for the abandoned pets in every animal shelter, eliminating the clusterfuck that is the BCS,removing heinous musicians from the airwaves, giving everyone a hybrid car by next Christmas and renaming all of Sarah Palin's children.

That's a lot of pressure, man. Especially considering that you recently had to move halfway across the country, your two (adorable and seemingly delightfully well mannered) daughters have to start at a new school, you're looking for a new pet and I'm sure your wife is totally stressed out about what to wear to Inauguration, considering the debacle that was her Election Night frock. (I'm not suggesting that's all Michelle is stressed out about - I'm positive she's stressed about all of the above, combined with the uncertainties of her new role and I'm sure some conflicted reluctance about the sacrifice of her own career - I have a lot of respect for Michelle Obama. I'm just saying - it's one more thing on top of a really huge pile.)

So, dear President Elect - I know I'm just one girl, and you likely won't hear me above the chorus of millions chanting their love, admiration and oh yes - their demands - at you, but if you can hear me, listen: it's all going to be ok. You're fucking awesome. Enjoy your party. People really love you, and if they're a little too insistent about everything, it's only because we've all been starving for so long, and in a lot of people's eyes, you represent the feast of what we've been missing for the past eight years/forever. We're excited.

I say - chill for a minute. Take the rest of January to settle in. Take February too, if you need it - it's a short month, and nothing really important happens. It's freezing in one half of the world, and the other half is on vacation because it's end of their summer. All that shit will still be here when you're ready to take it all on in March. In the meantime, I'll work on tempering everyone's insane expectations. Like seriously, you're not going to be able to get Nickelback roasted over a rotisserie spit on live television. That's fascism shit, you don't have that kind of power. But deportation? Maybe. It's all about managing expectations. No, no, you don't have to thank me, I'm happy to do it, really.

But if you could - tell Michelle I think she'd look divine in something long, and steel-grey blue with very simple lines. Or a maroon/purple hue. Just a suggestion.

OMG, WTF

This is the most fucked up news I've heard in a while. And considering how fucked up the news is ALL THE TIME, that's really saying something.

They are outlawing smoking on the beach. The beach. The name we have given the part of the Earth where the land meets the ocean. The beach. THE MOTHERFUCKING BEACH. IT'S OUTSIDE. No. No, no, no, no. NO. We've taken it too far now, people. It's time to start reigning things in. We need to reorganize the whole system, or shut it down and start it over, something. This is not working.

No one is trying to argue that smoking is good for you, or that people should be allowed to smoke in hospitals or on airplanes anymore - although that period of history always seems quite naive and amusing, so excuse me and my conveniently invented nostalgia - and I totally understand why restaurants went smoke-free rather than doing the whole 'non-smoking section' thing - that sliver of raised PlexiGlass wasn't fooling anyone - but this is ridiculous. This is not something that should require government regulation. This is something that reasonable adults should just be able to work out on their own.

When you're paying about 37 cents per cigarette (Jesus, remember when the Loosey seemed like a rip-off?), you should be permitted to decide where you would like to smoke it, within reason, of course. Don't smoke at the waterpark, fine. No smoking at the zoo, I get it. Keep it in the pack at the movies - obviously, what kind of asshole do you take me for? But now I can't smoke at the beach? At the public fucking beach? FUCK OFF.

Listen, I don't even smoke (that much, anymore) but this is JUST MEAN. What are people supposed to do? What if I get to the beach FIRST and just post up on my towel with my book and my umbrella and don't bother anybody, and then Asshole Clan '08 sets up camp next to me, and their kids kick sand all over me while they shriek and eat trans-fats and squirt Capri Sun all over my towel, and then when I reach for a Camel because these stupid morons are stressing me out and ruining my lovely serene beach time I'm all of a sudden the bad guy? What, I have to go stand in the parking lot with all the other ostracized members of society on our sad little patch of sweltering blacktop all because your lungs can't handle second hand smoke outside? OUTSIDE, BEFORE THE SPRAWLING EXPANSE OF THE FUCKING OCEAN??? Enough. Seriously.

Lions and Tigers and...Well, that's Enough, Really.

There are some evenings when I'm home and it's freezing outside and all I want to do is be entertained without effort. On those evenings I turn to my television, and when its myriad channels disappoint me, I often think about disconnecting the whole thing and subsisting solely on my dvd sets of the The Wire and Chappelle's Show. But I don't, and next thing I know I'm sucked into Top Chef, or Real Chance at Love, or Rock of Love Charm School, and the night dissolves into a weird shame spiral that usually involves a lot of red wine.

Then there are other nights where my HBO subscription pays for itself, and all it's under-performing sibling movie channels, in one glorious swoop. Last night was one of those nights. Last night, I found 'Cat Dancers' .

"Ron Holiday, Joy Holiday and Chuck Lizza, aka the Cat Dancers, were one of the world's first exotic-tiger entertainment acts. For years, the trio shared a happy, if unorthodox, life as performers and lovers - until a pair of bizarre deaths brought their story to a tragic end. Premieres Monday, December 15 at 8pm.

I don't want to ruin it for you, because YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT - for Ron Holiday's performance outfits alone. There's one scene where I swear to God, he has constructed suspenders out of black index cards individually taped to his chest. There is so, so much spandex, and his mullets get progressively more glorious throughout the flashback footage - made all the more incredible by the present-day interviews in which he is completely bald, and expresses his personality via elaborate wigs. Seriously, in the first five minutes, dude looks so much like Buffalo Bill, I honestly didn't know where the story was taking us. I didn't even know if 'tiger' was going to be the cause of death.

See, Ron Holiday and his wife, Joy - who, when choosing between devoting her life to the dance or to the Lord, was told by a nun to 'dance for God' - had a dance act. They danced everywhere. Ron was a lead male nude dancer at the Folies Bergere (an episode to which they devoted like, ONE SENTENCE, to my great dismay) and they did odd sexual ballets at Radio City, and everything was sparkly and amazing.

One night Ron (I assume) overdosed on quaaludes and had a dream where Joy was dancing with a cat. So they just like, got a leopard. And trained it to dance with them. Then they got a whole bunch more cats, and travelled in a circus, and stole a man-boy named Chuck from a competing circus, and trained him to dance with the cats, and then he started wearing satin booty-pants and shirts made out of deconstructed party favors from an event at Studio 54, and it's just insane. Right? This was fucking riveting. And this is all BEFORE Ron tells us about his first sexual encounter with Chuck. Ron and chuck got down! Then Joy started banging Chuck, too. THEN EVERYONE WAS SLEEPING WITH EVERYONE AND DANCING WITH BIG CATS. The best part was how hard these three loonies dug the shit out of their lifestyle. I mean, this was so, so crazy, but watching them all be like "This rules. We just have sex with each other and feed our enormous jungle cats huge portions of raw meat. We're so happy."...it was really convincing. I mean, not like they were hurting anyone. OH WAIT.

Because then they ate a bad batch of mushrooms, and decided to get a white tiger, which I guess was questionable not so much in that they were adopting another thousand pound wild feline to live in a cage out back, but in that white tigers are often inbred, and therefore unpredictable. But they get one anyway, because these people are completely insane. So they get this tiger, and they name him Jupiter, and he's clearly an asshole, but rather than you know - getting rid of their UNSTABLE TIGER they decide he's just 'a brat.' Because tigers are completely analogous to toddlers, and they grow out of these bratty phases. OH WAIT.

Here's the part where I totally spoil this for you: spolier alert? Is that what I'm supposed to say? We already know this doesn't end well.

One day there's a crew of electricians fortifying the fence at Rancho Insano, and rather than leaving all the tigers in their cages until they're finished working, the Cat Dancers put their full grown wild animals on leashes and walk them around. And Chuck, while walking Jupiter, slips and falls - apparently because he has moccasins on - and the tiger BITES THROUGH HIS FUCKING NECK. And then I guess it cried. So Ron blamed the moccasins, and kept their MAN EATING TIGER in their backyard.

Except all is not well, as Joy becomes consumed with grief, and spends the next month in her bed without food, or, apparently, a shower. Which is sort of understandable, I guess, considering her child-lover was just de-throated by a giant cat that's still living in the backyard. I'd probably freak out, too. I'd probably shower a few times, but these people are working on a different scale of reasonableness, so I'm just going to move on.

After about five weeks of stewing in her own filth and hunger pangs, Ron convinces Joy to go out and like, pat the cats, or something. So they go into the garage, and Joy like, rubs her hands with meat and makes out with their ocelot, or whatever, and everything's going well, and then Ron decides to bring Jupiter into the garage. Like REALLY, Ron? Jupiter? Now? But apparently he loves traumatic shock therapy, so in comes the white tiger. Who, upon seeing Joy, LEAPS ACROSS THE GARAGE AND TEARS HER THROAT OUT. And then I guess it made it's 'crying noise' again, and Ron - putting all the pieces together at last - shouts: "Jupiter - YOU'RE INBRED!!!" No, Ron - JUPITER IS A FUCKING TIGER. IF THERE WAS A TIGER IN MY GARAGE, AND THE TIGER DID NOT EAT ME, MY RESPONSE WOULD BE 'WHAT IS THIS TIGER, INBRED?' HOLY FUCK.

Right. Exactly. It's the most fucked up shit ever. I scratched the surface, too - there's so much more. For instance, we learn that since the tiger mauled his family, Ron now teaches ballet to children - creepy, especially considering the wigs - and also posits himself as an 'animal behaviorist' and gives tours of the exotic ranch his big cats now live on. That's like calling yourself a criminologist because you invited some wacko drifter to come stay in your house and he murdered your whole family. I don't want animal behavior advice from this guy - HIS TIGER ATE HIS WIFE. YES HE STILL HAS TIGERS.

I could talk about this shit all day. Please do yourself a favor and do whatever you need to do to see this film. You may have bizarre dreams about leopards and leotards for the next few nights, but it is so, so worth it. SO yes - thank you, HBO. You truly are more than just TV.