Friday, February 26, 2010
Census 2010 Part 2: Is This Real Life?
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Monday, February 22, 2010
Census 2010
So training started today for Census enumerators in and around Albany County, Wyoming. I count myself so lucky to be part of this group. But as is true of much guvment (that is how our training leader says it, seriously) work it can be tedious, in fact it is quite often boring to the point of tears. Government (which will heretofore be abr. "guvment") conversations seem to be more circular. Vagueness and redundacy are treasured. In short I'm quite surprised the Census hasn't been privatized by Google. It's like, if you want to know where the road is, do you actually drive to the road? No you look at it from a satellite. Duh!
Anyway, on with the training. There did not seem to be a formal "beginning" or "end" to training, nor did there appear to be any logical agenda or schedule. Lunch was understood to start at noon and end half an hour later but that was really the structure of our day. It started out with alot of talks about small towns in south southeast Wyoming. Then we filled out forms for two hours. I think if I had really studied, I could have crushed the forms in ten minutes flat. Progress be damned, though, we had to ensure that everyone had two blue pens and one neon highlighter first and then talk of the ramifications of losing said highlighter.
The first time you lose your highlighter (item Z1908) you will be warned (in writing). The second you will be terminated. This "two strikes you're out" rule also applies in the following situations: wearing a helmet while riding an ATV, sexual harassment, and working overtime. Overtime requires pre-approval because without it people might overexert themselves, or possibly waste money with overtime pay, because all the Census Bureau's other expenses seem air-tight and unwasteful.
After the form-filling-out, a guy showed up to fingerprint us. Luckily, a random women had also been trained to fingerprint for the federal guvment, which is important because YOU HAVE TO BE FINGERPRINTED 14 TIMES BY 2 DIFFERENT PEOPLE EACH. We managed to tear through 12 people in two and a half hours. Some of the folks were elderly and forced into quite uncomfortable positions by the fingerprinting situation! I was told by BOTH fingerprinters that I had quite distinct and dare I say beautiful fingerprints, to which I quite characteristically replied, "I know." I got paid about $39 plus mileage to have my fingerprints taken!
There was also this great snippet of conversation talking about fingerprints:
Boss: "It's important that you roll your finger, so we get all the ridges and apexes."
Me: "Apices."
Boss: "Come again?"
Me: "Nevermind."
At one point, I realized that getting the group off track was quite easy, I figured it might be fun to try my hand at misdirection. When Lakewood, a suburb of Denver, came up, I realized that I had found my opportunity: Casa Bonita. I would say that we talked about Casa Bonita for five minutes, and then a fish restaurant in Lakewood for three more. Then we talked about other Denver suburbs. I would say all included I took up about fifteen minutes just by saying "Casa Bonita."
We spent a good two hours discussing assaults, safety, and mostly threats from dogs. Some of the better questions regarding dogs: "If there's a little dog hanging onto your ankle and you kick it, are you covered against a lawsuit?" "What if there's a big Doberman in the yard?" We also learned how to anticipate dog attacks and appear submissive in the face of dog aggression.
The afternoon was pretty dull, and we really could have knocked about two hours off the whole day. But the training seems more guided by the hours that need to be filled than any substance filling those hours and we chatted for quite awhile. At the end of the day I looked at the poster on the wall of the fire station in which we convened, and found quite a bit of comic relief for me.
I can't find an image of this poster on Google images, which means it is quite rare indeed. I also haven't the signal to send the pic from my cell phone. But to give you an idea, it portrayed an angelic babe with wings on it above two cars which had quite obviously crashed. It encouraged people to use child safety seats. The caption? "Babies can fly.... once." I'm not sure who made this but it's clearly not in the best taste even if the black humor is overwhelming. I mean, dead baby jokes are sometimes funny but the idea of a flying, winged dead baby is f-ing hilarious.
Also, there was an Asian woman in our class, thus I made the common-sense decision to either leave training first before she could get behind the wheel or wait around for the streets to clear.
I drove past a McDonald's on the way home and had a hankering for a double cheeseburger. But what did I see advertised on the window? A phony McDouble. I will never eat your McDouble, Sir. (Sir is Ronald McDonald.)
Anyway, on with the training. There did not seem to be a formal "beginning" or "end" to training, nor did there appear to be any logical agenda or schedule. Lunch was understood to start at noon and end half an hour later but that was really the structure of our day. It started out with alot of talks about small towns in south southeast Wyoming. Then we filled out forms for two hours. I think if I had really studied, I could have crushed the forms in ten minutes flat. Progress be damned, though, we had to ensure that everyone had two blue pens and one neon highlighter first and then talk of the ramifications of losing said highlighter.
The first time you lose your highlighter (item Z1908) you will be warned (in writing). The second you will be terminated. This "two strikes you're out" rule also applies in the following situations: wearing a helmet while riding an ATV, sexual harassment, and working overtime. Overtime requires pre-approval because without it people might overexert themselves, or possibly waste money with overtime pay, because all the Census Bureau's other expenses seem air-tight and unwasteful.
After the form-filling-out, a guy showed up to fingerprint us. Luckily, a random women had also been trained to fingerprint for the federal guvment, which is important because YOU HAVE TO BE FINGERPRINTED 14 TIMES BY 2 DIFFERENT PEOPLE EACH. We managed to tear through 12 people in two and a half hours. Some of the folks were elderly and forced into quite uncomfortable positions by the fingerprinting situation! I was told by BOTH fingerprinters that I had quite distinct and dare I say beautiful fingerprints, to which I quite characteristically replied, "I know." I got paid about $39 plus mileage to have my fingerprints taken!
There was also this great snippet of conversation talking about fingerprints:
Boss: "It's important that you roll your finger, so we get all the ridges and apexes."
Me: "Apices."
Boss: "Come again?"
Me: "Nevermind."
At one point, I realized that getting the group off track was quite easy, I figured it might be fun to try my hand at misdirection. When Lakewood, a suburb of Denver, came up, I realized that I had found my opportunity: Casa Bonita. I would say that we talked about Casa Bonita for five minutes, and then a fish restaurant in Lakewood for three more. Then we talked about other Denver suburbs. I would say all included I took up about fifteen minutes just by saying "Casa Bonita."
We spent a good two hours discussing assaults, safety, and mostly threats from dogs. Some of the better questions regarding dogs: "If there's a little dog hanging onto your ankle and you kick it, are you covered against a lawsuit?" "What if there's a big Doberman in the yard?" We also learned how to anticipate dog attacks and appear submissive in the face of dog aggression.
The afternoon was pretty dull, and we really could have knocked about two hours off the whole day. But the training seems more guided by the hours that need to be filled than any substance filling those hours and we chatted for quite awhile. At the end of the day I looked at the poster on the wall of the fire station in which we convened, and found quite a bit of comic relief for me.
I can't find an image of this poster on Google images, which means it is quite rare indeed. I also haven't the signal to send the pic from my cell phone. But to give you an idea, it portrayed an angelic babe with wings on it above two cars which had quite obviously crashed. It encouraged people to use child safety seats. The caption? "Babies can fly.... once." I'm not sure who made this but it's clearly not in the best taste even if the black humor is overwhelming. I mean, dead baby jokes are sometimes funny but the idea of a flying, winged dead baby is f-ing hilarious.
Also, there was an Asian woman in our class, thus I made the common-sense decision to either leave training first before she could get behind the wheel or wait around for the streets to clear.
I drove past a McDonald's on the way home and had a hankering for a double cheeseburger. But what did I see advertised on the window? A phony McDouble. I will never eat your McDouble, Sir. (Sir is Ronald McDonald.)
Friday, January 22, 2010
Bosselman's Travel Plaza, December twentysomething 2009
I'll bet most of you from outside the midwest have never been to a real travel plaza. Not a rest stop, not a gas station, CERTAINLY not a convenient store, a travel plaza is a place designed to attract truckers, families traveling cross-country, and aliens. Yes, aliens.
I wasn't feeling too hot as we pulled into the Grand Island Bosselman's travel plaza. Or should I say, the I-80 Grand Island Bosselman's Travel Plaza because evidently there are two such businesses operating in this small town. But the thought of Little Caesar's or Subway and water inspired me to enter. To the left, a miniature virtual Wal-Mart offering everything from pornography (which, I agree, should be readily available at any truck stop) to engraved samurai swords to blue cards saying "Happy Chanukah" on the front. I still can't really figure out which of these three things is the most necessary item in Grand Island, Nebraska.
Say, for instance, you're flying from Grand Island airport to Singapore. Both the porn and the samurai sword could conceivably come in handy in this situation (or shall I say "THE SITUATION") either on the airplane or afterwards in the dirty streets. But say you're headed eastbound to Skokie, IL. It's a Jewish hotbed of the midwest, thus the Chanukah card could come up big. And the porn's probably good for the ride. The sword... maybe seppuku. In other words, you have everything you need just on the left of the travel plaza.
On the right are (as advertised) the Little Caesar's and Subway. Subway offers $5 subs and Caesar's offers pizzas for five dollars hot and ready, 4 words which I rarely like to see together in sentence. And it turns out they're not really hot and ready because of a run on sausage pizza and I'm awful disappointed about this. I chastise the customer service manager (read: pizza maker) taking my order but it doesn't speed up the process of getting the pizza hot and ready ASAP, B.
So I take some time to explore. The bathrooms are lit in a sultry manner and involve large stalls and comfortable-width passages, and I can't tell whether this is a good or bad thing. I like the personal space but it is disturbing to think about what some people may do with so much personal space at a truck stop. Toilet paper is amply stocked but there are stange noises coming from the stall next to mine.
So I leave the bathroom and skip the water fountain. To the arcade I go, and on the way I see an encased model of the alien from Independence Day.... there is also an encased shrunken head that I don't recognize immediately. The arcade is well-stocked with stuffed animal grabs, virtual horse racing, and Skee-Ball. There is nothing funny at all about this dark arcade so I leave.
There is also an entire upstairs the size of a football field. I am not sure what's up there but it stretches my imagination to think what else a weary traveler might need that's not available downstairs.
I went for a comment card, and I found the greatest thing of all. It's going to take some explaining because I still can't make heads or tails of it. It was, at its essence, a small advertisement, a veritable mobile/diorama (haven't used that word since 3rd grade) comprised of several index cards and pamphlets advertising three things: a do-it-yourself eyeglass repair kit (not displayed), improved fuel economy (method undescribed), and total consciousness, which obviously comes via the Dalai Lama (twelfth son of the lama). All of these products refer back to the same 800 number. And I'll be damned if I didn't write down the number. So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.
Finally, the pizza was hot and ready, which evidently requires the stars to align and them to pronounce your name correctly (J.....K....?) So we sat and ate and people-watched (which could be a completely seperate blog in its own right) and I wrote my comment card. It went something like this:
"I am a grown man and I have never been so scared in my life. There are aliens here. Really. They are in glass cases. And my pizza was NEITHER hot NOR ready (thus coordinating my conjunctions in CAPITALS for EFFECT). There were suspicious sounds going on in the bathroom. Refills should be free. Sincerely yours."
I went back to sleep in the Mazda afterwards as we neared Denver. But just regular sleep, not sleep in the Sylvia Plath sense of the word.
I wasn't feeling too hot as we pulled into the Grand Island Bosselman's travel plaza. Or should I say, the I-80 Grand Island Bosselman's Travel Plaza because evidently there are two such businesses operating in this small town. But the thought of Little Caesar's or Subway and water inspired me to enter. To the left, a miniature virtual Wal-Mart offering everything from pornography (which, I agree, should be readily available at any truck stop) to engraved samurai swords to blue cards saying "Happy Chanukah" on the front. I still can't really figure out which of these three things is the most necessary item in Grand Island, Nebraska.
Say, for instance, you're flying from Grand Island airport to Singapore. Both the porn and the samurai sword could conceivably come in handy in this situation (or shall I say "THE SITUATION") either on the airplane or afterwards in the dirty streets. But say you're headed eastbound to Skokie, IL. It's a Jewish hotbed of the midwest, thus the Chanukah card could come up big. And the porn's probably good for the ride. The sword... maybe seppuku. In other words, you have everything you need just on the left of the travel plaza.
On the right are (as advertised) the Little Caesar's and Subway. Subway offers $5 subs and Caesar's offers pizzas for five dollars hot and ready, 4 words which I rarely like to see together in sentence. And it turns out they're not really hot and ready because of a run on sausage pizza and I'm awful disappointed about this. I chastise the customer service manager (read: pizza maker) taking my order but it doesn't speed up the process of getting the pizza hot and ready ASAP, B.
So I take some time to explore. The bathrooms are lit in a sultry manner and involve large stalls and comfortable-width passages, and I can't tell whether this is a good or bad thing. I like the personal space but it is disturbing to think about what some people may do with so much personal space at a truck stop. Toilet paper is amply stocked but there are stange noises coming from the stall next to mine.
So I leave the bathroom and skip the water fountain. To the arcade I go, and on the way I see an encased model of the alien from Independence Day.... there is also an encased shrunken head that I don't recognize immediately. The arcade is well-stocked with stuffed animal grabs, virtual horse racing, and Skee-Ball. There is nothing funny at all about this dark arcade so I leave.
There is also an entire upstairs the size of a football field. I am not sure what's up there but it stretches my imagination to think what else a weary traveler might need that's not available downstairs.
I went for a comment card, and I found the greatest thing of all. It's going to take some explaining because I still can't make heads or tails of it. It was, at its essence, a small advertisement, a veritable mobile/diorama (haven't used that word since 3rd grade) comprised of several index cards and pamphlets advertising three things: a do-it-yourself eyeglass repair kit (not displayed), improved fuel economy (method undescribed), and total consciousness, which obviously comes via the Dalai Lama (twelfth son of the lama). All of these products refer back to the same 800 number. And I'll be damned if I didn't write down the number. So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.
Finally, the pizza was hot and ready, which evidently requires the stars to align and them to pronounce your name correctly (J.....K....?) So we sat and ate and people-watched (which could be a completely seperate blog in its own right) and I wrote my comment card. It went something like this:
"I am a grown man and I have never been so scared in my life. There are aliens here. Really. They are in glass cases. And my pizza was NEITHER hot NOR ready (thus coordinating my conjunctions in CAPITALS for EFFECT). There were suspicious sounds going on in the bathroom. Refills should be free. Sincerely yours."
I went back to sleep in the Mazda afterwards as we neared Denver. But just regular sleep, not sleep in the Sylvia Plath sense of the word.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Whole Foods Midnight Marathon
My dad once almost beat a Whole Foods employee into submission because the store lacked Hershey's chocolate syrup and Coca-Cola. That said, despite liking their cheese selection greatly, I feel pretty similarly about the entire Whole Foods operation. I like Velveeta, Jim Beam, and Wonder Bread on occasion. And I really like paying less for groceries.
But I can take Whole Foods with a grain of salt. I realize that moral superiority isn't really dictated by where you shop for groceries. So Whole Foods Midnight Madness in Denver was quite a humorous event for me.
"Midnight Madness," a term usually used to refer to college basketball programs' first practice of the year, means that Whole Foods puts a very few items on sale-- and on sale at Whole Foods is still pricier than Wal-Mart's everyday low prices (especially if they have that creepy yellow smiley face near the price.) Shrimp for $7 a pound? Insanity. Blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese for $5? These prices, from what I could discern, made the yuppies of Cherry Creek as excited as if they'd received a new fixed-speed bicycle from Barack Obama for Christmas (or Eid?)
As we arrived at Whole Foods around 11:15 in the PM, we quickly realized that there was not an entire spot in the entire parking lot. Wait, were we mistakenly at a Subaru dealership? No. It was really Whole Foods, replete with Subaru Outbacks and their yuppie drivers. Oh my god, a Prius. The employees bowed to the owner as he entered the store. Thinking that Whole Foods' customers might be a bit less aggressive than Wal-Mart's customers, I quickly realized that a $4 pack of wheat naan could turn even the greenest soccer mom into a crazed discount hunter. Here's a picture of me getting a great deal on naan.
After an extended search for a parking spot, we entered the store to cheering employees announcing the midnight madness specials on the overhead speaker. Hip-hop music between the announcements calmed people's nerves about being a white person in an all-white grocery store. Soccer moms in pajamas ran around the aisles like teens at a slumber party high on soda flavored with all-natural coarse cane sugar.
I realized that the amount of self-congratulatory and hipster-ish quotes being thrown around would put my memory on overload (although that happens during most simple sentences to me). So I decided, luckily, to write down some of the quotes as I anticipated that this could be a blog-worthy event. I'll just throw these quotes out now with a lil' bit of commentary.
"Honey, are we out of naan at home?" I mean, why would you limit your naan consumption to home? Most families of four need at least twelve loaves of naan each week. Plus if you keep a stash in the car, you could eat twenty loaves of naan easily.
(on the overheard speaker): "The OJ special is in the PRODUCE section and not in the NATURAL JUICE section." This caused an absolute tide of yuppies to shift directions and I'm pretty sure someone got hurt in the ensuing rush for $3.99 half-gallons of OJ.
"Oh my god, I can't believe we biked here honey! We are having SO MUCH FUN." Couples' high-five. By the size and irony of the guy's moustache, and her awkward-looking blue leggings, I could tell they were some of the first people on their block to see Modest Mouse live in concert at a small venue. (Cheers to Christian's blog Stuff White People Like for informing this last hipster-inspired commentary).
Tatooed employee: "Free samples, bro! Rice nog!"
RetiredJK: "Is it ORGANIC?"
TE: "Sorry it's not, bro, but it's all natural and really tasty!"
RJK: (Disgusted look) Later broski.
Fifty-something: "EXCUSE ME, you're cutting in the seafood line!!!
Sixty-something: "I'm in the OLIVE LINE!"
Employee with multiple facial piercings: "Free samples! Pizza! No gluten! No rye! No wheat!" Ummm... at some point I feel like Whole Foods sells people the emperor's new clothes and that there's not actually anything in the box. Maybe some olive oil or something. But I'll bet buying it still feels really good inside.
A couple other funny things I noticed. One is that chicks at Whole Foods really like to wear their hair like Princess Leia from Star Wars. I also have never even fathomed that so many fifty-somethings knew how to send text messages. I really wondered who these folks were texting at midnight, given that my parents go to sleep two to three hours prior most nights. Probably their friends in Japan or something multicultural like that.
At the checkout, I really had to fight the desire to buy a Northern Italian cooking magazine, because seriously who would even eat Southern Italian food? Philistines. The uncultured. I say this as I eat a late-night crab enchilada with nacho cheese. But seriously, the string trio playing 90's pop hits (jazz-style) was blocking my access to baguettes. I'm pretty sure they played "I Want It That Way" by N'Sync on their viola and stuff. The layout of the store was very poor because I need two baguettes a day.
But as I left with my naan and block of Parmesan cheese, one of their dreadlocked employees handed me a free sample of peppermint soy beverage. ORGANIC. And if it wasn't the best peppermint soy beverage I've ever had then my name is not JK and I'm not retired. Whole Foods, holla! P.S. My dad would have totally kicked that employee's arse.
Do You Really Want to Hear About the Morgans?
Hello my dear blogettes. I hope this Christmas season finds you well and prosperous, and that you can find it in your heart to share some of that prosperity with me during my blogathon. It starts now and ends after this blog but may continue for another day or two depending on the motivation level in a post-Christmas world.
So, as you may have guessed, this blog deals with a certain recently released rom-com (for the uninducted this stands for romantic comedy) featuring SJP (Sarah Jessica Parker) as Meryl Morgan and Hugh Grant as Paul Morgan. A quick summary of the movie in my good friend Dave's words: "He's been stumbling through life as a charmingly befuddled d-bag... She's a horse-faced slut... But together they unexpectedly find the recipe for love..."
The movie doesn't even start before the laughs begin. A preview for the Jennifer Aniston action rom-com "The Bounty Hunter" precedes the movie, and I predict these two movies will compete for post-season honors on rottentomatoes.com. As the movie begins, Paul is repeatedly calling Meryl's answering machine, leaving sweet but wordy and misguided messages with the clear intent of reuniting with his estranged wife. The reason they're estranged? Sometimes movies imitate life, and Paul has cheated on his wife (although not with a hooker in the back of a car).
The first major scene in the movie features Paul stalking his wife at a charity dinner. She is the keynote speaker despite having zero talent for public speaking. The topic of her speech? An ironically foreboding talk about the fight against breast cancer reaching a "turning point" and a "make-or-break" time in their organization's fight for a cure. Paul listens intently and, after the speech, is the most convincing, polite, British yes-man ever played on screen. He never actually disagrees with Meryl, whose over-the-top high-strung personality clashes horribly with his. Throughout the movie, they are far more believable as the antagonistic, seperated couple than they are as a married couple living together. One wonders if a straight-to-video release may have been more appropriate for the flick.
As the plot thickens, Paul and Meryl walk to her client's home only to see the client murdered by a knife in the back. Of course, the hit man feels it necessary to stick around for awhile and stare at the Morgans; conveniently, he sees a picture of her on the cover of a magazine on his getaway. After some fish-out-of water jokes about her attire and business dealings, they quickly enter the witness protection program and are whisked off to Wyoming.
The directors evidently put the movie on auto-pilot at this point, as we while away a half hour watching Paul and Meryl adapt to Wyoming life. Placed in horribly contrived situations, they experience all the things that all rural people do: eat wild game, shoot rifles, ride horses, milk cows, visit the rodeo, and, of course, share themselves with the wonderfully quaint townfolk. The ultimate irony of this portion of the film is that Meryl at one point claims to be "allergic" to horses... could this be a sly dig at SJP's horse-like appearance on the part of the producers? Probably not, as that joke would be a bit over their heads.
One of the few saving graces of this film is that it parodies city folk, especially those of you who live in NYC. The Morgans' inability to fathom rural life comes up throughout the movie, for example as Meryl struggles to find a non-cocktail dress outfit to bring with her to Wyoming. Later, Meryl asks Wilford Brimley to blow his smoke in another direction, and they get a rude awakening to living in a rural town. Straight out of an episode of South Park, he states "we don't take kindly to out-of-towners coming in to town and tellin' us what to do" to which Paul replies "I hope we can be friends" in the most beseeching, submissive tone he can muster. And he musters a submissive tone amazingly well.
The New-York centric point of view continues later, as Meryl recalls an episode involving "Jarlsberg cheese from Zabar's" while recalling an incident in which Paul tried to humanely trap a mouse rather than slaughtering it (Meryl, of course, is a member of PETA). The humour (note how I spelled it!) continues until the very end, when the hitman tracks them down at a rodeo. Meryl and Paul, in a scene that reminds of their newly repaired relationship, hide inside a rodeo clown outfit. A charmingly self-harming Paul overcomes his fear to douse himself in bear repellent while attempting to disable the hitman. Despite his clumsy but well-meaning attempt, the couple has clearly endeared themself to the community, and they respond by pulling several guns on the hitman and knocking him unconscious with a horseshoe.
Can a movie get zero stars? Was this written by a junior high school student? Could Meryl's personal assistant's performance overcome an awful script to compete for year-end honors? Will there be a worse movie this year? I don't know, but to quote the movie, "we don't take kindly to movies like this around here." I'm also pretty sure there was a high school couple giving each other hand jobs in the back of the theatre... I have no doubt they were far more romantic than any movie with Sarah Jessica Parker could ever be.
So, as you may have guessed, this blog deals with a certain recently released rom-com (for the uninducted this stands for romantic comedy) featuring SJP (Sarah Jessica Parker) as Meryl Morgan and Hugh Grant as Paul Morgan. A quick summary of the movie in my good friend Dave's words: "He's been stumbling through life as a charmingly befuddled d-bag... She's a horse-faced slut... But together they unexpectedly find the recipe for love..."
The movie doesn't even start before the laughs begin. A preview for the Jennifer Aniston action rom-com "The Bounty Hunter" precedes the movie, and I predict these two movies will compete for post-season honors on rottentomatoes.com. As the movie begins, Paul is repeatedly calling Meryl's answering machine, leaving sweet but wordy and misguided messages with the clear intent of reuniting with his estranged wife. The reason they're estranged? Sometimes movies imitate life, and Paul has cheated on his wife (although not with a hooker in the back of a car).
The first major scene in the movie features Paul stalking his wife at a charity dinner. She is the keynote speaker despite having zero talent for public speaking. The topic of her speech? An ironically foreboding talk about the fight against breast cancer reaching a "turning point" and a "make-or-break" time in their organization's fight for a cure. Paul listens intently and, after the speech, is the most convincing, polite, British yes-man ever played on screen. He never actually disagrees with Meryl, whose over-the-top high-strung personality clashes horribly with his. Throughout the movie, they are far more believable as the antagonistic, seperated couple than they are as a married couple living together. One wonders if a straight-to-video release may have been more appropriate for the flick.
As the plot thickens, Paul and Meryl walk to her client's home only to see the client murdered by a knife in the back. Of course, the hit man feels it necessary to stick around for awhile and stare at the Morgans; conveniently, he sees a picture of her on the cover of a magazine on his getaway. After some fish-out-of water jokes about her attire and business dealings, they quickly enter the witness protection program and are whisked off to Wyoming.
The directors evidently put the movie on auto-pilot at this point, as we while away a half hour watching Paul and Meryl adapt to Wyoming life. Placed in horribly contrived situations, they experience all the things that all rural people do: eat wild game, shoot rifles, ride horses, milk cows, visit the rodeo, and, of course, share themselves with the wonderfully quaint townfolk. The ultimate irony of this portion of the film is that Meryl at one point claims to be "allergic" to horses... could this be a sly dig at SJP's horse-like appearance on the part of the producers? Probably not, as that joke would be a bit over their heads.
One of the few saving graces of this film is that it parodies city folk, especially those of you who live in NYC. The Morgans' inability to fathom rural life comes up throughout the movie, for example as Meryl struggles to find a non-cocktail dress outfit to bring with her to Wyoming. Later, Meryl asks Wilford Brimley to blow his smoke in another direction, and they get a rude awakening to living in a rural town. Straight out of an episode of South Park, he states "we don't take kindly to out-of-towners coming in to town and tellin' us what to do" to which Paul replies "I hope we can be friends" in the most beseeching, submissive tone he can muster. And he musters a submissive tone amazingly well.
The New-York centric point of view continues later, as Meryl recalls an episode involving "Jarlsberg cheese from Zabar's" while recalling an incident in which Paul tried to humanely trap a mouse rather than slaughtering it (Meryl, of course, is a member of PETA). The humour (note how I spelled it!) continues until the very end, when the hitman tracks them down at a rodeo. Meryl and Paul, in a scene that reminds of their newly repaired relationship, hide inside a rodeo clown outfit. A charmingly self-harming Paul overcomes his fear to douse himself in bear repellent while attempting to disable the hitman. Despite his clumsy but well-meaning attempt, the couple has clearly endeared themself to the community, and they respond by pulling several guns on the hitman and knocking him unconscious with a horseshoe.
Can a movie get zero stars? Was this written by a junior high school student? Could Meryl's personal assistant's performance overcome an awful script to compete for year-end honors? Will there be a worse movie this year? I don't know, but to quote the movie, "we don't take kindly to movies like this around here." I'm also pretty sure there was a high school couple giving each other hand jobs in the back of the theatre... I have no doubt they were far more romantic than any movie with Sarah Jessica Parker could ever be.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Casa Bonita: Part Deux
Yesterday, when I left off, we were en route from the serving area to the seating area: this was what we had come to see! Cliff divers, pirates, gorillas, Blackbart's cave, mariachis! We made a special request to the host for a cliffside seat, as I'm sure everyone does; despite being prepared with a $10 bribe, I felt a bit sheepish about bribing a host at what is, essentially, a children's restaurant. He stated that our seat would have "a waterfall view" which was, again, tangentially true. We walked around confused for awhile until a waitress took pity on us and found our seat (again, I'm not sure how she knew where out seat was, furthering my conviction that Casa Bonita employs some type of animatronics).
We met our server, who claimed his name was Juan. He assured us that we would have only the finest service and that, indeed, the chips and salsa and the sopapillas would be gratis. We had a flag on our table and he showed us how to employ the flag to our advantage; moving it from the down position to the up position would indicate that we were in need of something. But really, what I need is companionship. And more cliff divers. So I didn't raise the flag for awhile until I wanted a taco.
Speaking of the entertainment, it is scheduled every fifteen minutes. It mostly consists of cliff divers, mariachis, and some dog-and-pony (or shall I say pirate and gorilla) show which seemed less than authentic. However, I did get caught in the middle of a chase; after a bit of banter, the gorilla escaped from its pirate owner, sending them into wild goose-chase mode. I saw the gorilla run by me, and attempted to misdirect the pirate when he asked which way the gorilla went. "Behind you!" I said. But this did not fool the wily pirate, who seemed to be no stranger to chasing large primates through Casa Bonita.
Sopapillas. While I could write about these for awhile, given they they are fried, free, and all-you-can-eat (hint, hint: bring a gallon bag with you and take some home!) I got a priceless photo that really sums up the sopapilla experience at Casa Bonita:
Finally, the check came. While charging me for their horrendous food seemed cheap of them, I had faced the facts that the only way to dine and dash would be via Blackbart's Cave and an emergency exit. Besides, they had provided us with two pitchers of beer and two margaritas (for the ladies) which was worth something, right? Well, it wasn't worth $17 for a pitcher of Coors Light. Which brings me to one of my major tips which I may or may not summarize depending on fate at the end of this blog. I don't think I can come out and say that you should do something illegal, because that's like yelling fire in a crowded theatre or spreading lies deliberately in a written manner (libel). So I'll say it in another language: Ooyay ustmay ingbray askflay.
Blackbart's Cave! Known to me only from South Park, this was a pretty sweet place to get back at kids for cutting in line... I mean it's dark and if the kid is as tall as my knees, how was I supposed to see him? I was focusing on the pirates. And going as slow as possible to block all the kids behind me. This is the treasure of Blackbart, it's crazy it's been out there this whole time just sitting there and no one has tried to take it.
We met our server, who claimed his name was Juan. He assured us that we would have only the finest service and that, indeed, the chips and salsa and the sopapillas would be gratis. We had a flag on our table and he showed us how to employ the flag to our advantage; moving it from the down position to the up position would indicate that we were in need of something. But really, what I need is companionship. And more cliff divers. So I didn't raise the flag for awhile until I wanted a taco.
Speaking of the entertainment, it is scheduled every fifteen minutes. It mostly consists of cliff divers, mariachis, and some dog-and-pony (or shall I say pirate and gorilla) show which seemed less than authentic. However, I did get caught in the middle of a chase; after a bit of banter, the gorilla escaped from its pirate owner, sending them into wild goose-chase mode. I saw the gorilla run by me, and attempted to misdirect the pirate when he asked which way the gorilla went. "Behind you!" I said. But this did not fool the wily pirate, who seemed to be no stranger to chasing large primates through Casa Bonita.
Sopapillas. While I could write about these for awhile, given they they are fried, free, and all-you-can-eat (hint, hint: bring a gallon bag with you and take some home!) I got a priceless photo that really sums up the sopapilla experience at Casa Bonita:
Finally, the check came. While charging me for their horrendous food seemed cheap of them, I had faced the facts that the only way to dine and dash would be via Blackbart's Cave and an emergency exit. Besides, they had provided us with two pitchers of beer and two margaritas (for the ladies) which was worth something, right? Well, it wasn't worth $17 for a pitcher of Coors Light. Which brings me to one of my major tips which I may or may not summarize depending on fate at the end of this blog. I don't think I can come out and say that you should do something illegal, because that's like yelling fire in a crowded theatre or spreading lies deliberately in a written manner (libel). So I'll say it in another language: Ooyay ustmay ingbray askflay.
Blackbart's Cave! Known to me only from South Park, this was a pretty sweet place to get back at kids for cutting in line... I mean it's dark and if the kid is as tall as my knees, how was I supposed to see him? I was focusing on the pirates. And going as slow as possible to block all the kids behind me. This is the treasure of Blackbart, it's crazy it's been out there this whole time just sitting there and no one has tried to take it.
Casa Bonita: Parte Uno
Casa Bonita. The words evoke a feeling of hominess, like your family will always take care of you. I wouldn't say the reality of the place quite lives up to its name, because from the odd buffet-style dining, to the amusement parkesque atmosphere of the place, Casa Bonita did not quite match my expectations. (Note: If you have not seen the South Park episode you really should prior to reading the rest of this. I believe it is Season 7 episode 10 or so. We viewed it practically en route to the restaurant.)First off, let me remind you that Casa Bonita is first and foremost A RESTAURANT; this is confirmed by the fact that they won't let you in without buying an overpriced plate of nacho cheese with various (but surprisingly few given the number of combinations algebraically possible) portions of chicken, beef, and starch that didn't pass for a tortilla. I'm pretty sure they've cut costs by eliminating vegetables and real cheese from the menu.
But all these facts were available to me prior to visiting and yet I went. As you all may know, I am not always insistent on five-star food; I have, to my knowledge, never been within a mile of a Michelin-rated eatery. In fact, I am once in awhile willing to eat this very Tex-mex fodder that I've been describing. I once ate a taco al pastor reheated and filled with broccoli beef. My legend lives on, as so far I've never met anyone who tried this same thing.
That said, CASA BONITA IS AN UNMITIGATED FAILURE. And, moreoever, that said, thus, there is alot of science that I will write about below but you have just read the summary of my feelings on this strange place.
Here's the play-by-play. We arrived about seven PM armed with a "Survivor's Guide to Casa Bonita" provided so thoughtfully by Craig. We entered the castle-like structure to an entryway so small it may have been a bodega; we were immediately herded through turnstiles in a line of many shelters, twists and turns. I didn't realize until later that these were intended to confuse prospective diners as to their wait time.
And what you don't see until the last minute is that there are young ladies posing as hostesses who are actually waiting to take your order on a secret computer. So when you get to the front of this line and actually think you're about to be seated, you are forced to come up with an order while all the other hungry, pissed-off parents are wondering what's taking so long, not knowing that THEY TOO will be similarly confused, continuing a decades-long cycle of confusion perpetuated by the Casa Bonita MGMT.
OK. So we're still trying to order. Everything, strangely, is lined up in two columns: BEEF and CHICKEN. And the only menu is on the far wall. And alcohol is hidden behind some little kid. The "hostesas," which we'll pretend means hostesses in Spanish, seem to have the art of dodging questions down pat. Here's a sample of our convo, evidently she is communicating on a higher plane than I am:
RJK: "So do I have to order beer here or can I order from the table?"
Hostesa: "I can take your order for beer here."
RJK: "How do I get more of the all-you-can-comer platter?"
Hostesa: "You can get more of anything on your platter."
RJK: "How much are pitchers of beer?"
Hostesa: "I'm not sure, you pay your server at the end." (This was a truly great answer, as I would have without a doubt choked her if she had told me the answer which will be revealed later.)
I felt as though I might be speaking with a Fem-bot. We all sympathized with any parents in line; thoroughly frustrated as a group of reasonably intelligent twenty-somethings, we could not collectively imagine doing this with a five-year-old. Weekly.
Thoroughly mystified, we turned a corner to find that there was another line in which to wait. The end of this one held our food, though, so there was some promise of seating and sustinence ahead. Oddly, every platter being presented at the communal serving area looked to be the same even, perfectly molten, orange hue of cheap nacho cheese (we're not even talking about good nacho cheese here). Luckily, they came carefully marked by party, and on request the lady would magically discriminate YOUR plate of nacho cheese from THE TUBBY KID'S plate of nacho cheese.
Speaking of the tubby kid, I had my eye peeled for any budding Eric Cartmans. And I found one almost immediately when he slapped his brother. Attempting to get a photo with or of this child became my biggest wish for awhile. I really wanted to see this kid eat, a privilege which I was denied by the dismissive host. And yes, I know you're wondering, this kid was super-tubby.
Tomorrow, check back for the dining experience, the secrets of Blackbart's Cave, and a sweet picture of sopapillas and me.
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