09.09.2002 - My Big Fat Dumbass Weekend

Although Holly and her roommate have been great in putting me up while I'm between homes, I'd rather not be more of an imposition than absolutely necessary. Because of this, I'm only staying with them in Davis on days I have to work, then trucking it on back to Livermore to stay with The Moms on the weekends. That way I get out of Holly's hair and The Moms doesn't get to complain about never getting to see me. All I have to sacrifice is whatever internal organ I have to sell to finance a fill-up and any hope of excitement for three to four days at a stretch. It's no Grand Slam Breakfast for $2.99 (are you out of your mind?), but it ain't such a bad deal neither.

After a brief stop in Davis after work on Thursday, I decided to take the long way back to L-town and cruise through Berkeley. Before I started packing my now former room up, I took a hard look at my bookshelf and decided there were a few selections I'd probably never read again. In the interests of not making any of my moving boxes any heavier and perhaps lining my pockets or picking up a few things I might actually enjoy reading, I decided to sell some of my collection. Every used bookstore in the area rejected all but one of my books, so now I have a bunch of books I don't want that I still had to move. I figured the shops in Berkeley might be more interested in what I had to offer, and if not, at least I could grab some Fat Slice and silently poke fun at a throng of dirty hippies.

It turns out the bookstores there either didn't care for my reject pile either or didn't have a buyer on the premises. It wasn't a total waste, though, because I did pick up a copy of Sarah Vowell's new book for about half of what it should have been. If this weren't enough, I found out that she'll be giving a reading in a few weeks.

There are a few women whom I'd instantly agree to marry if asked solely based on talent, ability or whatever persona I've managed to develop for them. Sarah Vowell is one of them. In my fantasy, I go to her reading, she singles me out, proposes, we dash of to Vegas, get married, she uses her pull to get me a book deal and we produce one or two genius children somewhere down the road.

Also in this fantasy, I have rippling abs, thick hair and a pet monkey. Reality can smoke it.

So excited by the news that she'll be coming to town, I waded through the traffic to get home, say hello to my computer (which I've left in The Moms' care) and fall asleep at nine o'clock. I love the nightife. I like to boogie.

I celebrated my Friday by not showering until late in the afternoon and eating so much charred animal flesh, they're doing location shoots for Pet Sematary II in my large intestine. The moms had a coupon for Black Angus and decided we needed to pretend it was someone's birthday to justify such a feast. Happy birthday, whoever you are.

After our cable went out at the old apartment, I felt the pangs of withdrawal for a day or so and then forgot about it. Since my mother has every cable channel known to man, I've been catching up on my couch sitting and TV watching. I managed to catch Strangers on a Train on TCM, and for the first time, I actually liked a Hitchcock movie upon initial viewing. Usually it takes me two or three tries to come around. That shot with the glasses is both the creepiest and coolest thing I've seen in recent memory.

Because I'm old and there ain't shit-all to do after dark in Livermore, I went to sleep directly after the movie. I somehow managed to get to sleep before midnight for four consecutive days. I deserve a medal or a scoop of ice cream.

Or at least some Depends Adult Undergarments.

The Moms and I have taken to treating each other to a movie when I come to visit, which would be nice if the pickings weren't so slim at the multiplex these days. This week, we saw the much hyped My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Honestly, if I see this referred to as the little (noun) that (verbed), I'm going to hunt down the writer and shove the Big Book of Cliches down his throat.

While the film was mildly amusing, it had absolutely nothing original to say. Take any wacky family comedy with a romantic twist and you've got this. In about a week, I could rewrite this script to suit pretty much any stereotype, ethnic or otherwise. I could have a franchise on my hands.

Regardless of whether or not I happened to like it, I have never ever seen a movie play this well to any audience. The crowd actually erupted into applause at several points. If you're a frustrated middle aged woman or you're a bigger fan of romantic comedy than saying something new, My Big Fat Greek Wedding will probably suit you well. You don't have to see xXx to get punch-yourself-in-the-testicles dumb movies this Summer.

If you fall into that category, you probably won't think about how offensive this would have been had it been appropriated to another culture. Could you imagine how fast heads would spin if it had been "My Big Fat Southern Baptist Wedding," where the somewhat homely thirty year old girl from Alabama finds love and herself in a hunky African American to the dismay of her wacky southern family? How 'bout "My Big Fat Arab Wedding" or "My Big Fat Differently Abled Wedding." "My Big Fat Homosexual Civil Ceremony?" Methinks it wouldn't break the hundred million dollar mark.

Maybe it would. I can never tell.

Really, though, it was a mostly harmless movie. I like to get worked up about things that aren't important. Honestly, though, that's all I did with my Saturday, so I had a lot of time to think about it. Give me something to do and I promise I'll bitch less.

Sunday wasn't much more exciting, unless hearing about someone changing the oil in his ridiculously large vehicle gets you off.

I did, however, take the time to make myself seem and feel more pathetic by making a mix tape to give Sarah Vowell when I see her read in Berkeley at the end of the month. Apparently I've turned into a sad little starfucker. I'm just as embarassed as you are. It's unfortunate to have developed some sense of shame at such a late age.

The weekends in L-town may not be action packed, but at least nobody gets shot or projectile vomits on my good shoes. I call that a win.

-- Jeffy