Sorry (Again)!

Behold! I have emerged from my dormant cavern of blog silence, stiff and sore from what must seem to you like eons of literary hibernation. Indeed, it’s been nigh two months since I put fingers to keyboard and enlightened you with some exquisite insight from the rich and limitless stock of my imagination. And before you berate me with your grievances due to my prolonged and unexplained absence – I can only guess how hard it must have been for you to cope in lieu of my heretofore semi-frequent updates – let me just say that I’m sorry. In an attempt to win you back into my favor, I’ll share with you one of the things that has been eating up an enormous chunk of my time – granted it is only one facet of my infinitely busy life, but it is the one that I estimate will garner the most sympathy points.

Here she is: the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold, mommy’s little girl to have and hold. A precious gem, is what she is, and she’s mommy’s little girl. Ok, I’ll stop quoting lyrics and for once cut to the chase. I have a little kitty!

Technically, she’s not mine – she’s just my foster baby, but I’ve had her since she was a wee bottle baby and it’s been months now and I love her with all my heart. I’ve had other foster cats but they’ve all been adopted. While I’ve been sad to see them go, this one has been with me the longest and is quite simply, the most wonderful. I really hope no one wants to adopt her and that I get to keep her, even though I’m not sure this is such a good idea as I don’t think people should adopt cats unless they can guarantee a good home for the next twenty or so years. I also can’t come up with a name that is perfect enough for her – she’s too heavenly for any name to stick. Instead I just keep calling her Baby Angel Princess. I know this is cringe-worthy, but seriously, it fits her better than anything else that’s come to mind. Feast on these glamour shots you lucky bastards:

Officially Famous Now

Granted I was already unofficially famous, but today I became officially a really big deal. That's right, I'm on IMDB now. Click here to see the page in all its glory.

This whole thing is very random to me as I have been in countless short films and this one (in which is have a tiny, negligible part) is the one that finally cements my status as rising star, it girl of the 2010s, witty and ingenious comedienne, etc. You get the drift. Anyways, three cheers for me.

Apologies, Teasers, Rewards and MORE!

This is my "I'm so sorry" face.

So basically this week has just slipped away from me. I'd love to blame my lack of posts on some legit excuse, but that would mean lying to your face, and I think you know that I have too much respect for you to do that. So I'll fess up. I've basically just been partying too much. When you don't have a job it's hard to convince yourself to stay in and sleep when you could be ripping it up and painting the town red, blue, yellow and every shade in between. And given my predilections for rash, spontaneous behavior the latter option is evermore lustrous than the gimpy former.

But as a result of my debaucheries, I have little entertainment opinions, critiques or even rant seshes to unfold onto your computer screens. Apologies. I do instead have many scintillating stories from some of my more rowdy activities this week, but I figure for the sake of preserving the posterity of this blog, I will save these rampantly hedonistic tales of glory for my close personal acquaintances, not for the prying eyes of every Tom and Judy that frequents this blog with their prying eyes.

What I do hope to accomplish in writing this woefully unstructured post is to let you know that, audience, I have not forgotten thee. Here are some teasers of posts that will very shortly be up on Film Noix:

• Deconstructing Nevan - A op-ed piece in which I tear apart and ultimately exalt the man, the myth, the legend that is The City's Nevan Donahue. This will be full of juicy behind the scenes tidbits and is sure to be a crowd pleaser.
• Humboldt County - Yes, that's right, I actually saw a film. Surprising, I know. I have already written the bulk of it before I got distracted and never finished it. But it will be up soon, promise.
• I've also seen some other flicks if you can believe it, many of which coincidentally (?) star Seth Rogin so maybe I'll review one or all of these, and I also watched How To Lose Friends and Alienate People which is the "true story" about none other than our relentless little Top Chef troll, Toby Young, so I'll probably write that up.

And finally, as promised, some rewards for bothering to read this again ill-structured and self-aggrandizing post. You deserve it, you've been such good, good loyal readers:

First, I offer you my sacred photo with Chef Harold, the winner of Top Chef season 1. This photo serves to remind all you Top Chef fans of the laud, respect and glory that once accompanied the show's winners before the entire Top Chef empire fell from grace by crowning Hosea Top Chef and putting poor Padma in those horrid get ups! Behold: bask in the wonder of Chef Harold:

Next up, I give you my recipe for Hot Buttered Rum, a drink so magnificent, so delightfully dreamy and warm it almost makes you forget you're still six inches deep in an apparently unending winter. After repeated trips to Little Branch - an underground speakeasy in Tribeca - with Nora or Jonathan, I finally realized a) that Hot Buttered Rum is incredible, and b) that I couldn't justify paying or having someone else pay $13 for it. I had to look elsewhere. So I assembled many ingredients in my apartment and became experimenting. And now, presto, the product of my hard work is finished and has earned high praise like: "Better than Little Branch" - Nora Schaffer.

• 2 shots of spiced rum
• 1 tablespoon brown sugar
• 1 ounce butter (preferably salted)
• nutmeg (preferably freshly ground)
• hot water
• (You could also add cinnamon, which the above photo which I did not take imples)
  

Put your water on to boil. Now just throw the rum, brown sugar and butter into a large mug while you wait for the water to heat. When the water boils, pour it in. Stir the contents together while adding your nutmeg. Sip, enjoy, bliss out.

And lastly, I was going to post a Fleetwood Mac video, but though I love the music, the videos were whack, so instead I'm going with the old tried and true. Here's an amazing excerpt from 30 Rock. Enjoy!

Mendocino Murders

So on Valentine’s Day I was informed by my friend Clare of some sad and shocking news: John Nettles – who plays the shrewdly dapper Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby in Midsomer Murders – is leaving the show at the end of this season. For those of you who haven’t seen it but are fans of cozy British mysteries, Midsomer is simply the most guiltily delectable. For the past 12 years, Nettles and a delightfully incompetent, fish-out-of-water, city-savvy sidekick have been sweating it out in Midsomer – a quaint but inexplicably deadly county in which no less than 200 people have been murdered. As they plunder the depths of the county, they uncover wrongdoings – infidelity, blackmail, incest, you name it – as incongruous with the picturesque countryside as they are evil. Mixing cozy, granny-esque elements like book clubs and high tea with improbable and oft ridiculous murder is simply a divine combination and this show should truly not be missed.

So as the intelligent reader may have already concluded, I was crushed by the news that Nettles is planning on leaving. This is really pretty huge news to a diehard fan like me and while I wish him the best in his career, I spent the better part of V-day thinking that there was no way the show could go on without him. But now I’ve hatched a plan that, if followed out, will not only turn the lemons that blossomed when John told us this grievous news into lemonade but will perpetuate the brilliance of the show and give me a job as well!

So here’s the deal: As dedicated fans already know (yawn, old news), while DCI Barnaby has remained a constant character throughout the series, his sidekick has changed three times. The show started with the adorably inept Sergeant Troy – a cute, slightly wet behind the ears, darling who gave the show a sort of comic softness that Barnaby alone could not provide. While I was distraught when I learned that Troy left the show, I was surprised to discover that the show didn’t suck without him.

Phase 2 (Post Troy) featured a new sidekick – Sergeant Dan Scott – who, while not as bumbling as his predecessor, was equally loveable and even better looking. Phase two was a success!

While I haven’t progressed this far in my viewing of the show, I do know that in 2005, the tides again turned when Scott left the show and was replaced by DS Ben Jones. While I haven’t seen any of these episodes, I’m going to venture a guess that Phase 3 (Post Scott) still has had some of the glory of its two former phases.

Now, for Phase Four (Post Barnaby), I have an ingenious solution for what to do with the loss of Nettles. He should be replaced by me and Clare and the name of the show should be changed to Mendocino Murders.

This will successfully bring new life and scope to the enterprise, and provide me with a job amidst this abysmal economy. Mendocino Murders is something Clare and I have been discussing for ages, and once years ago we commissioned and starred in a highly controversial detective play in which Clare played the inspector and I the suspect. Thus, we have plenty of experience. I suggest Clare should be the main inspector (she’s British, so it will be a fitting homage to Midsomer even though the show will now be set in California), and I the sidekick, but we can work all of that out in pre-production.

Too Much of a Good Thing

The past 24 hours have been regrettable on so many levels, one of which being that I woke up at the ungodly early hour of 7 (I typically don’t rise before noon) only to find that in last night’s compromised state I had fallen asleep with my head flat on my keys. That’s not great. I’m not even sure how that’s possible.

So what did I do at this impious hour of the morn? I tried to fall back asleep. Those of you who know me are aware that I can readily fall asleep almost at the drop of a hat. I’ve been known to pass out in classes, movie theaters (habitually), or even at the dinner table (this was a problem when I fell asleep during the second course of my friend’s graduation dinner). But for some reason, this morning sleep just was not – and is not – coming.

It was during this foggy hour – head reeling, stomach turning, eyes bloodshot from the unfamiliar morning light – that I turned to my old friend, Arrested Development, in hopes it would lull me gently back into the pillowy folds of sleep. As I’ve already established, this did not happen; something else, something infinitely more tragic and regrettable happened. I discovered I can’t watch Arrested Development anymore.

I’ve killed it. And it was quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Discovering Arrested Development was like happening upon a secret group of best friends I never knew I had but who were mine and only mine. Nothing could come between us. They were always there when I needed them, waiting to make me laugh when I was having a bad day, or - as previously stated - soothing me into sleep when I needed to pass out. I mean, seriously, what other friend is that consistently there for you in a bind? (Other than a pet, which I am not allowed to have in my apartment.)

But now that my love affair with the Bluth family has been going on for years, and I’ve seen and re-seen every episode an embarrassing number of times (no, I won’t tell you how many), I find that I just can’t keep doing it anymore. It’s making me feel like I’m in a continuous cycle of humorous but demented depravity, and that’s not a good thing. And I feel bad turning my back on my old buddy, especially one that has given me so much: namely, someone to look up to and aspire to be like (Lucille Bluth), and monikers for my cats back in California (Buster and Lucille – I know, I did pick super names, thanks).

Granted, I have found new vices, new best friends – such as 30 Rock – but these Johnny-come-latelies will never replace or take away the beauty, the sheer brilliance, and phenomenal synergy which runs so abundantly in Arrested Development. Thus it makes me sad that while objectively I can still appreciate the miracle that is the show, I can no longer actively partake in it. And Arrested Development isn’t the first friend I’ve lost either – I also lost Clueless, the lunch specials from Thai Market, and the Bee Gees all from the same gluttonous overindulgence.

So I am issuing a warning. I must pace myself. As much as I love to passionately throw myself into things and embrace every inch of them, I must slow down. So I will be strictly moderating my 30 Rock intake from now on (if only that Alec Baldwin wasn’t such a gloriously wolf-like hunk), as well as perhaps my alcohol intake (even though I strive to live every day Like Lucille Bluth) to avoid more fates like sleeping on my keys or writing weird things on Kelly Rutherford’s IMDB message board as I did several days ago.

Things I Hate: Magnolia Bakery

Those of you who know me are aware that I am trying to turn over a new leaf by thinking more positively about life. This has been working out pretty well so far, but today I find myself in a black mood. While normally I would shake it off by telling myself “it’s not a big deal” or “relax” or “just go drink it off”, today I am reveling and even justifying this black mood. Here’s my rationale: I’m not being negative about my own life (I still think I’m pretty awesome) – I’m irritated by the unbelievable idiocy of many of those who surround me. Today has been one of those tiresome days when the remarkable stupidity and sheer lunacy of mankind seems to be drawn towards me like the proverbial moth to a flame making it ever more difficult to assume the best about my fellow man. While I won’t bore you with the more personal of these irksome occurrences, I will enlighten you with a morsel I think we New Yorkers can all relate to (and hopefully all detest): Magnolia Bakery and its lemming-like followers.

Today I was peacefully enjoying the glorious weather in the Village when I happened upon that undeservedly packed sham that is Magnolia Bakery. As per usual, there was a crowd that less resembled humans than farm animals wrapping well around the block. I say this not to sound unnecessarily harsh but because these people vapidly queue up like lambs to the slaughter only to be shamefully branded with one of those pathetic little cupcakes which they then parade around the neighborhood like doltish, empty-eyed prized heifers showing off their first place ribbons. It was a totally disgusting human spectacle, the sort that – like watching a trainwreck – I couldn’t stop watching. I also couldn’t resist shouting “Overrated” to hopefully deter a couple of people who perhaps didn’t realize how meretricious these cupcakes really are. But none were deterred.

I finally was forced to stop my bloodthirsty exclamations after Jonathan told me that I was “being a douche.” Though I really don’t care what any of those people thought, I did feel slightly guilty. It was then that I decided to take my protest from the oral to the global realm via my blog. This way more people can read, understand and hopefully agree with my detestation of Magnolia Bakery.

My reason for hating Magnolia are twofold:

1. 1. This is largely personal reason and isn’t a valid argument, but I think cupcakes suck. I don’t eat sweets at all really, but the reason isn’t because of the massive and repulsive amount of empty calories, but because I don’t like the way they make me feel. The only time I change my tune is when something really wonderful, delectable and rare is brought before me. Give me a piece of fattening, gourmet cheesecake, or a handmade chocolate ganache, and I’ll happily and guiltlessly indulge. But for the life of me I can’t understand the trend of stuffing one’s face with sub-par sweets. Things like Tasty Delight just baffle me because if you are going to eat something sugary (which in my opinion should be rarely), then do it right. Go for the good stuff, don’t eat mediocre shiz on a regular basis. And in my opinion, Magnolia cupcakes qualify as strongly mediocre. So next time you are going to grab a cupcake, look elsewhere – not only are Maggys 389 calories each, but they taste lame and aren’t really all that cheap!
2. 2. The other reason is the hype. I hate hate hate when things are popular only because of media attention. We all know how the media can be responsible for spurning misinformed, generalized beliefs; one such culprit is SNL. Before the election, the show helped solidify a mass impression of Sarah Palin as dense and grossly irresponsible, which – while she clearly was – may have influenced voters who had no other basis of knowledge about Palin to vote against her. While it was people – not the media – who were responsible for electing Obama (thank God!), I don’t know how I feel about celebrity and media endorsements of such issues even if they do selfishly benefit my particular agenda. By the same token, SNL (along with that dastardly Sex and the City) helped plug Magnolia Bakery in its skit “Lazy Sunday,” contributing to the public’s unquestioning and fervent frequenting of the shop.

I urge you to be personally responsible for your own actions; thus, if you truly like cupcakes and think Maggys is actually the best, then fine. Go there. But otherwise, you owe it to your body and your soul as a not-completely-optionless consumer to go elsewhere in search for a fix of your sweet teeth!

Aaahh!!! Real Monsters

Evidently my wicked ways have caught up with me for today I clearly evoked the wrath of some entirely mirthless god. I warn you, stop reading right now if you don’t want to relive the horrific, skin-crawling, nausea-inducing wretchedness of what occurred on this fateful, woebegone and cursed day.

The day started out fine enough. I awoke a bit hungover but blissfully unaware of the terror that lurked irrevocably around the metaphorical corner of my day. Still couched in the sleepy ignorance of the as-yet-untainted morning, I caught an F train and went back to my apartment. From there I puttered around for a bit (being lazily unemployed, I do quite a bit of puttering), perhaps whistling a few bars of one jaunty tune or another, still with no ominous feelings for what was to come. Then it happened: like the idiot who opened Pandora’s box, I moved my dresser and just like that my nightmare scuttled – literally – into reality.

It was a centipede of vile and epic proportions. It had a plethora of all too vivid sinewy, long legs and these absolutely disgusting weird feeler-antennae things emerging on both ends of its grotesquely lengthy body, giving the impression that it had two heads. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I googled “disgusting insect with long legs” and it came right up because I guess I’m not the only one who has been stirred into a tizzy by these little monsters. Someone under the alias of 3verlasting Hero even said in an off-topic video game forum that the centipede is one of the the two "scariest loking bug/animal[s] in the world" and I couldn't agree more. I took this picture amidst my freakout:

It was a fast little sucker too and so entrancing in its abhorrent disgustingness as it crawled out from behind the dresser that for a full 20 or so minutes I just stared at it not knowing what to do. Then rational thought finally intruded upon my still hypnotized mind. I decided it had to be either taken outside or killed. I tried to get a cup and piece of paper to trap it, but the thought of getting close enough to trap it was way to scary so I quickly abandoned that idea. Then I picked up a book and thought of squashing it, but – though I stood poised with book in hand for many a minute – I could not bring myself to do it. My reasons were two-fold: I really didn’t want to imagine the icky squishing sensation that would occur were I to fling the book at the mischievous devil, and additionally, I was so mesmerized by its profound, multi-legged ugliness that I halfway respected it.

So I did the third best thing, which was call my parents to ask them what to do in my time of crisis. Let me tell you now, they were entirely unsympathetic and I hope they read this. They told me I was being silly and my dad mocked me with his oft-invoked, shaming saying: “And you still think you’d be a good contestant on Survivor? You wouldn’t last a day out there!” He then chided me for waking him up so early in the morning (3 hours earlier California time) and hung up on me.

Somewhere during their onslaught of disgust at my wimpiness, the creature in question disappeared. One second it was on the ceiling, the next it was gone without a trace – it could have been anywhere! Driven near insane by the paranoid sensation that it was everywhere on my body all at once, I ran into my roommate’s room and hid there debating what to do. I couldn’t call one of my chivalrous, brave friends asking them to rescue me because most of them were at work, so I called my fellow unemployed friend Zander and asked him to talk me down from my highly distressed state. He was a total pro and was much more understanding than the rents, let me say. Finally we decided that the best course of action was a defensive one: escape! It was clear that – like Harry and Voldemort – neither the insect nor I could exist while the other survived. So I threw on a random assortment of clothes and ran from the house and was gone all day. I have only just returned now, and I’m still shaking in my mini-boots. I’m sure he/she is lurking in my bedding or in one of my drawers just waiting to send me into another state of apoplectic terror. Centipede be warned, you are messing with someone who next time may actually work up the courage to throw a book at you, or at least get someone more brave to do it for her. Either way, its war.

I Drank the Blogger Kool-Ade

It was just a few short years ago when I took a sacred, moral oath never to become one of the pretentious, self-absorbed windbags who inflict their oft-moronic, miniscule ideas upon the masses via blogging. And now look at me! So what, you ask, has led to this massive break in my convictions, this Benedict Arnold act of personal treason? Have I changed my opinion on blogs, or decided to attempt an oxymoronically non-pretentious one? No and no! I still feel that most blogs are frivolous wastes of time and cannot promise that mine will be any different. The reason for breaking my own moral code and jumping on the blog bandwagon is simple – I'm bored. And my morals were never that strong in the first place.

Having perhaps said too much already, salutations and welcome to my blog! On the off chance that you are not personally acquainted with me, I shall provide some very brief but delightful choice tidbits about myself. I am an inveterate cinephile, music obsessee, carouser, over-opinionated TV watcher, shower singer, knitter, whiner and a drunk. And - as I am currently a gainfully unemployed scourge upon my family and humanity at large - I have dangerously large amounts of time on my hands. Thus, the blog!

Apologies for the affected blog title. For those sadly not versed in French I shall elucidate: en français, noix means nut, thus the title is jointly referencing my own status as a film nut, and the 1940’s genre of film noir of which I am fond. I ran the title by my dear friend Zander over at Zandervision and he decried it a mite pretentious, though exclaimed that our demigod ex-professor Andrew Sarris (who, for lack of any other worthy photo candidates, is pictured above) would be proud of my clever witticism. As the title gently hints, the blog will pertain to film. Truly though, I intend to write about anything that strikes my fancy. I am opinionated to a fault, and therefore intend for this blog to be a place for me to air my various thoughts, no matter how trivial or asinine. Reader beware! This blog – like so many blogs before it – will be insufferably inconsequential, self-absorbed and probably hideously uninteresting. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.