The songs themselves (musical themes self written by a self deluded reality TV semi-star for self conceived programs he would star in)? CONCEPTUAL GENIUS!
“When you want to learn the mysteries of how things work
Weather, the planets, the whole universe.
Tune into the show, that's really effective
Watch Richard Heene – Science Detective!”
The fact that this is somebody's real dad? Just depressing.
The organization itself is a grand one – both for the people it helps and the affordable treasures one can find there. However, the particular location right off the Bedford Avenue L train leaves something to be desired. I donated bags and bags full of clothing and books when we moved to our new apartment, but a more recent incident leads me to want to admonish anyone considering making a purchase from this particular branch.
It was a crisp autumn evening and it was unusual to see so many people crowded outside the front window of the shuttered shop. Curious as to what they were looking at, we wedged ourselves in to have a look. What did we see? A huge pack of huge rats rummaging through a pile of clothes pressed up against the other side of the glass. It was some serious Stephen King stuff and still makes me shiver to think of it.
It's really unlike me (and admittedly unfair) to condemn a place that I have not been to myself, but the aura surrounding Brooklyn Bowl leaves me uneasy. Actual threatening and muscle-bound door men, velvet ropes, a line of parked Escalades with yellow license plates crowding Wyeth, overpriced bowling and shoe rental and all the hype surrounding its long awaited opening deliver a singular message to us locals: this place is not for you, it's for assholes that read about it on Urban Daddy.
Even a sure to be excellent menu from the people of Blue Ribbon has yet to get me past the idea of a velvet rope… but a friend of ours did attend a recent DJ Spooky iPhone App Launch Party; let me repeat that: a DJ Spooky iPhone App Launch Party.
Some day I might bring myself to try the place out, all prejudices aside during their happy hour, and if, at that time, I find out that I'm wrong and the place is a secret shining destination of non-obnoxious good times, I promise to write a glowing review and apologize.
Sure, I loved Fifteen; it was no Swan's Crossing or Degrassi, but is was excellent as far as teen stereotype driven melodramas go… I loved watching the sagas of Matt, torn between basketball and alcohol; his girlfriend Ashley (Laura Harris of my husband's dearly missed Women's Murder Club), who spoke as if she were on the verge of tears all the time; total bitch Brooke, hell bent on destroying the happiness of others; and Dylan, the cool guy with the leather jacket and the serious attitude… but that pig-faced little kid Billy Simpson, he was never my favorite.
Years later, that pig-faced kid is a pig-faced man, only now he's Van Wilder, and women are in love with his hunky body. Sure, he might be one of Hollywood's most commercially viable leading men (he was fine in Adventureland) and married to the gorgeous Scar Jo, but he'll always be Billy Simpson to me and, even worse, he reminds me too much of Dane Cook in the face to qualify as a hunk.
I actually feel kind of guilty disparaging someone who doesn't seem all that bad… I'm sure he's a nice person(?), but I simply cannot abide his status as a hunk.
Some things (sadly) are just meant to be fried. While someone somewhere I'm sure has been able to achieve the golden crispness that I always see in photos of baked 'fried' chicken recipes, it won't be with this particular recipe.
I made this for friends, and while the chicken itself was moist (the only complimentary thing that could be said), it looked like I had found some paste and half-heartedly tried to spread it across a plain, bland chicken breast with my finger. The guests were polite, and I've since redeemed myself with some awesome chili.
This is a truly heartbreaking story. Once, not too long ago, a miraculous thing happened – an ugly menu for a pizza joint called Vinnie Vella's (adorned with an illustration that practically begged for low expectations) arrived on our doorstep and, surprisingly enough, their 'Grandma's Pie' (fresh ingredients atop a perfectly thin/thick crust) turned out to be absolutely delicious. Furthermore, VV's actually delivered to our neighborhood (I'll never forgive you for forsaking Greenpoint, Fornino).
Then one day we called up (the number was actually in Jim's phone – no longer) and ordered the usual. The place had a different name, but they assured us the menu was the same; we had no idea to what degree our lives were about the change for the worse. The delivery was late, we were starving, but what was in the box – ugh – we couldn't even bring ourselves to try more than half a slice each.
Nice job La Bella Mariella II, you ruined a beautiful thing with your gloppy cheap cheese and overly sweet canned tomato sauce you try to pass off as belonging on a pizza (PS: the photos on their site are totally inaccurate). I'm truly ashamed to admit it, but we actually threw away almost an entire pizza.
You will never be forgiven and I hope you perish the way of Better Fellas (the short lived shop that set up in the same location between Vinnie Vella's and Bella Mariella II).
Souen is really lucky, by the way, that I was so crushed by this pizza shop debacle and spared them the wrath of a lengthy tirade because their vegan dirt food made me sad while I was eating it and mad to be paying obscene amounts for it.
How could I resist this ice cream cone cupcake from Penny Licks? It's adorable. But, it was also terrible. Every part of it, even the sprinkles, tasted old and stale and flavorless. It was unconscionable.
It's a painful thing to have gone through, watching The Doom Generation, and every time I'm reminded of it, whether by seeing that dumb looking kid's face or hearing the words Gregg Araki, it's like a flair up of agony. Come to think of it, not unlike the sensation one might experience living with a chronic STD.
This indie road trip to hell sits comfortably atop my mental list of the worst movies I have ever seen; even watching seconds-long clips on You Tube is supremely irritating and infuriating.
While I don't assume too many people are in queue to re-watch this piece of trash from a decade that brought us so many fulfilling edgy indies, I still feel obligated to warn you dear readers about its evil ways.
I'm reaching deep into the archives of terrible films because I was really good to myself this year and saw none of the movies topping early worst-of-2009 lists (no Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen for me) but I would like to bring up a few dishonorable mentions: like the fact that Jason Segel really creeped me out in bad ways in I Love You, Man and my friend Mike's prediction of what might truly be the worst film of 2009. It stars something called Travolta Williams.