WONDERING. WANDERING. WHATEVERING.
“When you read the list of Trump’s purported lies, they are absolutely incredible. His claims aren’t just false; they’re transparently, incandescently stupid. This was not a sophisticated effort to overturn the election. It was a shotgun blast of obvious falsehoods.” — David French, The New York Times
Bullseye.
If you haven’t watched “Hot Ones,” you have to watch “Hot Ones.”
A blazing and blistering (literally) plunge into bar-food sadomasochism, the long-running YouTube show is a micro-budget showcase for today’s brightest stars to brave the burn of some of the cruelest hot sauces known to sear the flesh off your tongue. If you want to see A-list actors and musicians writhe in their most tortured, vulnerable, teary-eyed human condition — with extra-spicy schadenfreude drizzled on top — this show’s for … well, all of us.
It goes like this: Hello, Superstar. Now, as we chat, bite into that sauce-daubed wing. Chew. Squint. Fan your mouth. Weep. Curse. Cough. Choke. Guzzle ice water. Go on about how you can’t feel your mouth. Cough some more. Bite. Chew. Cry. Tell the host he’s a son of a bitch, or worse, for subjecting you to this.
The celebs, always great sports, do this while answering smart, probing questions about their life, work and latest projects from the host, who has diligently done his homework about their past and present. And who clearly has callouses on his tongue, for he rarely even sniffles at the nuclear scorch of sauces with names like “The Spicy Shark” and the annihilating “Da’ Bomb Beyond Insanity.”
The setup: Host Sean Evans, bald, beaming and boyish, invites a celebrity guest to nibble hot wings with him and engage in a very casual interview. They sit at hightop tables, with chicken wings and a row of 10 hot sauce bottles aligned in order of lethal heat. Guests — who’ve included Dave Grohl, Jennifer Lawrence, Jake Gyllenhaal, Cate Blanchett, Colin Farrell, Margot Robbie, Billie Eilish and heaps more — may seem calm, but their trepidation from watching prior episodes of three-alarm distress bleeds through.
But on they go, biting hotter and hotter wings until they can barely take it anymore. They try to laugh it off as snot, spit and tears involuntarily spray from taxed orifices. Meanwhile, a composed Sean, he of the steel maw, keeps asking them questions. (“The show with hot questions and even hotter wings,” goes the tagline.)
That’s when many of our sweet superstars shred their chaste public personas and begin cussing at him for putting them through the gauntlet of fire. Sean chuckles apologetically, but not too apologetically. Tissues, milk, ice water are the guests’ paltry balms. Such mortal salves can only do so much. Chef Gordon Ramsay, crimson-faced, spluttered 128 expletives as he burned in “Hot Ones” hell. The show is about 24 minutes.
This makes for excellent lowbrow comedy. I don’t know why, but watching Gal Godot (“Wonder Woman”) do a magnificent spit-take while trying to douse the flames in her mouth is strangely funny. So is seeing Shaquille O’Neal gargling a gallon of milk and begging for “ice cube ChapStick.” Or Charlize Theron, clearly suffering, saying, “I like spice, but this is like somebody being an asshole.”
It’s a contest of will. And pain thresholds. And stamina. And sweat. And good humor. And, really, just why-the-hell-not fun.
Celebrities, those paragons of poise, in (harmless) agony. Bliss.
Feel the burn here.
Bonus track: A highlight reel of guests frothing at the host for setting them on fire, here.
Small talk with your various professionals, be it a masseuse or barista, is standard social glue. I gab with my barber extensively about world travel, for instance, swapping tales of our latest journeys to pass the otherwise awkward time. It’s chop and chat. (Most guys at the barbershop jaw about sports. Tedium crystallized.)
Things are different with your doctor, unless it’s with your therapist, where talk isn’t cheap but it is profuse. With medical doctors small talk is spotty, because the climate is so clenched, so clinical. For one, they always seem to be in a tizzy, a nerve-wracking rush. Two, it’s hard to shoot the breeze when they’re asking you to turn your head and cough.
I had the biannual appointment with my primary care physician the other day, and I came away thinking how cool he is. After prattle about my prostate, gab about my gall bladder, and talk of a tetanus booster, he eyed my t-shirt and said, “That’s a great studio.” I had to look down to remember I was wearing my A24 shirt that looks like this:
A24, if you’re wondering, is the hot indie film distributor right now. The boutique shop — which (shockingly) scored a Best Picture Oscar this year with “Everything Everywhere All At Once” — is a mighty machine, celebrating 11 years in the biz with brazen and peculiar taste. Ambitiously art-oriented, A24 pushes cult films that garner lavish critical kudos and discerning viewing audiences.
Movies like: “Ex Machina,” “Midsommar,” “Hereditary,” “Uncut Gems,” “The Tragedy of Macbeth,” “Aftersun,” “The Florida Project,” “Talk to Me” and more.
And TV shows like: “Euphoria,” “Beef,” “The Idol,” “Ramy,” “Irma Vep,” “Ziwe” and more.
The good doc and I fell into a spontaneous groove, both of us animated by the splendor that is A24. We agreed that the ending of “The Witch” was spectacular and the ending of “Midsommar” sputtered.
His favorite A24 movie is “The Lighthouse,” with Robert Pattinson and Willem Dafoe, and he loves “The Whale,” which snagged Brendan Fraser a Best Actor Oscar. I told him I like “The Witch” more than the mind-boink of “The Lighthouse,” both films directed by visionary wunderkind Robert Eggers. He was okay with that. He just nodded, knowingly.
So, yeah, A24 is badass. Dr. So and So digs it. I dig it. But I guess the point is me and my professional — a guy who actually used a stethoscope on me — forged a small connection. Everyone likes movies, and most everyone can chat them up. This, however, was specific, downright micro. It was like talking about a tiny kebab kiosk in the slimmest side streets of Istanbul that only the savviest tourist would know about.
And then reality barged in. Suddenly, the nurse entered and jabbed me with a tetanus shot, and my fellow A24 fan was gone, vanished in the weird smelling ether of the doctor’s office.
Fade to black. Roll credits. We’ll always have “The Witch.”
1. Even through my teens, my two grandmas, bless their long-dead hearts, called me Chrissy, and I didn’t mind a bit (unless it was in front of my friends, then I turned a scorching shade of fuck me). Today, one of my best friends, an unassailable lady in Texas, occasionally calls me Chrissy or even Chrissy Poo in endearing texts. Born Christopher, I’ve always gone by Chris, but that’s a unisex name, and for those of you with monikers like Jamie, Terry, Jessie, Charlie, etc., you know it can get sticky. Sometimes at my newspaper gigs, I’d get hate mail addressed “Dear Sir or Madam.” But that was rare. Readers could pretty much tell I was a guy, because my reviews often had an acid tang, a little banner that said: dick. Two of my favorite names for girls are Samantha and Alexis, which of course become Sam and Alex. I almost named a pet rat Samantha. When my sister-in-law calls the dog my way, she’ll chirp, “Go see Chrissy!” I don’t blush. I kind of like it. If it’s good enough for old Cubby, it’s good enough for me.
2.If I got a bunch of dogs, these are some of the names I would give them: Bongo, Mamet, Alvy, Corn Pop, Gatsby, Heddy, Akira, Brando, Phoebe, Takeshi, Willa, Uncle Johnny, J.D. and, my favorite, Kaboom. I don’t think a single one of the dogs would be pleased with me. Too bad. That’s just for starters. (Growing up we had a little black poodle named Itai, which is Japanese for “ouch.” Just think how he felt.)
3.I just retired my 2-year-old Apple AirPods — the first generation earbuds that pop out of your head when you sneeze — and replaced them with snuggier AirPods Pro: 2nd Generation, and I made a vital sonic discovery. It’s one that many of you probably already know (this Luddite lags in the world of aural ecstasy). And that’s that the pods furnish remarkably better sound quality when used for movies and videos than plain Apple Music tunes. I do my listening on a MacBook Air, be it music, podcasts, YouTube or films. I’ve watched three movies with the new pods (including the enthralling if baffling “Arrival,” a film that pushes me even closer to hating sci-fi) and the audio excellence — sumptuous, immersive, surround-soundy — has me giddy. Even a 1950s Billy Wilder flick cranked out sound like I was in a fine, classic movie theater that actually gave a spit about its presentation. Power to the pods.
4.I once worked with a masterly, natural-born writer named Michael Corcoran, who was the newsroom’s resident curmudgeon, bristling maverick and trenchant culture critic. Now retired, the award-winning scribe, who’s also a friend, maintains a beguiling blog whose lead entry is as incisive as it is infamous, a biting takedown of his hometown Austin, TX, titled “Welcome to Mediocre, Texas.”
“Only the mediocre are always at their best, someone said, which could be why Austin is so damn proud of itself,” Corcoran begins, and continues:
“There are two cities in the U.S. that truly matter: New York and L.A. Everywhere else is bullshit. Austin is cool and fun and artistic and — most importantly, easy — but that doesn’t make it a great city. The things that make a town a city — rapid transit, a great art museum, Chinatown, pro sports — Austin is without. We’ve got L.A.’s traffic, but no one who can greenlight a project bigger than a Chili’s commercial.”
Read the full rant HERE, especially if you’re reflexively enamored with Central Texas’ ego-tropolis, which a visitor I know once compared to Sacramento and Stockton.
My wrists are boldly bare of beads, bands or bangles. I haven’t worn a watch in too many years to count. Bracelets, even the hippie/friendship kind, are no longer my style. And it’s alien when they snap on those paper wristbands at concerts and parties; I suddenly feel over-accessorized, or worse, like an inpatient.
In my early world travels, I would sport a cheap little watch (a Casio, I think) before I owned a cell phone. Prior to that, I wore nothing on my wrists, unless you count the spiked leather bands we’d strap on as teens at metal shows, and I’d rather not.
The other day, however, I was transfixed by a banner ad for a watch. Granted, it was for an aggressively blue Swatch, which I knew I wouldn’t pursue, but it unfurled a vista I haven’t taken in for a very long time. A watch. How novel. I mused: Is it, um, time?
I suddenly became perversely excited for something as dully utilitarian as a … wristwatch. Like the time I just had to have this pair of Italian sneakers, or got an irrational urge to go to China (which I did, and I’m glad). Every once in a while, I can get almost maniacally materialistic: I must have that — now! And so, quite obsessively, I plunged into the world of watches.
Down the rabbit hole I went, heedless, with fierce attention to fashion and function, while avoiding the bejeweled Omega and Rolex price brackets (rackets), as well as over-compensating smartwatches. With watches, I’m strictly a dilettante, not Flavor Flav. A couple hundred bucks, tops, maybe a mite more. And hold the bells and whistles. I’m also not an astronaut.
After some initial scouring of mostly lame watches, including a bizarre glut of Snoopy timepieces, I spotted a handsome Timex, black brushed metal with a brown leather strap, at upscale men’s fashion outlet Todd Snyder. The piece is sporty, hip, sleek.
I bought it. I got it. It failed.
I have spectacularly small wrists, roughly the circumference of kindling, and the 41mm watch face looked like a Chips Ahoy! cookie on my arm. Mammoth. It made me sad (and hungry).
Lesson learned — hopes burned — I began searching for 36mm to 38mm sizes, anything that wouldn’t look like a hubcap on my wrist. But these sizes are relatively scarce, so I couldn’t be picky. Yet I was coming across butt-fugly contraptions barnacled with dials and buttons and faces so complex, night vision goggles are required. I wasn’t joining the Navy Seals.
And then, there it was. A classically simple, elegantly plain analog watch, subtle and smallish, with a handsome olive green face and gold hands and digits and a tasteful black strap. It’s also a Timex, released in collaboration with Todd Snyder, an exclusive limited edition, and thus a few more dollars than I wanted to spend. It’s on its way as I type this. It better kill.
The hours spent shopping for a watch were exhausting and preposterous, and I only found two I liked. But shopping is a contact sport — mean, raw, intense. Be it looking for a Honda or a house, you scour and winnow and balance a mountain of variables (unless you’re shopping for a loaf of bread, say, and then the drama drops significantly). It can be arduous, but it’s also fun, because buying stuff is fun. I think this new toy will fit the bill. Just watch.
1.One of my least favorite things in the world, after e-scooters and ravers, is sweating. Which means I am not a happy fellow. Why? Right. Because I am sweating. And rather a lot, swamp-ass and all. Somehow I thought it’d be a swell idea to take a brisk walk in the 92-degree blech of midsummer. The light sweat I produced outside — a mere film — quickly metastasized into a profuse drenching once inside. Forty minutes later, in powerful AC, it has yet to subside. How bad is it? The dog is licking me avidly, like I’m a giant piece of beef jerky.
2.House of Terror — how kicky is that for the name of a major tourist attraction? It’s real, and it’s not a ride at your local carnival. This daunting museum is in Budapest, where I head this fall, and it isn’t about ghouls and goblins. Or, well, it sort of is. Per its description: “It contains exhibits related to the fascist and communist regimes in 20th-century Hungary and is also a memorial to the victims of these regimes, including those detained, interrogated, tortured or killed in the building.” History writ large. And horrible. I’m so there, with solemn intentions, despite the thrilling name.
3.Just finished Paul Harding’s newish novel “This Other Eden” on the dazzling strength of his first book, the 2009 Pulitzer Prize-winning “Tinkers,” which is uniquely mesmerizing. “Eden” limns Black American history in its many facets, including, troublingly, eugenics. Harding is an uncompromising stylist, forging gorgeous, gem-cut prose that’s sometimes too infatuated with itself, yet nevertheless tells a fascinating story. Harding writes like few others — Cormac McCarthy and Faulkner come to mind — but he can stumble on his own lush verbiage. He is a flawed master.
4.The new documentary about massive but short-lived Brit pop duo Wham! — aptly titled “Wham!” — is out on Netflix, and the trailer promises a bubbly, bubblegummy, bing-bang time (“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” anyone?). The movie, a giddy romp directed by crack documentarian Chris Smith, isn’t, alas, as brawny as frontman George Michael’s uncrackable Aqua Net helmet. It’s strictly for googly-eyed fans who can’t be bothered with pop music history, laser-focusing on bandmates’ Michael and Andrew Ridgeley’s frolicsome BFF status and their improbable rise from cheesy teen wannabes to slick arena-fillers. Critically missing in this narrow nostalgia trip is cultural context, as if Wham! exploded in an ‘80s vacuum, with little competition and no help from juggernauts like MTV. And it doesn’t even footnote Michael’s untimely, and seismic, death as a solo artist. Wham! Bam! Thud.
5. Speaking of the dog (see #1), Cubby was recently shorn like a poor gray sheep, which I documented here. The good news: his hair is growing back in the summer swelter. He no longer resembles a fuzzy Pringles can — he’s not so tubular — and he’s stopped nipping the parts that were so short, pink flesh was exposed. He’s returning to his bushy self, and his attitude is boinging back — a little cocky, vain with a scruffy bedhead sheen, and as fierce around the UPS folk as one can be behind a closed door. His yawps and barks still shatter glassware, but that’s OK. Pretty soon he’s going to look like Slash again and the process will start all over. Our little lamb chop.
6.Then there’s this: I was strolling in the summer heat (see #1 again) and some shitty beat-up compact sedan roared past me, easily doing 50 to 60 in a residential 25 zone. Startled (and pissed), I yelled, “Slow down!” The driver flipped me off and I reflexively returned the gesture. He barreled into oblivion. Then I thought: Smart. That’s a good way to get yourself killed. Jackass might have a gun, might want to turn around and use it. Sweating like a madman, I kept walking, ruffled, looking at the world in a slightly different shade.
And so, just back from Scotland — beautiful, bracing, beer-soaked and brogue-y — I do what I always do when I return from a hearty journey: immediately plan the next one, high on the fumes of the one just completed. Travel intoxication: a hazard of the unquenchable wanderer.
Friends obligatorily ask: “How was it?”
And I fan away the question with this impertinent question: “Where to now?”
My quasi-ADD manifests as a cockeyed restlessness that makes me want to pack my suitcase about six times a day, even if I’m not going anywhere for months. I consider what mini toothpaste I should take, how many extra razors, what and how many pairs of socks I’ll need. I’m certifiable, but goddam I’m efficient.
When it comes time to actually pack for a weeklong trip, I can do it in 30 seconds flat. (I’m like Robert De Niro in the movie “Heat,” and if you get that reference I’m sending you a Christmas card.)
I’ve been spending an unhealthy amount of time eyeing my scuffed carry-on suitcase since I returned from Scotland. That’s because within two days of the return, I knew where I was going this fall, something I figured out with a kind of crazed alacrity.
First I narrowed it down to places I haven’t been to. That list is endless, sorrily. Then I did some math ($$) and realized it would have to be some time down the line, and not excessively exotic.
And so, a place I’ve never been but have almost gone to: Budapest. Which I figure is good for four days. To fill a week, I chose a second Eastern Bloc location, Krakow, the medieval Polish city that knocked me out so many years ago. Late October is the date, Eastern Europe is the place, borscht and pierogis are the plates.
Like so much of the world, a historical shadow, a practical pall, hangs over Hungary and Poland. So there will be much about soul-crushing Communism, the collective Jewish plight, the Holocaust — Auschwitz-Birkenau is just outside of Krakow (I’ve been, and I’m going back) — not to mention the abhorrent intolerances harbored by the current leaders of both nations, which echo America’s far-right reprobates. Travel is exploration and edification. I’ll provide a full report on any evident ugliness.
As far as mapping my journey, I’m (surprise, ha) frenzied. I have a bulging itinerary with wriggle room for spontaneity. Flights are booked, restaurants reserved, tours scheduled, free time sketched out, etc.
Four months out and my brain is abuzz. So much so that I’m already scoping the trip after this for sometime in February. (I won’t tell you, but I’ll give you a hint: It’s near Italy and it starts with Sicily.)
“Go singing whirling into the glory of being ecstatically simple.”
— Excerpt from the poem “Path” by Jack Hirschman
Cubby the dog got a haircut the other day. Told to shave him short, the groomers had a field day. Short. Sure!
Three days ago Cubby was a walking haystack, a fluffy-cheeked Ewok, one of those stray dogs that takes gardening shears and chainsaws to clean up. The goofy part-Schnauzer mutt, a bounding gray Germanic furball, was ready for a summer trim.
And there you go.
Cubby came trotting out from the grooming, mildly disoriented, half-damp, and … ha! What do we have here, little rat-dog creature? Oh, yes. Short. Short. His curls are gone and swaths of his torso are pink, so shorn is the fur. He’s a baby chick, a Peeps.
And how we’re having fun with it. (Sorry, Cubs.)
A friend was visibly shocked by Cubby’s new haircut. “Cubby! You shrunk! You’re bald!,” she gasped. I told her that he caught on fire. She almost cried.
Someone long-distance asked what the little guy looked like. My brother aptly put it, “Imagine a sausage, a scrotum, a seal and an otter mixed together.”
At least for me, haircuts are traumatic events, so I feel for the fella. To his credit, Cubby hardly seems to notice. Occasionally he’ll scratch or furiously lick those pink areas, but otherwise he seems to think he’s quite the catch, thin and svelte and groovy.
And when I give him a fair assessment, I have to nod and say, “Yep.”
“Why do humans have to celebrate goddam everything? Why is a funeral a ‘celebration of life’? Why are gloomy priests ‘celebrants’? Why are celebrities ‘celebrities’? What is it about people?” — Richard Ford, from the novel “Be Mine”
GNASHING. 