Thursday, August 24, 2006

Baa Ram Ewe.

In 1994, I went to visit my cousin Katie in a posh suburb of Pittsburgh. I had never been on a plane before and I had never been west of Hershey Park. It was insanely intimidating, and on the morning of my sky-high debut, I felt a tickle in my throat and was slightly feverish. Jeffrey Grimshaw said I was nervous because I was going to live with relatives for a week in a gross city. When we got to the airport, I was feeling worse. The fever had definitely gone up and my sinuses were starting to get clogged. Still, Jeffrey Grimshaw remained nonplussed and practically pushed me into the plane. "Your cousin misses you and would be very upset if you didn't go. Oh! Don't put Big Bear in your bag - that's how Aunt Julie's going to recognize you." A normal 9-year-old would have been embarrassed at the prospect of flashing a decrepit teddy in the busy terminal of Pittsburgh International Airport, but I was not a normal child. And in my quasi-defense, my high temperature and disease had invaded my soul by the time we arrived in Philadelphia for my one-hour flight, and I would have carried a pile of my own feces off the plane if my father had told me it would help my relatives identify me in a crowd of people. The ride to Pittsburgh was mostly uneventful, though the sickness and awareness of said sickness was enough to taint any enjoyment I would have gotten from oogling the Liberty Bell at 30,000 feet. My one source of amusement was watching the drunkard next to me swill down Bloody Marys. He had four before we touched down in Pittsburgh.

By the time I staggered off the plane, I had a full-blown fever and must have looked like Marlon Brando circa July 1, 2004. The reactions on my relatives' faces were pretty predictable - mild elation at recognizing the stuffed orsine creature in my hands and then immediate revulsion at the rivulets of sweat coursing down my face. After eating six chicken nuggets at the Roy Rogers in the terminal and promptly vomiting them back up, I was bed-ridden for two days while various members of the family peered in to check on me nervously. By day three, I was back to my sprightly self and managed to engrain disturbing Emma-related images into the heads of my cousins for all time. To this day, my cousin Katie (who subtly keeps her distance from me - no one has argued that intelligence does not run on that side of the family) claims I hid in boxes and did various other creepy things during that week that solidified my reputation at a frighteningly early age. Why did I bring this up...oh, because I've been thinking about the pomegranate lamb I'm making for the Emmys on Sunday, and that got me thinking of the lambs in "Babe," and when I was in Pittsburgh, I saw that masterpiece in theaters.

This was taken from the making of documentary.

In other news, Lorne Michaels finally called me back and agreed that Kenan Thompson never should have had a career. I can't imagine someone watching the star of GOOD BURGER thinking that anything he did on SNL was even remotely amusing. Even when I was prepubescent and thought Nickelodeon's "All That" was fiendishly clever, I never thought that bloated tick was funny. The fact that there must have been several dozen people making more money than me who thought that this guy was worthy of being on the same stage as Amy Poehler is a CRIME. A CRIME.

You are INSUFFERABLE. And you look like the black Horace from Dr. Quinn. He was the telegraph operator.

Dear Netflix, thank you for bringing this cross-eyed chap back into my life.

Does anyone want to go see "The Illusionist" this weekend with me and Drunk Erin? If you do...there's a legit chance you will be mentioned in the blog movie review.


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