When NBC pulled the “Fuck You” lever on their evening schedule and gave away the 10 pm time slot to Jay Leno, we lost a good show, Southland. It starred our favourite O.C. kid from the wrong side of the tracks (Eat it Seldon!) as a rookie cop in Los Angeles paired up with a “Hey I know that guy” actor and a really great ensemble cast (C. Thomas Howell FTW!), and had the best opening credits this side of Dexter. But, as NBC loves to do (Hello Friday Night Lights!) they left a great show unattended in the back yard until thankfully a kindly cable network adopted it and raised it as their own. (Thanks TNT!) The few new episodes that have aired keep pace with what we saw originally – a well-paced, well-written cop show that won’t ever displace The Wire or Homicide from the DVD shelf in my heart, but are good enough to PVR and recommend to my six readers. ( A most honourable mention for greatest thing seen this week goes to: Zach Galifianakis’ entrance into the “What Up With That” skit on SNL. The cream jumpsuit, horizontal flute hookup, wig and dance made me laugh so unexpectedly hard I made a noise I’d never heard before, and wiped away tears for like five minutes.)
On Wednesday night I was woken up by a smell. How very curious, I thought. To be awoken out of a deep sleep by just an aroma. Well, when it smells like seven skunks have exploded centimeters from your face, suddenly the comfort of sleep is fume-lasered far away. I checked outside for the sign of an upcoming skunk-pocalypse, then resorted to slathering Vicks VapoRub all over my throat. Folks, not even the menthol stranglehold could cover the diesel engine assplosion smell of that effing varmint somewhere outside. If this smell could slink its way in through closed windows and actually jar me awake, I guess only a gas mask would have been sufficient. On the other side of the smell rainbow, I got some really cheap no-name dryer sheets from Super Walmart and every time I open the door to the laundry room, they chirp a little “Hello!’ and I breathe in with a smile and wink back at them.
Best thing I heard all week – Conan is coming to Vancouver! I guess waiting for those four seconds for ticketmaster to load was me just being lazy because I couldn’t get the cheap tickets. To either show. ( I could have paid 700$ for the meet-and-greet package but I’m not cool around celebrities and I’d probably ask him if I could have a freckle for the road then pass out and shit myself.) Normally I’d be irrationally mad at missing out, or curse the high ticket prices, but it’s Conan. Forgiving just comes naturally. He’s giving the money made on the tour to his staff, and realistically he could charge double for this tour. Everybody wants to know what he’d got to say now that NBC isn’t holding the big red button. I hope hope hope they record it for a DVD so I can see the genius from the comfort of my own couch. After all, that is exactly where him and I bonded for all these years.
The best thing I didn’t taste this week – WELCOME HOME WILLPOWER, YOU ASSHOLE -is the new (well, new to me) line of Purdy’s ice creams made by Island Farms. Specifically, (deep breath and fake enjoying an apple slice) the Sweet Georgia Browns flavour. I work beside a Purdy’s factory. It is the only thing worth existing on the block I work on. I feel officially betrayed by the overly friendly women that work there. Why wouldn’t they tell me to stop, save those calories! Instead, go eat that delicious treat in a frozen format! You know, the way God, Mother Nature, Ben, Jerry, Mr. Breyer and Mrs. DQ intended. So, there the little tubs sat. Snug in the freezer section at Save-On, double dog daring me to buy them. My Mom even OFFERED to buy one FOR ME. (Fact: Mom-bought groceries taste better.) My brain nearly exploded with the decision. But I knew what would happen. Nuv only loves cotton candy ice cream, so whatever calorie amount and fat amount was listed was then expressly destined for me and me alone. I felt ten feet tall walking away from that frozen aisle empty-handed. But, oh dear God, if they come out with a pink salted caramel flavour, it’s GAME OVER BODY. I apologize in advance.
The worst thing I had to touch this week was (big inhaled sniff) the last piece of my gluten free cherry pie that effing flipped off the counter while I was willing anything BUT that to happen. These little guys cost like 9$ from Panne Rizo and I love them so much, but I don’t get them very often, for price reasons, and knowing I am perfectly capable of wolfing it down in one sitting and passing out in a cherry coma. It fell with a “splut” in front of the dishwasher and I’m not ashamed to say I swore for about a minute while contemplating whipping the microwave across the apartment just ’cause. Instead I calmly bent down, scooped the piece up, put it in tupperware and ate it later that day. I ate it slowly and carefully, like it might have had a syringe or detectable bread crumb in it. And I didn’t think too hard about what I was doing because then I would have gagged. And the only thing worse than dropping food you love on a questionably clean floor, is barfing up food you love. The End.
