Chuck: First world problems.
In other news: here is what I cooked, watched, read this past week. Cheerio.
Asparagus-Ricotta Phyllo Tart: Why must I torture myself with phyllo dough? Granted, I finally learned how to manipulate it a little better, but I am just so damn clumsy with it. Not to mention that when it came time to eat this mess, it was like a present that wouldn't get unwrapped. But it was good. Hurray for asparagus, right?
Rhubarb Cobbler: Apparently we have rhubarb growing in our backyard. So, yeah. This was okay. Too much dough, not enough rhubarb. I do believe this is among the first time that a dessert has gone to rot in the fridge. This is totally not the recipe I used at all, at all. But for some reason I find myself linking to it anyway. I think it's blah blah anti-authority something.Anyway, I think we didn't eat it because Chuck kept saying the word "poisonous." But in a good way.
Lolita: Admittedly, I've never finished the book. But Kubrick's take on it is rich in hijinks and hilarity. Like a steamy Betty and Veronica.
The Lovely Bones: One part Lifetime Original Movie, one part Pink Floyd video. The saddest part was watching Marky Mark be the father of a teenager. Why, world? WHY!?
Remember that melodramatic moment in the movie "Fear" when he stands outside of that super posh house, staring at the place like it betrayed him. Pounding on his chest to create a self-induced bruise that he can blame on his girlfriend's father? Yeah. At that moment I never thought he would surpass the greatness of his brother Donnie, shirtless beneath a pair of Gap overalls, waving his hands and singing "Hanging Tough." I probably shouldn't try to predict things.
"Splice": For about 15 minutes near the end, this is the funniest movie I've seen since "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels."
Wifey by Judy Blume: Admittedly, I remember very little from the 1970s beyond having panel walls in our kitchen, and matted mustard carpeting in the living room. So, luckily, I am able to see beyond the frustrations of sexually stifled housewife Sandy Pressman, and instead take Judy Blume’s hidden-in-the-hamper novel from the era for something better: Wifey is Pure. Comic. Gold.
Full review here.
Imperial Bedrooms by Bret Easton Ellis: The opening sentence of "Imperial Bedrooms" is enough to give an old Bret Easton Ellis-ophile chills: "They had made a movie about us." Shiver. Unfortunately, by the end of the first page, his 25-year reunion for the cold, drug-addled, pretty and pretty wealthy sociopaths from "Less Than Zero" becomes something that would look best hitting a wall at about 45 miles per hour.
Ellis discounts the narrator of his most popular novel with a a handful of clacks on the keyboard of his Mac. (How do we know it's a Mac? There isn't a single interview with the literary Brat Packer that doesn't mention the gleaming computer machines on the desk of his stark Hollywood condo. The universe is, like, thrilled that he isn't writing on a typewriter anymore or something).
Full review on Minnesota Reads.