Originally appeared on Yankee Pot Roast
Survivor Pompeii
The Amazing Race Out of Sodom and Gomorrah
So You Think You Can Dance Your Way Out of a Salem Witch Trial
Pimp My Dino
The Real World: The Alamo
Native American Idol
The Bachelor: Jesus
This year, when you’re making your list and checking it twice, and finding out who is naughty and nice, you might also want to find out who had to go through chemo, who lost their hair and who had to endure months of nausea, and adjust your gifts accordingly. If not, Santa, the ASPCA might find out just exactly how you and your reindeer stay so warm on those cold winter nights.
You better watch out. Indeed.
MOM: I don’t understand your Thanksgiving card.
ME: Okaaaay. Can you remind me what it says?
MOM: Well there’s a bunch of people sitting around the table praying and the caption says something about trypto-something.
ME: Tryptophan. And what part of that do you not understand?
MOM: What does trypto-whatever have to do with praying at dinner?
ME: First of all, they’re not praying, they’re sleeping.
MOM: Well, why on earth would they be doing that?
ME: Because of the tryptophan in the turkey!
MOM: But…what does that have to do with Superman?
ME: Superman?! What are you talking about?
MOM: Well, I thought tryp? Trypto…phan? is from the Superman movies.
ME: Oh. My. God. Mom! Tryptophan is the stuff in turkey that makes people sleepy. KRYPTONITE, on the other hand, is the stuff that makes Superman weak. They are TWO TOTALLY DIFFERENT THINGS!
MOM: How was I supposed to know that?
ME: Everybody knows that.
MOM: Well, I’ve never heard of tryptophan and neither have any of my friends.
ME: Yeah, well, that doesn’t really surprise me.
You know the unbridled powers of attraction and chemistry and voodoo or whatever have completely taken over when you’re attracted to a mop-topped sociopath who goes around killing people with a cattle stun gun. And yet after seeing “No Country for Old Men,” not a day has gone by that my thoughts haven’t been drenched in the creepy sexiness of the Spanish delicacy otherwise known as Javier Bardem.
I know it’s not normal but it wasn’t a normal day to begin with.
It was a Monday night and Mom and I had just spent an agonizing hour at the vet’s office where her 17-year old dog Paddy was put to sleep. There we stood in a weepy haze, knowing that if we didn’t leave soon, the thick, gloppy hands of guilt and sadness would hold us captive. (And we’d probably end up watching Fox News at some ear-shattering decibel.)
“What should we do now?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Mom replied.
“Should we try to see a movie? Maybe it will distract us.”
“I don’t want to see a comedy.”
“Well, how about a violent crimey-type film that has nothing to do with anything in our everyday lives?” I suggested.
“Well, there’s that movie with Tommy Lee Jones…” she offered.
So we went to the Coen brothers’ “No Country for Old Men.” At first I was worried because within the first few minutes there’s an injured dog, a dead dog and then another dog gets shot and killed. I gave mom a sideways glance but she seemed unfazed by the canine assaults. In fact, she seemed to be completely engrossed by the movie. Not to mention the popcorn. I was relieved and found myself equally engrossed but actually more turned on by the soulless character of Anton Chigurh, played by Bardem. Chigurh is despicable. Terrifying. Ruthless. Evil. And yet, as I popped one kernel of popcorn in my mouth after the other, I felt a hunger growing inside. Who is that lady and police and thug and innocent people killer? Where is that subtle accent from? Does he kiss as good as he shoots?
Was there something seriously wrong with me–I mean, something new? Or was it simply that Javier’s sex appeal could not be contained by even the most cunningly crafted of characters? Despite his moppy do, his dark drapery, the lethal weapons–even the bone sticking out of his arm–I found myself frighteningly excited every time he graced the screen. I vowed to log on to IMDB when I got home to find out more.
I’ve dated some weirdos but have always drawn the line at drug traffickers, hired killers and actors. But for Javier I was willing to make an exception. Later that night, I was practically bouncing in my seat as I sat in front of the computer waiting for IMDB to bring up his page. And then there, glowing before me in pulsating waves of Latin heat, was Javier Bardem. From boyish grin to smoldering gaze, the photos portrayed an actor with amazing versatility and unwavering magnetism.
Though I normally go for the pale Irish guy, this dark, conquistador had done me in. For a couple of hours he distracted us from the sadness of our beloved pet’s death by replacing it with the deaths of others. And for that I was grateful. I think. If not slightly embarrassed. Maybe even confused. Definitely feeling guilt.
I now have several of Javier’s movies in my Netflix queue and am closely monitoring his current relationship with another Spanish star just in case he gets bored with her beautiful body, long flowing hair, winning personality and successful career, and wants to explore the world of a pale, curly-topped, American writer type with a penchant for oversleeping and salt and vinegar potato chips.
Whether he’s acting or not, Javier Bardem is to die for. And if I’m lucky, I’ll be his next victim.
Jet lag
What a drag
My lids they sag
Can’t lift my bag
Foggy, blurry,
Yawny and slow
I try to work
But have nothing to show
Woke up at 11
Two hours ahead
The day half gone
My brain half dead
The nap, he taunts me
Pulls at my limbs
I shrug him off
He sits back and grins
I walk to shake him
I drink more tea
But the bastard wins out
And I collapse in a heap