I Remember Mania ...

October 23, 2013:  It somehow makes perfect sense that I’d have had a grandmother named “Mania,” which was pronounced “Mahn-ya,” but certainly doesn’t look like it. Mania Andrusevich was my mother’s Polish mother, and she’s been on my mind lately in relation to food, parenting and the coming winter …

Just tonight, as I embarked on filling my gaping god hole with a marvelous concoction I’ve created and lately often indulged in that combines mashed potatoes, peas and chicken in a sort of shepherd’s pie filling, I thought of her and her selfless love giving in the guise of food.

This woman loved to make me food, in that old-world immigrant way that somehow seems a lost ghost our kids could never know or imagine. She lived in Manhattan on the Lower East Side and used to come up to Connecticut quite a lot for weekends. And she’d cook and cook. Saturday mornings I remember especially well, when she’d make an enormous pot of these simple potatoes that cooked for hours and tasted like nothing better than you could imagine.  And she’d make mashed potatoes and stuffed cabbage and meatballs and potatoes. (God, everything had potatoes in it.) And chicken soup and pancakes and pot roast and chicken with little potatoes all around it …

But it wasn’t just the awesome quality of this simple fare. It was the way in which she offered it. I lived with her in my late teens in the city, and I would come back to the apartment at one in the morning in a state of wasted gracelessness, trying to sneak in softly so she wouldn’t hear. But she always heard and would come out tut-tutting, would share her scolding comments, and then ask if I’d eaten. Then she’d literally prepare a salad, a fresh fried steak, French fries, and a bowl of frozen peas with those fabulous little pearl onions, and I’d sit like a dope in the living room and with squinting eyes watch Channel 9 Up All Night—this is back when there were less than 10 channels—and stuff my gob with this grand wealth of culinary love (or culinary enabling, depending on how cynical you’re feeling as you read this) …

When she died a couple years later, she left me with a quantum of guilt, for I recognized the extent of her selfless caretaking and love, and I knew I had never repaid it, or even perhaps never could have repaid it. That sucks when you’re like me and sometimes juggle the precarious self-esteem of Charlie Brown.

And so it goes, as my friend Linda Ellerbee always said. (At least I think she was my friend, though I never got a thank you for all that toffee I sent her.) Anyway, it goes … so …

But again today, as I scrambled to get the chicken parmegian made for my daughter’s dinner, and yesterday, when I made my son’s refried bean after-school snack, or this evening, when I was cooking the chicken for their lunches, or this morning, when I made their breakfasts, it got me to thinking about my grandmother …

And yes, one of the thoughts centered on how great it would be having her here so I could sleep in. But that was a passing thought, because—even though it qualifies as work, and I sometimes don’t have all the motivation I can muster—I really love doing it. It’s an honor, really, and a privilege to have them want me to make Glop (the recipe for which I provided in a recent Blah-ugh! posting), or to make a spaghetti sauce, or to bake something, or “that sandwich” I make … or the potatoes!

You get the idea …

And so we pay it forward, year after year, a collection of clueless clowns bumping our heads again the well wall of humanity's clouded stupidity, trying to find something that makes sense ... and it's the food. It was always the food ...

My Flocking Followers

October 13, 2013:  A strange suspicious email from some "feed" people is prompting me to compose an impromptu Blah-ugh! These people are claiming they have Followers of mine, which is both baffling and arousing. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do in response, but I thought if it was really true and I actually do have new Followers (and not just the same 23 I've had for four years), they deserved some new fodder from this virtual crap factory we call the Blah-ugh! If any of them are reading this, I urge you to contact the authorities right away, or just send me an email in 100 words of less explaining why I'm your God! (jarretliotta@gmail.com)

There's so much to talk about. So much to malk about, and yet my ongoing midland blases--a poor, pathetic perpetual indifference to all things--keeps me short on enthusiasm for anything relating to reality. That said, let me tell you about some of the better movies I've watched lately -- "Oblivion," "Star Trek - Into Darkness," and of course "Ed Wood."

Alright, enough about those. Let me tell you about the X Factor. It's this interesting show involving Simon Cowell and shameless people from the heartland who have dreams of glory and songs in their hearts and spleens. I'm enjoying it so much, I'm even able to tolerate watching all these modern hand-gesture performances from people with sideways baseball caps and finger-pointing theatrics. Just grand stuff. Though I find Demi and PooPoo, or whatever her name is, especially vomitous, I'm quite taken with Kelly's level-headed insight, though if she says "Y'All" one more time, I'm going to defecate on my keyboard.

Another thing that's keeping me going these days is pumpkin pie, which as you know is my favorite--ice cold with lots of artificial whipped cream. I find myself sitting naked on the kitchen floor at odd hours eating it with my fingers, listening to Wolf Man movies in the next room. This is living! (At least, this is my life!)

Speaking of living, it was dead last night at my performance, and I'm wondering why none of my so-called Followers ever take the time to come hear me sing. In truth, I can sing circles around some of those X Factor people and have even begun giving some serious thought to entering the competition, once I perfect my ability to cry with efficacious fervency. And despite my awful sick sore throat, and perpetual despondency, I was quite good last night, even after I dropped my pick in my tea. I'll be playing next month, so the hope is that my readership will organize a fitting field trip to support their leader in the heartland of Connecticut.

Speaking of television, I've also been reading a lot, which is good, except some people poo-poo Dilbert books as literate fare. I disagree. I'm also discovering renewed joy in my H.G. Wells, Charles Dickens and a wonderful how-to book on witchcraft, which is very informative and may be the find of the year in the library's discard bin.

So, nothing else new to report. People still seem on the verge of killing me every time I drive down the road, owing to their text messaging, my weight has been staying relatively low, though the pumpkin pie binges promise to change all that, my ears are hairier than ever, my feet hurt constantly, but I'm glad to report my fingernails don't seem to be growing as quickly as they have in the past.

Halloween is coming, by the way, and this is good, except for the goblins and toilet paper.

In closing, with regarding to my potentially faux followers, and in the spirit of the holiday at hand, I can only think to paraphrase Linus Van Pelt in his letter to the Great Pumpkin, "P.S. -- If you don't exist, please don't tell me. I don't want to know!"

Jarret's FFF: The Jowls of Being Brad Pitt

I have to imagine it’s not easy being Brad Pitt.

Of course it’s not easy being Jarret Liotta either, but there are many more perks, one of which is not having those jowls.

But I like Brad Pitt and I like his jowls, even though I don’t really think he’s that impressive an actor. I simply like that he’s out there on the edge, making the hard-hitting zombie movies that those Hollywood Fat Cats are too scared to create …

No, seriously, this is a very poor movie—World War Z—and the whole time I watched it I kept trying to figure out what motivated Brad to bother making it. I mean, of all the stories that could be told, of all the colossal creations he could have been a part of, what compelled this silly little man to make a painfully predictable, painfully over-budgeted, painfully acted zombie flick.

Don’t get me wrong (as you’re wont to do so often). I love zombie movies. My god, didn’t I just do a Blah-ugh! about them?! Hmm? … Well, didn’t I?!

Yes, and the costly creation of a worthwhile zombie movie would be, in my humble and extremely selfish estimation, a great use of American money …

But this mess …

And to make matters worse, Brad felt compelled—and you know it was his doing—to use this ugly vehicle as a demented forum to wax philosophical about the state of the world—when really all any of us want to do is see the droves of insect-acting zombies piling up the Jerusalem wall and leaping off buildings with no consideration for the drop.

No, it must not be easy to be Brad Pitt, to feel a fire to want to speak out and be a helpful example to humanity, and yet be only able to find release in the stupidest of forums … Poor Brad!

(I’m suddenly realizing that Brad is jowly, and his wife’s last name is—if said with a southern accent—“Jow-lee” … Kinda makes you think, huh!)

And that’s what the Frank Film Forum is all about—thinking. And I think I summarily bashed Angelina in a recent posting too, but to my credit, I’m far too lazy to find the link it deserves back … Or am I? (You’ll know by the end of this chant, and you’ll know right away, if there’s a link there to link … to, I mean!)

No, I guess it’s just not easy being any of us! But despite your jowl issues, a $20-million salary plus gross points certainly makes it harder to garner sympathy …

And remind me next time to bother writing something about the movie. After all, that's what this was supposed to be about too!

Jarret Reports Groundbreaking New Weight-Loss Technique for Fatties!

September 8, 2013:  You're going to love this, but first I have to go off on tangents ...

For starters, I don't know how I did it, but I managed to bring my Blah-ugh! into the 21st century and fix the problem with line spacing. I think it was the addition of the new picture that made the difference, and while it's getting mixed reviews, mostly from people who believe I look dangerous, I think it goes far in capturing the contemptuous glint of surly intolerance that many people -- mostly friends -- relate to me ....

But this is my time of getting things done, and toward that end I wanted to share some awesome discoveries I've made about weight loss and staying in shape.

Many of you loyal Blah-ugh! readers will recall my earth weight creeping up the scales recently to where I almost hit 200 for the first time in my life. (I continue to draw comfort knowing that on the moon I remained under 40 pounds.)

I'm happy to say -- and mainly because more women are glinting at me -- that I've reduced my abundance to something in the upper 170's at this point, and more pounds promise to drop, provided I don't drop first.

I'm proud to report I've made a concerted effort to win back my sveltitude, and while it hasn't been a linear process (mostly owing to my love of fatty meats and blue velvet cupcakes), I've exhibited incredible concentrated consciousness in making the hard choices that served to redefine my beautiful body and finally make my pants looser ...

Now, I can tell you there are obvious things to put into practice when it comes to getting thinner, such as considerable reduction of breads and pastas. But these ideas have been reported in many places and I won't waste a valuable forum like mine on the obvious. (In truth, if you don't already know this stuff, you're probably too dumb to grasp the subtle magnificence of my new idea, so stop bothering me and go eat some kippers.) Instead, let me tell you about a unique realization I had in the shower today ...

I've noticed in recent years that I tend to actually get thinner once autumn grows cold. In fact, I've found that I feel myself losing weight with the cold weather, and I kind of noticed -- though I'm not sure now, because my memory is so bad -- that I don't gain weight when the weather turns colder ...

Now, a key element of weight loss involves increasing your metabolism. This means -- at least to me, and I don't know why it has to be any more complicated than this -- getting your heartbeat moving faster. Anyone who does a good lot of exercise in a period of time knows that feeling of increased heart. It's kind of like when you drink a lot of coffee on an empty stomach. You see, weight loss occurs not from the targeted time of exercise, but over the ensuing hours, when your heart rate is up and your beautiful body is pumping away the pounds through its panicked mania.

To make a long story short -- and I see already this is becoming a long one, if not a particularly dull one -- I realized today that cold shower increase your heart rate. Yes! This is the secret that those so-called fat-cat scientists in Washington don't want you to know about! Cold showers are the route to real effective weight loss!

Yes, I'm as surprised as you are, but it makes perfect sense if you think about it. This is why the advent of the cold weather brings increased heart rate -- because it's cold, dammit! And if you can replicate that through the pain of ice water doused on your head and private parts, so much the better for you and all of us (and our domestic partners in particular).

Try it! I guarantee that a few solid minutes of icy water will step up your system to a new level of panic. And isn't that how we should be shedding the pounds -- through fear and intimidation?! I mean, it works in every other area of our lives, after all, so why not use it here ...

But I'm serious, and I hope that in my own small way I'll be making a difference not only in your commanding ownership of your body, but also in perhaps saving you money on hot water ...

When Next We Ever Meet ... Please Don't Touch Me!

NOTE: MY BASTARD BLAH-UGH! IS NOT FORMATTED PROPERLY, SO THIS THING IS ALL RUNNING TOGETHER. I THOUGHT I'D HAD GOOD INTERACTIONS WITH THE HOMELAND SECURITY PEOPLE ON PLUM ISLAND THIS WEEK, BUT APPARENTLY NOT!! NEXT TIME I'LL BRING DONUTS .......................... By this point I should just officially notify everyone that I hate to shake hands. It really makes me uncomfortable with rare exception. (Of course I say that mainly so you can believe you’re the exception, although you’re probably not …)............... Generally speaking, I have a strong aversion to any casual physical contact, except with attractive women, and then I’m usually comfortable being touched, if not overtly groped. But where most people are concerned, I really like to stay at a distance for a variety of reasons and not have them glad-handing me, like I was so many ripe tomatoes or a bag of frozen soup................ The worst place it comes up, of course, is in the work world. There, if one intends to move forward in the hunt for green opportunities, one must be ready to shake a few hands. It’s whorish—we all recognize that—but that’s what they mean when they say you have to “get your hands dirty” in order to make a living................ Socially, however, I see every reason to try and curb this practice. Fortunately, as I’ve found myself moving (albeit gracefully) toward middle early later adulthood, I find I care much less about faux impressions and am learning to protect myself from humanity at large. “I don’t want to shake hands,” I’ve boldly told several people lately when they’ve made the attempt, one of whom was a stranger and I guess will remain so................ “Sorry, I can’t shake hands right now,” I tried with a few others, mumbling something incoherent about being injured and dirty. That usually works well and even draws some sympathy, which is always a welcome commodity in any sociopath’s world. The only problem is, one then has to keep rubbing their hand as if it continues to bring pain, or has to treat it as if it’s infected with some weird bacteria that you don’t want to touch to any other part of your body, thus demonstrating why you spared that good-souled hand-shaker your cooties................ Another tactic I use is simply ignoring the outstretched hand, which sometimes works very well. I turn away and bluster some witty pontifications about how humorous the weather can be, what with its sun and rain. By the time I turn back, they’ll often have grown tired of holding their anticipating hand out—and while my heart sometimes feels a pang for that quick dropped look of disappointment they display, I subsequently try to do my chipper part to buoy their deflated spirits with more bluster about the wind and hail................ Another contact item that I find especially offensive is the hand wipe on the shoulder or back. While it sometimes comes from authentic affection, it doesn’t always, and I’m too dumb to differentiate, so it’s in my best interest to avoid the whole thing. This is a popular tactic of politicians and entertainment industry people, who do a great deal of handshaking and try however they can to wipe off each contact as fast as possible. Look for it—it’s a two-step process that involves first the handshake, then the same hand on the shoulder or back, with the quick wipe. (It’s nearly impossible to duck under it, and these pros use a hypnosis tactic to district you when they do it.)............... At the end of the day, it remains in my best interest to stay home more often. There I only have to contend with the cats, and I have complete control over them and their tails................ So, going forward I want you to understand the situation. It’s not that I’m not happy to see you—although I’m honestly not entirely sure I am—but let’s do our best to confine our connection to the mental and spiritual planes …............... It’s not that I don’t love you. I’m merely repulsed by your very presence!

Jarret's FFF - "The Defiled - We Are All Meat"

August 8, 2012: Just when you think you've seen it all, a movie like "The Defiled - We Are All Meat" comes along and reboots your reality. Actually I'm somewhat hesitant to even call it a movie. It's almost more like a bit of strange videotape that someone shot and managed to wrangle onto a DVD. You see, I found this very alluring zombie compilation at my wonderful local library called the Zombie Horror Fright Fest. Four movies! How can you beat that, and from the titles and pictures on the back -- "Woods of Terror" and "Fast Zombies with Guns" among them -- I really thought I'd found something remarkable. (We won't even START on trying to understand WHY my library stocked this weird item, but to me it's merely a credit to their awesome video section and its kind caretakers, who are among the few, rare people who treat me with any respect, despite my inability to ever get anything back on time.) Anyway, it was promising enough at first -- an appropriately moody black-and-white piece that began with your quintessential Romero-esque zombie stumbling through the woods on the wooden legs of a British punk rock guitarist, the way they do (the good zombies, I mean). He even looked like the classic first zombie in Night of the Living Dead, with the tall grey crewcut, casual jacket and face like my mailman. It wasn't long, however, before it all took a strange turn, beginning in about the first 90 seconds when apparently what was this guy's zombie family joined him at the side of a pond to lap up some water and grunt at each other. I mean, it couldn't have been dumber, despite the good make up. His son was more dog than zombie, and proudly bearing his one X'ed-over eye, he hobbled around on four legs and kind of barked. The daughter, meanwhile, made the most incessantly annoying whining sound, like Felix Unger. Things picked up at about Minute 12, however, when, after a sizable amount of zombie pantomime that reminded me of Raquel Welsh in One Million B.C., or Ringo's wife Barbara Bach in Caveman, the father and son find a pre-wrapped dead body in a tent for some reason, which we never actually get a good look at, but they bring it home to this odd structure in which they live, which is kind of some sticks tied together, and they eat it. This seems to be a key pay-off moment, and the director -- who I believe also shot, edited, wrote, produced and possibly acted in the film -- seemed to really relish the moment of some classic old-school zombie wolfing down. This includes one rather sexual moment, when the father zombie is kind of erotically having his wife suck down some stuff out of a very phalic sausage-like part -- I have to assume the intestines. Anyway, the film really gets entirely weird when the dog boy awakens in the middle of the night to see his father violently humping Zombie Mom from the back. It really brings disturbance to some new levels, and that's not even taking into account that the mom is on the verge of dropping her zombie baby. So then the next morning, when you're expecting the son to rape his sister -- and I'm still not entirely sure he DOESN'T, because these clothes are thrown down, but it's not clear whose they are -- the sister starts making that incessanty whining sound and the Dog Son begins losing his guts or something -- some parts come out of him, and the father tries to stuff them back in, but they won't go ... So then the daughter whines even more and she dies. It turns out that the dead body they ate was spoiled with some toxic waste or something that the guy had in the tent with him. And then, right after the wife dies, the mutated baby suddenly pops out. I'll be honest: this is as far as I got before my daughter came home and I got scared she'd see me watching it. In fact, I felt like I had the worst kind of demented porn or something in the player, and I fumbled it out with a wealth of fearful shame. Of course I wouldn't want to give the ending away, but at the same time, I'm not completely sure I want to know what it is myself. Still, if you're looking for a disturbing piece of crap with sick sexual zombie undertones, this might be the picture for you.

Good Gravy - Part IV (4, not IV)

August 6, 2013: Okay, so I cheated a bit with Part 3, but that's among the gems I have waiting in the wings, and what better time to employ a little typographic chicanery ... And look at this -- We made it! You and I! See, we're not like the others -- the jerks! We stuck this out, and look at the reward we've received: That bouyant sense of accomplishment and accomplished sense of bouyancy, which is not to be confused with the nonsense of bouyancy, or girlancy for that matter. Here I am, in the home stretch, and all I think about is renewing my stupid movie before I go to sleep. And I am ready to go to sleep, although not necessarily to sleep. These days I've been taking tremendous heart in rereading my old James Bond books, which I do periodically, owing to my compulsive nature, desire for comfort familiarity and ongoing failure to have a life. Still, I continue to garner a range of great living lessons from the mind of Ian Fleming -- everything from the sexual subordinance of women involved with spies, to the exotic wonder of Blue Mountain coffee. I'm also still winding down from my 11 o'clock night jog, which I just spent 45 minutes doing, which has got to be some kind of record for me, in part because this time I ran on my feet. And believe me, my feet are killing me, and I don't even like feet, although I tolerate mine because they get me into places I might not otherwise be invited. One of the great mysteries in life for me remains how and where (and perhaps even when) to find suitable comfortable supportive shoes that also make me look like James Bond. (Women love men who wear shoes, by the way, especially on their hands.) Another thing I've got to settle is this business of why some of the stars in the night sky seem to be slightly askew. This logically doesn't make sense, but I've got my suspicions that the same people who are tapping my phones are involved with some kind of star-moving project. Yes, I know it sounds highly unlikely, but you go outside right now and tell me if Anteres is where it's always been.