Just For Fun, TV Junkie, Uncategorized

Dear Ryan Murphy

Dear Ryan Murphy,

Can you blame me? Photo credit: kfcplainfield.com

I don’t usually do this (except the one time I did, when I was 9 and in love with Neil Patrick Harris. And by the way, he totally sent an autographed black-and-white headshot in return. And I still kind of love him. A lot. I wish I knew where that picture was. I hope I didn’t throw it out when Elijah Wood stole my heart), but I had to tell you how I feel.

You used to scare me, Ryan Murphy. You’re very intimidating, and I’m very not. I thought you might be another Simon Cowell, except without the creepy winking, deep V’s and fondness for female models. But now “The Glee Project” is over and I find myself empty inside. You really cared about those kids; heck, you even let most of them win. What’s more, you recently told Perez

I see through this prickly exterior, Ryan Murphy, right into your little gummy bear heart. Photo credit: movieline.com

Hilton you’d write him into an episode “Glee” whenever he wanted. These are not the actions of a scary writer/television producer.

These contestants touched you. I saw it when you’d let a smile pass your lips; your eyes would

definitely twinkle a little. I liked the way you talked about who you could write for and why. I want to hear more. I want to know you, Ryan Murphy.

Also, if you could please tell Darren Criss there’s a 29-year-old, married project manager from New Jersey who may or may not have green hair who’s wondering why he hasn’t returned any of her calls, that would be great. Thanks, Ryan.



Food, Uncategorized

My Most Shameful Guilty Pleasure OF ALL TIME a.k.a. Little Slice of Man Meat (no, this isn’t the one where I talk about Daniel Radcliffe in Equus. Nice try, though)

    You might be thinking this is the post where I finally talk about the fact that I own Season One of “Laguna Beach” on DVD and have watched it, in its entirety, on two separate occasions. Or maybe this is the one where I put up a picture of when I dressed as Doogie Howser for Halloween. There’s a good chance, you think, that I’m about to tell you how much I love guillotines.
    You’re wrong.
    While all of those things are indeed shameful guilty pleasures of mine, I have one that goes FAR BEYOND any I’ve just mentioned. In fact, I can’t believe I’m going to talk about it now, but, as promised… Let me start by telling you about something that happened last weekend.
    Last Saturday night, my husband and I were, true to form, hanging out watching T.V. Somehow, the topic of Jonathan Taylor Thomas came up. 

    “Is he younger than you?” my husband asked, trying to imply that this was another one of my creepy obsessions with the Teen Beat contingent.

    “No,” I promptly replied, adding, “He was born on September 8th, 1981!” I then quickly pulled up his profile on imdb.com, confirming my credibility.

    I realized it had been a long time since I had thought about Mr. Taylor Thomas, or trolled (and possibly contributed to…) fan fiction sites about said star of yesteryear. Rest assured, this is not the mystery guilty pleasure of which I speak. The confession, while absolutely J.T.T.-related, is far more disturbing.

    You see, when I was 13, like most 13-year-olds, I was a tad…boy crazy. Emphasis on the crazy. Because real-life boys never paid me any mind, I had to turn my focus toward the more famous variety. Any normal Jonathan Taylor Thomas fan might have been satisfied with plastering their bedroom walls with posters (oh, I did that, too), but not me. Even meeting him at a taping of “The View” wasn’t enough.

    I decided to become a vegetarian.

    Why, you rightly ask? For one reason, and one reason only. You guessed it. J.T.T. wouldn’t be caught dead gnawing on a turducken or snarfing down a White Castle sack of 10.

    Do you understand what I’m saying here? I gave up McDonald’s french fries for this kid, because they were made with beef flavoring. And guess how long this nonsense lasted? 5 and a half years! My entire teenage life! That’s just…just… there are no words.

    Now, please, I beg of you, post a comment sharing at least one of your most shameful guilty pleasures. I’ll be here in my closet, amongst the skeletons, not enjoying a Boca burger.