Beans, Beans, the Magical Fruit

The sort of secret blog of Beans, a.k.a. Jules, a.k.a. "Legs for Miles" a.k.a. "Rackie the Boob Queen." Fine, ok, not the last two. Starting July 2006, sometimes "Mike," aka "fagadoccio," is a co-poster on the blog. The co-poster child, really.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Gloria Rumpcocke on Hallowe's Eve Sluttery

For a while I have pottered with a book called Gloria Rumpcocke's Guide to Being a Goddam Lady, a filthy and imperious overeducated drunken old harridan's guide to being, well, a goddam lady. Although I keep Gloria's musings close to the chest, after a brief spaziergang through's photos of the day, where celebrities' slutbag halloween costumes revealed almost as much waxed hallway as a public psych ward, I'm moved to leak Gloria's wise take on the holiday.

Enjoy her. She's a huffy, rude bag but she knows things.

Sophie Monk: Ladybug? Or Deranged Creole Whoreapillar?

Like a ping-pong paddle that’s fallen into a pile of dog poop, Halloween has two sides, one perfectly clean and the other quite filthy. For my European readers, perhaps I should explain: Halloween is I think originally the Devil’s birthday and it’s all about scaring people and lighting a lot of gourds on fire. American children are sent door to door to beg for candy, dressed like little witches originally, although these days you have the impression that all the characters from Nickelodeon, Disney and the Cartoon Network have leapt to life, ravenous for King Size Butterfingers. They ring your doorbell and then when you open it, they inquire whether you have in store for them a “Trick or Treat?” It’s quite rhetorical— they’re not wondering, “Well, what’ll it be, are you going to push a button and dump me through a trap door into a bin full of knives, or will it just be a Charleston Chew, and then I’m on to the next round of Russian roulette?”

The enterprise seems to have become quite professionalized, in fact— mothers screech up to the front door in minivans which burst open and shoot out a SWAT team of children with ergonomic plastic receptacles designed to accommodate as much booty as possible. Some children quite literally brandish the tiny guns and swords that accessorize their repugnant TV heroes (“The Adventures of the New Little Mermaid— She’s no pussy and she’s armed to the gills!” et cetera.) After you’ve dumped your Fun Size Assortment into their plastic buckets, you couldn’t get them to run any faster if you yanked up your skirts and waved your community garden in their pale little faces. They simply atomize, and leave nothing but a Chrysler Grand Caravan’s tracks-of-fire in your driveway. This is, of course, the suburban way. Who knows what the city-children do. I suppose they skip the nancing around and just rob people.

Well that’s the wholesome side of Halloween. Now for the filthy side. Let’s use the example of a college freshman. We’ll call her Tiffany. No slut, this Tiffany. No, she takes biology and she wants to be a nurse, you know a good, normal nurse who takes pulses and such, not the kind in the TV shows who might hand the doctor a scalpel every once in a while but whose main job seems to be emerging from janitorial closets ten seconds after the ravishing cardiologist with her paper hat cocked and half a yam out. No, Tiffany is the bedpan-changing sort. There is a gentleman living in Tiffany’s dorm, let’s call him Jim, and Tiffany always sees Jim and thinks that despite his bangs, gelled up vertically like the teeth of a bear trap, he’s attractive. And Tiffany knows she has a pert collegiate body that Jim would love to paw, but it's always hidden under this oppressive barrier foisted on us by civil society, a barrier called “clothing.” Along comes Halloween.

Well, I think you know what I’m getting at. Off comes the American Aereopostcrombie hoodie, and Tiffany dons a pair of heels, a teddy and a headband with devil horns or cat ears attached, and happily marches outside, confident that finally she will catch Jim’s eye. Countless women will do the same—teenagers, professionals, married, single, literate, disabled, Christian, Jew and – well, alright, maybe not Muslim. I suppose Islam’s got a pretty clear stance on Halloween sluts. But countless women, come October 31, see fit to dress like a 100% legitimate whore, in a whorehouse, full of customers who came to shop for a whore. And just because she puts a headband on her head ornamented with two little black triangles, she may say she is a “cat” for Halloween. But let us examine: what are the primary characteristics of a cat? Does a cat have a barely-covered human vagina? Nnnoooooo. Does a cat have a black lace bra full of human booby? Nnnnoooo. Cats are furry, mackerel-breathed quadripeds, last time I checked and if Tiffany wanted to be a cat, she should have glued fur to the length of her entire body and practiced kicking dirt backwards over her craps.

This— forgive me— diatribe comes from my concern, primarily, for women who lose all sense of their dignity on Halloween, even though on Oct 30 or Nov 1 they would certainly never trail the sidewalks looking like they’d run out in the middle of a diabolical dominatrix session to feed the meter. If concern for ladylike behavior is not enough to motivate a young woman to keep her clothes on come the Devil’s birthday this year, do remind her that she’s liable to catch cold in a child's crotchless wetsuit in late October, and nobody wants to bang a slut with a runny nose. Well, that’s not quite true. Stress the dignity part, I suppose.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Paris: A little catch-up

Are you wondering why I've been in Paris for 3 months without blogging once? You wouldn't be alone. I've had some queries. Granted, no one "reads" this blog any more than one might "keep an eye on" Haley's comet or "track" bigfoot. Still. It seems, if you know me, like there's somethin' exciting happening and I'm not spilling to Beans.

So even though I don't believe in a correlation between life lived and life blogged about, here are some tidbits.

1. I live above a Subway. Not the means of transportation, the means of Fake Bread Waft. The Fake Bread Waft in France is identical to the one in America. It's sweet and nasty and comes at a very powerful waft, like a red-bell-pepper fart by a great dane.

2. Speaking of Danes, Amsterdam is my new favorite place (a 4 hour train from Paris) and NO, not because of the whores and drugs. But not despite them either.

The Dutch make a great, simple mint tea.

and a world-class stoned retard.

3. The Ferris wheel in Paris, in the jardin de Luxembourg, cycles slowly for 20 minutes, goes really high, and is, despite being jammed in a weird makeshift carnival, awesome. This is how I felt about it:

4. Paris hates people over 26. Everything is cheaper if you are "moins de 26 ans." Under 26. But if you, like me, have lacked the vigilance to keep yourself from creeping all the way into 27, well then, Missy, you are going to have to pay twice the price for that museum admission. This may seem like small beans, but at the SNCF, a train ticket that ran my 25 year old infant boyfriend 50 Euro ran me over 100. Keep the olds from traveling! Those creaky 27-year-olds will stink up the train with Jergens lotion and death!

Just waiting for a French bureaucrat to come riddle them with bullets.

Often, student IDs and student discounts will not be extended to us over-26s. "You may still be a student at 27," they seem to say, "but that's your fault." If you are still enrolled in some sort of graduate program at 27, attempting to chisel knowledge into the petrified sap of your mind, you deserve no more public support than a grown man who insists on diapers.

"I'm just really busy"

5. Olympic commentators on French TV say "Oooh la la" a lot. It's great when you're watching something like Judo or Weight Lifting, something really brutish and grunty where one 400-lb Ajerbijanian lifts something heavy and three French commentators trill out three OVERLAPPING, fugue-like "Ooh lalalallalal ooohlalalala OH LA, LALALALA."

Bobbe Costasse, in today for Franque Gifforde.

Get hungry for a food post at some point.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Terror in the Skies, Culinary Edition

20,000 miles above the Atlantic a few days ago, I was asked "Beef and Potatoes or Lasagna?" A Sophie's Choice for some people, but not for me! I love airplane food. I love how compartmentalized it is. Unless they ever actually drop those yellow breathing cups from the ceiling, it is the only thing about air travel that really makes me feel like an astronaut. "I have to eat this glutamine-and-salt-ration, it's the only thing I'll get for hours." I also like limited choices. I hate the BLT-restaurant concept of choosing your own sauce and sides for a dish. Isn't that the expert's job? I don't go into the Mercedes factory and tell them where to put the aluminum. I'm ranting. This has nothing to do with the story.

"Lasagna, please," I said to the stewardess. I get my lasagna. It's awesome. It's so fake. Teddy Ruxbin could digest it. I enjoy picking at my plastic blanket of cheese for a few minutes-- a good 5 minutes-- and suddenly I begin to hear raised voices.

"Are you sure this is beef?"
"Funny kind of beef!"

The lady behind me is a real loudmouth, she's been yucking it up with the stewardess the whole flight, so when the stewardess realizes something is up with dinner, she goes to the yucker-upper behind me to check in. The yucker-upper, by virtue of being obnoxious and possibly drunk, has become the passengers' representative. She is our congresswoman.

"What's going on here?" the stewardness asks Congresswoman Vodka-Breakfast. The Congresswoman alerts her that the beef "seems a lot like" chicken.

At this point people have been eating for 5 minutes. I don't know who started it but someone cleared the whole thing up by shouting "It's chicken-beef!"

The stewardess picked up on this as a plausible solution. "Haven't you heard? It's a new thing invented by the French! CHICKEN-BEEF!"

The Congresswoman and her aides love this. This is a huge hit.


The stewardess then leans in to the Congresswoman and says, very loud, opening her body out slightly to the others across the aisle and around her to announce that this is a Shakespearean aside, "HEY MA'AM, HOW'S THE FISH??"

"WAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHA [frontier-style whooping cough] HA! HA!"

At this point I was cowering in my seat. I wanted desperately to know what this slab of protein looked like, such that it might take 5 minutes of dining for a passenger to realize it was masquerading as a different meat. Maybe everyone realized right away but did not care. What would they do, send it back and demand the beef they'd so tantalizingly been promised? "You got me all worked up for a rib-eye. This is just really disappointing." I get the feeling that airplane food is all basically made out of old tennis shoes, that there is a side wing of the Nike factory where they stamp out American Airlines broccoli; that maybe there's not much difference between air beef, air chicken, and Air Jordan.

The fact that the meat was fake and undecipherable was not surprising, nor scary.


I huddled in my seat, covered in my blanket, pretending to sleep. I was not one of them. I did not want them to kill me because I was not of the beef-chicken crew. I watched a Nicholas Cage movie called National Treasure. I liked it. It was cheap and shitty and dumb, but I was scared to laugh out loud. I thought the Congresswoman might hear me, and want to bond.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

And honorable mention goes to...

Noony Woman Awards

I was in Dominick's the other day-- you know, the big, cheap grocery store where you have a zero percent chance of finding kefta but Cap'n Crunch is $2.99 for 3 boxes roped together with film strip from the newest Pixar infant acid trip-- and I did a doubletake when passing this book, sitting on a shelf next to puppy stickers and greeting cards:

I emailed my friend Lang immediately. "The crimson velour shirt!" I pointed out. "The HUGE smile! The 75-lb basket of fruit atop her Eastern-European Female Member of Parliament hair!" Books that are simultaneously about COOKING, LIVING, and LOVING belong in any noony library, to say nothing of the woman's name: Crescent Dragonwagon. She's awesome. Go read her web page.

"Welcome to your future, Langbein," Lang wrote back. My point exactly. A woman comfortable with her extreme nooniness. Thumbs up. Let's go buy Nestle's Symphony bars and write some prose poetry outside in celebration.

But Lang continued. "This is my future," she wrote and linked to this video of model/actress Brenda Dickson giving some barbituates-addled fashion and beauty advice from her $2,200 Hollywood home:

So far we have a handful of amazing ladies here: Crescent Dragonwagon (enough said), my mind-reading bestie Lang, this frosted tart of a beauty queen; time to rent Prince of Tides and have a noony lady love-in.

But WAIT. THEN, I clicked on a sidebar YouTube link to a PARODY of Brenda Dickson, and I found my TRUE hero. Lady, whoever you are that narrated this parody, my Hanes Her Way cotton support bra salutes you.

This might be the best thing I've ever seen on YouTube. Do you need to watch it again? I do.

This concludes a very special apex in my life as a noonypants-in-training.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Announcement: My Trash Is On Your Dashboard

Hey homies.

I've decided to start posting my idiotic notebook scrabbles for your enjoyment, and by your I mean almost nobody's. As of posting my first one 5 seconds ago, I realize that my handwriting makes words look like math problems and will try to rectify this in future, maybe with the aid of a fourth grader or a ruler or mood stabilizers.

Buon apetito, and keep your pants on,

Imaginary Friends: Meet Alessandro!

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Is There an Opening on the Nobel Committee?

A few days ago in his blog, Diner's Journal, Frank Bruni wrote about restaurant names. Sometimes ridiculous, he says, but sometimes satisfyingly clever, as in the case of a newly opened New York restaurant specializing in small plates and bar food, called BARFRY. Or, to be fair, BarFry.

I agree that there are names that make zero sense or piss me off. To the Wicker Park restaurateurs who named their restaurant Ear Wax Cafe, I can only say, What, Diarrhea Central was taken? What are you thinking?

But of all the restaurants in New York, to come out and praise BarFry was amazing for the following reasons:

1) It literally contains the word "barf," and looks like "Barfy."

Thanks, Internet. I KNEW you'd find something creepy and disgusting!

2) It is a pun on the term "bar fly." Hence, it evokes both

an infectious pest, the fly

and the subject of the metaphorical term, a lazy dirty drunk

3) The specific way it puns on "bar fly" with "Bar Fry" makes it sound like someone making fun of a Japanese person speaking Engrish. As someone who has never EVER EVER answered her cell phone "Euuuuh-- HERRRROOOO???" I find this totally offensive. Just kidding! But I find it brazenly, cluelessly impolitic for Bruni to give it the Clever Name Award, especially when the place apparently does have a menu slant toward Japanese. What's next, Frank, Most Tasteful Placement of Shar-Pei Puppies Award to David Hasselhoff?

(I'm fairly certain this is not photoshopped, either. Just pure, glorious, well-lubricated documentary.)

In short, WELL PLAYED, Frank. The best-named restaurant in NY is Barfry, but only because Throw-Up Rat Chink hasn't opened yet.

One more time:


Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Don't worry, you don't need special training

Bye, everyone.

I am leaving to go become a scientist. I know what you're thinking. "What kind of scientist, Jules? The cancer kind? The AIDS kind?"

No, friend. I am going to be the kind that gets in a pair of goggles and slowly makes friends with a baby rhesus monkey.