Kevin McCallister has gone insane. Merry Christmas!

No one could call themselves a true friend of Linzoo's without full awareness of her love for the holiday season.


The Christmas season begins for me on the day after Halloween. Oh yes, I am one of "those people." One of those utterly unbearable, jolly assholes whose perception of Thanksgiving really is, in all honesty, just Christmas, Part One. Sugarplums dance in my head, Christmas Carols play on a loop - non stop from November 1st until after New Year's. My room is lit up like a Pink Floyd laser show - there's so much tinsel, garland, Christmas lights, and fucking sparklies, it looks like I puked archangel Gabriel. (I know a disgusting amount of Holiday trivia, too: did you know that the Yule log is also known as the Great Ashen Faggot?) And of course, the steady rotation of Holiday films is a given. At any time, starting about two weeks before Halloween (I told you), you might find any of the traditional favorites playing on my laptop:

Elf
National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation
A Disney Christmas
Jiminy Cricket's Christmas
A Christmas Story
Muppet Christmas Carol
Scrooge's Christmas Carol
Home Alone
Home Alone 2: Lost in New York

At the moment, the film in question is "Home Alone 2." Its incredible, and really magical to revisit it - especially now living in NYC. And I never seem to get tired of it, even though I've seen it so many times I could tell you the shot sequence of the fucking thing. But yesterday, all of a sudden, the blinding reality of this movie hit me like a ton of bricks. Its the most outrageous fabrication of actual events I've ever encountered in my life - it's now at the same liar level as Disney's 1996 dreamland faerie story, "Pocahontas." Which brings me to today's moment of brutal honesty: Kevin McCallister is a sociopath, and I believe, has severe psychological problems.

Lets start with the opening, on the evening before the big trip to Florida - first of all, why are the family members racing around like lunatics? Is the Big Blue van coming to bring you to the airport in five minutes? Then why are you literally running for sunblock? Chill out. Have a glass of eggnog. Enjoy each other's company. And can I just ask a question for everyone here? Why would Uncle Frank allow his son, Fuller, to consume fluids after what is surely later than 7PM, knowing that he wets the bed? First of all, for a child Fuller's age to be wetting the bed...there's either a bladder control issue, a psychological tic, or you know, maybe that his parents allow beverages (much less caffeinated ones) AFTER 7 PM. And to speak of the devil, Uncle Frank is, literally, the shittiest parent on earth. And where is Aunt Leslie? She was such a bigger part of Fuller's life in the first "Home Alone," now where is she? Probably running away from her clearly emotionally neglectful husband, and her disappointment in her child. I would wet the bed, too.

I also realized that the events that set the whole plot of the movie into motion are totally flimsy. In my opinion, Kevin should never, ever, in a thousand years, have had to apologize to Buzz for what happened at the choir concert. He sang a beautiful solo, and Buzz needed to play pretend drums on his head during this? The idea that the entire family would expect an apology out of Kevin is absurd, frankly. A totally skewed concept of punishment, beyond being outrageously unfair.


And then, of course, we come to my thesis statement. I understand that Kevin's reaction to being left behind both times is sort of a "fuck you to the old man" response, and rightly so - his family is a pack of morons. But beyond that, beyond all of the anger, rebellion, all of the fun, ask yourselves this question: what kind of kid gets on the wrong plane, doesn't realize it before the plane takes off, lands in New York City, a place grown men are afraid of, and is excited about it? Then, makes no attempt to get in touch with his family, spends thousands of dollars on toys, firecrackers, checking into the Plaza Hotel, and $9,000 on room service ALONE. Get Oprah on the case. This kid's got some problems.

The first movie I can understand. He's a little younger, more naive, and really does believe he "made his family disappear." I get that. But in "Home Alone 2," I truly believe that Kevin has lost his mind. The power has gone to his head, he's gone for good. Then again, that can happen upon moving to New York City. Maybe its the water. Good for bagels, bad for wackjobs.

I also realized, upon re-visiting the film a few days earlier with my boyfriend, that "Home Alone" is now totally, and completely a period piece. I'll let you take a moment to adjust to that information. Its true! The movie could NEVER be made now - not in an age of cell phones, Twitter, credit card monitoring, and Facebook - not in a million years would the events that push the movie along be plausible today. The McCallister's wouldn't have to call all their neighbors and leave messages on their ancient answering machines - they could just call Kevin on his cell, or send out a mass message on Facebook, or tweet about it. They would have found him so fast, their plane wouldn't have landed before that kid was yanked out of that house, and put on a flight to France right behind them. You can't STAY lost in this culture. At least not for the most part.


Its hard for Linzoo not to dissect things to the bone, as seen with my analysis of the "Home Alone" movies. I like pointing out the ridiculous. But that's not really that unique a quality, especially in terms of the bullshit movies that come out today. (ie, "Signs" + M. Night Shyamalan + Aliens + Water kills them + What the fuck are they doing on a planet with 71% water as its surface?! = retarded). I think everyone notices things like Kevin being insane, and "Signs" having no point. Like with "Peanuts" - I've always been really bothered by how really mean everyone is to Charlie Brown. He's undeniably sweet, and adorable, yet he's the butt of really awful practical jokes, put-downs, and just plain bad luck. ("I got a rock.")

I think the point of it all is to just love it, while seeing how ridiculous it is. Its probably part of why we love it. And to look to the reality of it for comfort in times when you need it most. Corny, but true. Can you think of anything more inspiring than Charlie Brown's eternal faith that maybe, this time, Lucy won't move the football away when he runs to kick it? You might say that kind of faith is foolish - maybe it is. But its inspiring, non the less.

And really, its just another reason to believe that the only true way to really deal with seeing the insanity or outrageousness of this world, when YOUR feet are firmly planted, is to laugh. That's all you can do. Hell, that's how most of us get through the holiday season in the first place. Between seasonal depression, freezing your nuts off in the snow, slipping on icy sidewalks, your family - the holidays can be rough, as we all know. But that's why people who still believe in and endorse holiday spirit are tougher than given credit for. Its hard to maintain and endorse that kind of joy in the face of that kind of shittiness, but I'm proud to say that I am one of those people. In fact, thank goodness we have this concept of holiday spirit - how would we get through such a dark, draining season? But its more than that, and those movies that we all love are a part of it. Kevin going nuts and putting his family into bankruptcy in "Home Alone 2" IS a very real and probable part of the movie, but who remembers that? Hell, I only started seeing that after the 400th time watching it. And even though we all know that Charlie Brown will never kick that football, doesn't a part of you always root for him anyway? A part of me always believes that he WILL kick it. That's the point, I think. That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

Question: "Why didn't you ever want to be a veterinarian as a child, Linzoo?"

Answer: Why would I want to spend 100,000 dollars a year to stick my hand up a horse's ass?

This concludes today's brutal moment of honesty with Linzoo.

Everything I ever thought about pirates was a lie.

I make my living working on a boat. I will literally write that on my tax forms this year. More specifically, I am a stewardess on a private yacht, and as such, I "maintain all aspects of the interior, and guest relations" on the boat. That entrance interview is really working for itself.

In these tough economic times, where people like you and Linzoo are scrambling to make a buck, its comforting to know that there are still billionaires out there with asses to be wiped. As someone who was on unemployment and food stamps before I got this job, I wipe those asses with a toothy grin.

The job is a good one - it offers solid pay, and you do get to travel, albeit minimally. At the moment, I'm writing this from the Atlantic City Trump Casino Marina - class. The only real bummer about the job is that most weekends, to the chagrin of my boyfriend, I am called away to work on 4 day boat trips. Up until yesterday, we had only been going to the Hamptons. (Rough gig, I know.) Yesterday we broke that trend by sailing to good ole' AC, as I mentioned.


Now. It is no secret that Linzoo gets famously motion sick. I could be in my Gram's station wagon for 5 minutes, going from her house to the local Pathmark, and I'll have my head between my knees. Kiddie rides, carnivals, car trips, airplanes - my kryptonite. I crumble in the face of passenger side travel. So you would think these boat trips would be nightmares for me, but I am happy to report that in all of our travels to Sag Harbor, I barely even felt the boat moving. The trip to Atlantic City, however...changed everything.

We set sail at around 4am; I was clearly snoozing. I awoke at approximately 5am, dreaming in my bed that we were on a bumper car. 14 foot swells in the waves, thanks to the oncoming hurricane. For the next 4 hours, I reached a level of physical illness I had never known before. I could barely move, was constantly sick to my stomach, and trying to keep myself from passing out by sitting in a cold shower with my clothes on. Livin' the fucking dream.

As fate would have it, one of the deckhands came to check on me, saw that I looked like a corpse and took care of me - brought me upstairs to the main Salon (yes, the boat has a main Salon), where I wouldn't feel the waves as intensely as they were in my cabin. He gave me Dramamine, and a motion sickness patch to wear behind my ear, some water, and let me sleep - which I did. Once we reached Atlantic City, my eyes opened. Other than being very dehydrated, very hungry, and cold, I wasn't sick - the boat had stopped moving! I wanted to run out and kiss the dock. Hell, I would have married the friggin dock had it meant never again feeling what I had felt on that trip to Atlantic City.

As I nourished myself back to health with Gatorade and french toast, my brain started to dissect all of this. I had heard terrible sea sickness stories before: one of the stewardesses who worked here prior to me literally puked for 4 days straight on a trip from Newport, RI to England. I have heard of people who want to jump off the boat, the sickness gets so bad and inescapable, but you never really understand yourself until you are sitting in a stall shower with your clothes on, praying for death to come. All of a sudden, it made me think of pirates, and of sailors in ye olden times. Now, I work on a luxury yacht; I finally fell asleep on what was probably a million dollar angel feather filled couch. I had motion sickness pills, and fresh water. I cannot wrap my head around the fact that sailors would have to contend with week, month, or year long journeys, probably got sicker than I did, and would have to sleep on like, barrels.

Pirates and sailors are a strong stock! Filling their lungs with the salty sea air, and majestically looking out onto the seas from the bow of the ship. Yeah, that's a liar liar pants on fire situation. They were probably covered in filth, had rotten food to eat, no fresh water, and no escape from the constant thrashing of their rickity wooden ships. Barf-o-rama.

Making this realization has changed my perception of sailing forever. In my mind, Jack Sparrow and Captain Hook are now eternally puking over the sides of their respective ships. Its so interesting, as you start to get older, you have new experiences, and you make these realizations. People love to cling to mystery - Santa, the Easter Bunny, the idea that Pocahontas didn't get raped by John Smith, and killed by smallpox once he dragged her to the new world. Linzoo loves a good mystery like anyone else, but I'm a really tough audience. I think we cling to stuff like that, because, lets be honest here, there is hardly any mystery left in the world today. Knowing, dissecting, getting to the bottom of things has become engrained in our culture. There is no privacy, and there are no secrets. Sometimes its refreshing to be entangled in a mystery, but only when its worthy of it.

Perfect example of the most unworthy mystery story of all time: The "lost" colonists of Roanoke Island.

What do they teach you in school about this? (*enter cloaked man, making creepy crawling motions with his hands, surrounded in fog*)

"There were a group of innocent settlers who built a colony in Roanoke Island, and one day someone came to the settlement and found nooooo traaace of themmm! The only sign of anything was a word, "Croatoan," that was carved on a treee! No one has ever found the meaning of this word, or who left it! Ooooo!" (*man disappears in a puff of smoke*)

What actually happened?

A bunch of people came to this "new land" that was previously settled by NATIVE AMERICANS. Its impossible to grow food there because its all sand, (I know, Linzoo has seen the stomping grounds with her own eyes) and they pissed off the Native Americans, which equals no food, and no assistance with the oncoming winter. Finally, when the adult settlers started looking at their babies like they were giant hot dogs, they went to John White, the leader of the settlement, and begged him to go back to England for food and supplies. He did go back to England, and didn't return to Roanoke Island for THREE YEARS. One he finally DID go back, surprise surprise, they were nowhere to be found! The end.

What the hell is the mystery? These people were obviously wiped out, have a nice day. And even if they just picked up and moved somewhere, John White couldn't turn over a few leaves, or walk a couple miles south to see what's up? How many times in your life have you seen a landmark of any kind get demolished, or moved, and something else put in its place? The turnover time can happen in a few weeks - hell, anything can happen in three years!

Maybe I'm just too cynical. Or hypocritical. I do believe in faeries, after all. But I do not believe in the "lost" colony of Roanoke Island. It happened, and the details were lost, but I think its pretty obvious what went down, and there is no real mystery to it at all. Its sad to lose the mystery of certain things, like jolly ole' pirates of yore, but that other shit has got to go. I hate fabricated mystery. Do yourselves a favor, and research the 1979 UFO sightings in Denville, NJ. THAT'S some fucking mysterious shit, worthy of the title.

As I always say, some of you may feel I'm wrong. Rest assured, I am always right: one brutal truth you can always count on.