Explaining Home Alone

Here's a fact for you:  Home Alone is the greatest Christmas movie ever made.  There, I said it.  Wanna fight about it?

I strongly believe this.  Perhaps growing up in the 80's disillusioned me enough to not truly believe in the cheesy sentiment of It's a Wonderful Life.  Having never seen Miracle on 34th Street, I can't say if it is the best but since it is in black and white, I strongly suspect it is not.  Since I didn't grow up in the 50's, maybe this means I can never truly appreciate the gun-demanding obsession from A Christmas Story.  (Fun fact!  The kid that played Flick in A Christmas Story--the one that got his tongue stuck to the flagpole--later went on to appear in a decidedly different movie that featured tongues on poles):

True story

Maybe it's because Home Alone was right in my age-appropriate wheel-house when it came out in 1990 but it's been a little tradition of mine since then that whenever I set up the Christmas tree in my house,  it has to be on my TV.  I vividly remember my Godfather taking me to see the movie upon it's release in 1990.  I loved it so much that I came home and performed every scene for my Dad while he was raking leaves and then strong-armed him into taking me to see it again the next day.

Now, when I talk about greatness in this movie, I'm not even talking about the slap-stick, near-homicides of the burglars at the end.  I'm talking about the delirious joy of a kid doing all the things over Christmas I would have done had I been abandoned, a down-right beyond-his-years performance from Mac, a great score from John Williams, some surprisingly subtle direction from Chris Columbus and the best scene in the movie:  Kevin and Marley coming to terms with what Christmas means in the church.

I love this scene.  Krishni even stopped talking in the middle of a story the other night because she knew I wouldn't be listening to her.  From the "I had a friend who got nailed because there was a rumor he wore dinosaur pajamas" sequence, to the Christ, is this kid still talking? "Yeah" that Marley mumbles out, to the chorus singing throughout the scene, to the band-aid hand shake at the end...just awesome.

Krishni pointed out to me that this guy died in July.  Rest in Peace, South Side Shovel Slayer

If you don't already feel this way about Home Alone, you never will.  I feel that there is nothing I can say or do to convince you otherwise.  However, that hasn't stopped other people from doing so.

Ever been to www.imdb.com?  It stands for the "Internet Movie Database" and it is your one-stop shop for everything you will ever need to know about any movie.  Within, you will find the full cast and crew, sound track listings, running times, trailers, reviews and all sorts of fun trivia for any given movie.  Under the "Fun Stuff" section for Home Alone, there is a section called "Goofs".  Normally, this is where incredibly anal nerds who have scoured movies for continuity errors or anachronisms try to kill the fun of movie magic.  But I noticed something the other night that bothered me...not because of the previously mentioned anal nerds but because of anal nerds that had to explain jokes. 

For instance, there is a very funny scene where Kevin goes grocery shopping to buy milk, fabric softener and--because he's 8--a bag of army guys.  When the bagger swipes said bag, she gives him a knowing look and he justifies the purchase by saying "It's for the kids".  A normal person would say, "Ha!  That's a funny bit!"  However, someone at imdb.com felt the need to break the joke down for the reader (emphasis mine):

"When Kevin is at the counter of the grocery store, the clerk scans a bag of toy soldiers and looks at Kevin. He says 'It's for the kids'. But when the clerk asks, 'What about your brothers and sisters?' Kevin replies, 'I'm an only child.' While this seems that Kevin is stumbling over his lies, he is not. He is at the grocery store alone, buying 'grown up' things such as orange juice, milk, bread, toilet paper and laundry detergent. He is also reading a tabloid and discussing the quality of microwave dinners just as an adult does. When the cashier scans the toy soldiers she looks at him questioningly. Kevin makes a joke saying they are 'for the kids' referring to his own children. Obviously he doesn't have children, but his purchases and actions make him seem grown up."

WTF?  Did someone really feel the need to explain to the internet that 8 year-old Kevin McAllister didn't have kids?  Did this person feel like they were doing the internet a service?  Here's more internet nerd dickery:

"On the phone with the French operator, Frank yells 'I am looking for my son! Do you know where he is?' However, Peter knows his son is at the house, he just cannot reach him."

Really?  This internet dick pulled out one totally innocuous-to-the-script "error" (Is Kevin's Dad omniscient?  He knows Kevin is still at home?) and goes on the internet to bitch about it?  Also, let's ignore the fact that this internet nerd felt the need to fire up his laptop to type out this little inaccuracy while at the same time misnaming the character in the quote...it was Kevin's Dad, Peter, on the phone with the French operator; Uncle Frank couldn't give two shits about Kevin and was busy angering his sister-in-law by passing out her shrimp cocktail.

Wait...did I just do the internet nerd thing?

One last one, from Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.  The family is going to Florida for the holidays and Kevin complains at the very beginning of the film that "There are no Christmas trees in Florida."  This, of course, sets up Kevin's obsession with Christmas trees and allows his Mother to locate him at 30 Rockafeller Center at the end of the movie.  To any rational person, this line is called "foreshadowing".  To this nerd, it was something to complain about  (feel free to do so but don't bother reading the whole thing; emphasis mine):

"There actually are Christmas trees in South Florida. The Norfolk Island Pine is a tropical pine that is originally from Norfolk Island, east of Australia. It grows pretty much all over south Florida and has even been seen growing as far north as Tampa and even near Orlando, though it does much better farther south, especially from the latitude of the north shores of Lake Okechobee southward. Fully grown, it has a slightly narrower than normal pyramid shape with nearly fern like branches that grow in an evenly tiered pattern, and will generally make a very nice Christmas tree. Farther north, it is usually grown indoors as a potted plant. Usually, outside of the tropics, you will see this pine grown in most offices, especially next to a south facing window. However, Kevin, having never been to Florida, probably didn't know this and assumed there were no Christmas trees there."

Well, good thing you cleared that up, internet!

Sigh.  Sometimes, the internet makes me sad.

Can a dessert give you an erection?

As it turns out...yes.

Allow me to back up a bit.  A few years ago, in looking for the perfect gift for a father who tends to fix his clothes with a glue-like product called "Shoo-Goo", I stumbled upon the Turducken.  The Turducken had gained a bit of fame over the years because John Madden--football announcer and spit collector--gave away turkey legs to players for a job well done during the annual Thanksgiving day football game (Bears/Packers/Vikings/Cowboys/Bucs/Saints/Raiders/Patriots/Steelers/Redskins/Chargers/Seahawks 45 - Lions 3).  The CBS production staff annually put together an avian-monstrosity called the "Turducken" that was a Frankenstein-type bird:  a turkey combined with a chicken combined with a duck.

A bird is not supposed to have this many legs

Turns out, the tradition goes back much, much further than John Madden:  “In his 1807 Almanach des Gourmands, gastronomist Grimod de La Reyniere presents his rôti sans pareil (‘roast without equal’)—a bustard stuffed with a turkey, a goose, a pheasant, a chicken, a duck, a guinea fowl, a teal, a woodcock, a partridge, a plover, a lapwing, a quail, a thrush, a lark, an ortolan bunting and a garden warbler—although he states that, since similar roasts were produced by ancient Romans, the rôti sans pareil was not entirely novel.  The final bird is very small but large enough to hold just an olive.”

Thanks Wikipedia!

Today, a few companies produce the Turducken around Thanksgiving, although it's not nearly as fancy-schmancy as the one Grimod conjured.  These days, the thing is pretty much just a de-boned chicken stuffed into a de-boned duck stuffed into a de-boned turkey, stuffed with a sausage and cornbread stuffing.  I say it like that in itself is not awesome. 

Needless to say, this gift was the highlight of my Dad's Christmas.  Other than spending time with his family, of course (just kidding!  The bird was totally the highlight).

Anyhoo, when writing my boring post about Thanksgiving 2011, I was going to include a picture and a history of the Turducken we devoured--the Turducken having now become a family tradition--but I was just too lazy to do so.  Can you blame me?  I still had a crap-load of Turducken in me.  But in researching the Turducken, I came across a dessert so awesome, so ungodly...I...I just don't have the words.  

Seriously, check this out.  I present to you, my brave readership of nine, with the "Turducken of Desserts"...the "Cherpumple":

 

So...horny... 

Dear god.  That thing is amazing.  It's a cherry pie baked into a frosted, white cake, placed on top of an apple pie baked into a yellow cake, atop a pumpkin pie baked into a spice cake.  Click on the picture for a larger, more fantastical image.  

Creator Charles Phoenix says, "It both intrigues and horrifies people." 

Lisa, my work neighbor and resident badass chef (I want her to write a cookbook called "EAT THIS!" that features a picture of her on the cover scowling in a chefs hat, holding a mixing bowl and giving the reader the finger), thinks she can make one of these.  She is, however, thinking that it should only be two layers.  Heresy!

I dunno.  I want one.  Although, to be fair, I'm pretty sure we all now have diabetes merely from looking at the picture. 

Thanksgiving 2011

I LOVE Thanksgiving.  It is--by every calculation--my favorite holiday of the year.  Sure, I'm filled with childish glee come Christmas...who isn't?  Except for our friends of other faiths, of course.  Also, as discussed previously on this blog, Halloween is a truly special time to go barhopping.  And while it is not a government sanctioned holiday, the NBA draft absolutely should be, in my humble opinion.

However, none of these holidays holds a special place in my heart quite like Thanksgiving.  Why do I love Thanksgiving?  Because it is all about food.  No presents, no pressure; just eating and drinking.  And napping.  And football.  And family.

This Thanksgiving was a little bittersweet as it was the first major holiday without our beloved mother and her wonderful stuffing.  To lessen the pressure of the occasion, we all chipped in this year and it became sort of a Thanksgiving Potluck:  Dad made a Turducken, his famous gravy and the mashed potatoes, my brothers-in-law chipped in with stuffing and green bean casserole, Peggy made a spot-on Red Velvet Cake from my Mother's recipe, I brought the pies and Krishni made a truly bad-for-you batch of southern-style dinner rolls.

Of course, we all brought champagne. 

And god did we eat.  Over the 36 hours I was at my Father's house, I had probably 5 slices of pie and 2 slices of cake, two full meals of stuffing and gravy and, for ceremonial purposes and nothing more, a chunk of turkey. Clearly, I'm carb conscious. 

We also celebrated my adorable Godson's 2nd birthday with remote controlled cars and trucks, played with a bunch of toys at Toys R' Us, watched a ton of (bad) football, buried the kids in leaves in the unraked back-yard, saw the new Muppet movie--it was awesome--and drank a considerable amount of wine.

Considering this was the first major holiday without Mom, I consider it a smashing success.

Now, about the extra 10 pounds I am carrying around after the weekend...

It's been a tough week.

It is never, ever a good thing when a member of your family calls you at 6:49 AM.  On a Wednesday.  At least if that call comes in at 6:49 AM on a Sunday, there is always the chance that whomever is dialing is still going strong from a tequila bender and is calling to get directions from Tijuana via burro.

No dice.  On this particular Wednesday morning, it was a call from my brother telling me that Mom was on her last legs.  A desperate phone call to Brad to borrow his car and a quick shower later, I had a bag packed and was waiting to hustle back to Lisle when I got the dreaded follow-up phone call: at 7:10 AM on Wednesday, July 20th, Sheila Jacklich passed away peacefully in her sleep with my Father by her side. 

My Father called it a "great" death.  He was terrified there would be pain, choking, knowing eye contact, horrific gasps for air...there was none of that.  Her breaths in her last few hours were labored and eventually she just stopped breathing.  Gone.  Just like that.

I arrived in Lisle about an hour after she died.  What seemed like half of the Benet faculty was in my folks living room and my Father greeted me at the door...smiling.  Oh, sure, he was sobbing as he hugged me but he was happy that she died in her sleep and so, so relieved that there was no pain to speak of.  He led me back to her room and showed me her body.  My Mother was grinning.  With her eyes open.

I thought it inappropriate to ask Dad if he had double checked to make sure that she was dead and just took his word for it.  He sobbed next to me and I put my arm around him.  Eventually, he left the room to give me a moment.  She was skinny.  Horribly so.  She didn't look real; like a cadaver from a medical drama.  Her arms were crossed at her waist, as if in an coffin and I took her hand.  She was already cold. 

Outside, he garden burst with color in the morning sun.

Sheila

My Mother is dying.

There's no way around it:  she's been fighting cancer and the cancer is winning.  She was, after all, diagnosed with 4th stage colon cancer back in October of 2005...she really should have died a long time ago.  She's playing with house money at this point.  Doesn't make this any easier.

We got the word last week from her doctors that they were going to stop her therapy.  The good folks at Northwestern Medical have deemed that her treatment is doing more harm than good at this stage of her cancer.  They insist they are not giving up on her; they are just stopping the treatment.  With the typical "For now" caveat that gives hope to the family but at the same time, we know the score.

She will die.  Sooner rather than later.

Sheila is in good spirits, mind you.  Obviously, she doesn't want to die.  Who does?   But she knows how lucky she's been.  She has 5 kids that have gone on to live pretty amazing lives, all marrying "up", as my sister put it, and all raised in the reflection of Don and Sheila.  She has 9 grand kids that have filled her refrigerator with all sorts of cute pictures and photos.  She has a set of brothers that has assisted her every step of the way with visits, occasional dollars and general Irish levity that you just can't find anywhere else.  She has a wonderful community at Benet Academy, the High School at which she's worked for the last 31 years; they've been so good to her and us through all of this drama that it almost regains my faith in the Catholic church.  Almost. 

She has left her mark on so many students at the Academy that when I put out word that we were having a celebration for my Mom surviving cancer for 5 years, I was inundated with messages and emails from former classmates and kids that graduated years after me, most of whom I did not know.  People felt the need to celebrate her life and with good reason.

But this weekend will be different.  Most of her family will be in town for the 4th of July celebration in Lisle, Illinois.  We will eat Bubba Burgers, drink copious amounts of wine, laugh and watch fireworks glisten in the sky.  We will all hug and say our goodbyes on Monday but one goodbye will have an air of finality that the others lack. 

But we have some time left.  There will be time for more laughter, more hugs, more music, more champagne, more Ned Devine.

And damned if we're not going to enjoy that time.

Stupid Hospitals

I had a bad weekend, but not nearly as bad as a few people I know and love.

You see, both of my parents went to the hospital this weekend.  Different hospitals.  For 3 night stays.  Ugh.

It all started with my Mother turning orange.  For those not in the know, my Mother was diagnosed with 4th stage colon cancer back in October of 2005.  Wednesday, October 26th to be exact.  Why do I remember that date?  Because when all of my other friends were celebrating the Chicago White Sox closing out the Houston Astros in the 2005 World Series--probably with beer, champagne and hookers--I was shell-shocked with my family over this devastating development.  

That's just like my Mom...always looking to overshadow the 2005 World Series Champion Chicago White Sox with her cancer.

Anyhoo...where was I?  Ah, yes.  My Mom turned orange.  Like this:

 Seriously. 

It would appear that a growing tumor that her doctors have been keeping an eye on eventually pushed up into her liver and caused her liver to, as her doctors (probably) put it, "go all batshit wonky".  The words "draining" and "bile" were, in fact, thrown around far too frequently for my comfort.  She had surgery on Saturday and they put a stint into her liver causing it to function like it is supposed to. 

Which brings me to my Dad.  You're going to need to brace yourself for this story, kiddos.

Before this weekend, by favorite Don Jacklich story went like this: For those of you that have never met my Dad, he's not, um, concerned with his personal appearance.  Here is a pretty good representation of the way he dresses, 75% of the time:

I draw special attention to his work pants that have not been washed since the Carter administration.  Those are not camouflage pants, in case you were curious; that is years of paint, glue, concrete, spackle, gunk, goo, inflammables, snot and oil.  He is not a fashionista.

My Dad has never been one to shower.  Before you think I'm piling it on, he does bathe.  But he exclusively takes baths and never, ever showers.  A few months ago, he couldn't find any soap for his bath; this, of course, is a problem if one wants to wash off 2 days worth of concrete.  What is a man to do without soap?

Never fear, my Dad has always been great at improvising.  Take, for example, the time he attempted to cauterize a wound with Shoe Goo instead of a bandage.

 Seriously. 

Hunting around his house in search for soap, he came across what he felt was the next best thing:  Tide Detergent.  The powdered kind. 

 

Again.  Seriously. 

Powdered Tide!  Powdered Tide that he still uses for his baths to this day, by the way.

I love this guy.

Which brings me back to the new "Best-Don-Jacklich-Story".   My Father loves my Mother terribly.  He is so adorably devoted to his wife, it brings a tear to even the most cynical of eyes (ie: mine).  He dropped my Mother off at Northwestern Medical downtown, kissed her goodbye and made his way to his car.

As he was walking, he felt a tingling in his left arm.  He was carrying a heavy briefcase in his left hand so he swapped the case over to his right.  As he continued to walk to the car, he couldn't help but notice that the tingling continued, escalated to pain and he found himself with a shortness of breath.  This man needed medical attention.

Let's take a break for a poll.  What do you think Don Jacklich did?  Did he:

A)  Turn around and head back to Prentice Womens Hospital to speak to my Mother's doctor?
B)  Walk over to the Northwestern's ER and check himself in?
C)  Get into his car, make his way over to a congested-with-construction I-290, leave Chicago, drive 35 miles back to Lisle, park his car and call 911?

Anyone who selected choice "C" gets a cookie.  To recap:  My Father--very clearly having a heart-attack and with a history of heart trouble--left one of the world's best and most renown hospitals and drove home 35 miles so he could dial 911 to get a ride to another hospital. 

Jesus-hopping-Christ.

He's ok.  Turns out, he needed a stint replaced in his heart from his triple by-pass in 1997.  The day after his surgery he was his normal obnoxious self and two days later he was drinking wine and eating Bubba Burgers with us.  Not sure that is what is supposed to happen to a guy who just had a heart attack but more power to him.

Krishni, who is much smarter than me about such things, said my Mother's condition obviously is the greater long-term concern but my Father was much closer to death this weekend than Sheila.  What a dumbass.  But now that we know he's going to be fine, you can't help shake your head and laugh at a story like that.  

Incidentally, Sheila is ok as well.  She's eating again and we're looking to put some weight back on her.  She was in good spirits and overjoyed that 4/5ths of her children came back in town to visit her.  We all had a terrifying-yet-ultimately-fun weekend together.  And Krishni has been great through it all.  I do love that woman.

For those looking to help "Operation Sheila Weight Gain", she likes pie.  For those looking to help me cope with all of this, I like booze.

Specifically, Ron De Jeremy