And as always, Henry the dog’s look of piping hot fear says everything we want and need to say.
I was at The Grove in L.A. on Saturday, because I like to feel what’s left of my soul drip out of my asshole as I dodge a mob of slow walkers in a commercial hellscape that never ends. Anyway, I was at The Grove on Saturday and wondered why the air smelled like demure subtlety, which strangely enough smells like salted nuts and charbroiled chicken. Well, now I know why. The day before, international supermodel and the Patron Saint of Dlisted, Phoebe Price, was at The Grove putting the LADY in Holiday by massaging a nut out of The Nutcracker.
E.T.A. Hoffman (Yes, his full name is Estimated Time Of Arrival Hoffman), the original writer of The Nutcracker, is up in heaven cracking his own nuts, because it pains him knowing that he can’t rewrite the story he’s known for. If he could change it, The Nutcracker wouldn’t be about some girl’s nutcracker who comes to life, takes down the evil Mouse King and then takes her away to a magical doll kingdom. It would be about a shy and modest ginger superstar with chicken cutlets cheeks who brings a Nutcracker to life by cupping his nuts in the middle of an outdoor mall in L.A. Then they pose for the paps before running off to make a sex tape so they can take their “fame” to the next level.
That’s what The Nutrcacker should’ve been about. That’s Christmas!