Stumbled onto Conan’s farewell to late night

 

The word ‘nerd’ means to me that engagement with some form of content is far from casual; it is dedicated and intense. Well, I am a nerd. Be it Harry Potter or Marvel, which frequently come up on this blog, I am never satisfied with having just covered the basics. I know too many Les Miserables lyrics for it to be mere appreciation of the musical and have read too many of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s notes on Hamilton to be simply following the hype. But for the past four years my nerdom has expanded to talk shows, and not just any talk shows, but American late night talk shows. And there has been one late night show that I am happily obsessed with above all others; Conan. And sadly, last week it came to an end.

I wasn’t much aware of Conan until 2016. I had seen some interview clips but had not paid much attention. I, like most people in Greece, had heard of Colbert, Jon Stewart and John Oliver as the more politically engaged commentators. We do like our political comedy here in Greece as it makes us feel smarter. I had enjoyed Jimmy Kimmel’s high status interviews, and didn’t care much for Jimmy Fallon’s celebrity games, but was definitely aware of him. However, a friend at my brother’s wedding gave me a bunch of cool comedy series to watch and on the subject of late night added ‘Oh, I only watch Conan O’Brien, because he is consistently purely funny’. And I ignored him completely, naturally. Then, about a year later, I went through a Benedict Cumberbatch phase where I watched anything he ever said on YouTube in that deep voice and English accent, and through those interviews I stumbled onto his appearances on Conan (tip: it includes a topless Cumbershower). It was just as that friend had said; laugh-out-loud, out-of-time funny. And that was it. It has been four years that people beg me to stop discussing the host, the sketches, the podcast. My friends have given me a daily restriction to bringing it all up. I have received numerous Conan related gifts and people have been genuinely worried about this obsession and I don’t blame them. It is borderline juvenile.

But I don’t care. I have discovered so many comedians, laughed so much at silly things that somehow work and felt such comfort and compassion. And unfortunately for you, these are not just one-off statements; I will elaborate. First of all, that show put comedians first and comedians have put that show first right back. A lot of great comedians cite the show as their starting point, either in the form of a stand-up opportunity, internship or mere inspiration. They had stand-up sets more frequently than any other show and they have pushed and produced comedians without hesitation. And that appreciation that has been flying around Twitter and Instagram by anyone from Bill Hader to John Krasinsky? I get it. I get why they felt like, back in the nineties, ‘Late Night with Conan O’Brien’ felt like a dirty, little secret and revealed a place in the comedy spectrum for new talent to belong. Which brings me to the second reason I loved the show; ‘Silly’ is such a misunderstood word, often confused with ‘dumb’. Silly is so much more related to the complex and peculiar turns our thought process goes through. Silly can be incredibly smart; silly can be ‘Monty Python’ and ‘The Simpsons’. And it is a revelation, or at least it was to me, that silly is far from something to be ashamed of, but incredibly entertaining and, frankly, timeless. The remotes, Clueless Gamer, even the animal expert segments will always be just as funny, whether it is a clip from 1993 or 2021. I do not want to be misunderstood; all this fascination might be mostly associated with the man, Conan O’Brien, but there are the Robert Smiegels and Mike Sweenies and Brian Stacks that wrote mind-blowing, silly sketches (bring back WikiBear). And still do; Brian Stack’s silly influence on ‘The Late Show with Stephen Colbert’ is obvious and very, very necessary. Necessary, because it adds some comical endurance to an otherwise very ‘current’ show, maybe too current.

I have purposely left the last point for a separate paragraph. ‘Comfort’ and ‘Compassion’. This last bit might actually be a tad more ‘Conan O’Brien’ oriented than ‘The Conan Show’. That self-deprecation that Conan features can be met by no other. He will gladly be the butt of the joke and he never seemed hurtful. Comedy is so often confused with insults that to me, an annoyingly polite and discreet person (that might sound like bragging, but those closest to me can attest to its inhibitory effects), it was refreshing to see someone primarily occupied with being kind, being as funny, noteworthy and successful as Conan. I don’t know if anyone else feels comforted and cosy by that thought, but Conan clips have actually got me through very stressful times for that very reason; no one had to suffer for the sake of a joke, the show was a safe space. It is almost unfair to forego Andy Richter at this point, a quick-witted man that was ahead of his time, socially and otherwise. And again, so comfortable in being the sidekick, so confident in his own worth that any tension that ever came out of the show felt scripted. I guess I am saying that other than an excellent comedy show, this frequently felt like an obscene, yet cosy quilt. Hence its need for when my PhD was  downright sucking the life out of me. God knows I hated those hiatuses they went on.

I decided to wrap this up because I realise this is not even remotely funny and probably not of interest to anyone but me. Their late night run is over, though, and this felt like the only appropriate opportunity to write this post of appreciation. I don’t mind having a juvenile, nerdy fascination if it is for celebrities like Conan O’Brien. I don’t know if he is, but from his relationship with his staff, the Reddit threads of fan encounters and from a naïve belief in ‘auras’ or whatever, I feel safe in admiring this particularly silly comedian and missing a daily talk show that got me through a lot. I thank them all for serving that ‘strange phantom intersection between smart and stupid’ and Conan for choosing this following, lovely quote at the lowest of times:

‘Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you’re kind, amazing things will happen’

(I know it has been used to death, but it is a damn good quote)

Stumbled onto cycling

 

There is a saying that we use when we mean to say that something is second nature; ‘it’s like riding a bike’. Supposedly, no matter how many years pass that you have traded in your bike for an exercise-free alternative, you should still be able to ride one without having to put much thought into the process. Naturally, it is a quote I have never understood as I never learnt to ride one.

I am a child of three, the youngest by a large difference and I think bike-riding lessons got kind of lost in the mix. It’s fine, I did learn how to binge watch Friends much earlier than anyone else, a skill that comes in a lot more useful a lot more frequently, I find. But there were instances that my lack of cycling knowledge brought me shame. There was that one time in a national Scouts Gymboree that we were all asked to ride a bike as if it were the most natural thing in the world and I had to fake a sudden cramp; painful enough that I was excused from the task, but not too painful that my bike-capable team mates became concerned. Well, that day I was also the only one out of 20 people to be taken off rowing duty as my rowing actually hindered movement along the river. Therefore, I think no one was suspicious of my cramp because I think they were more preoccupied with how one person’s imbecility outperformed another 19 people. Needless to say, I didn’t stay a Scout too long.

This shame followed me later in life, so I asked friends to teach me how to ride a bike at the age of sixteen. Thankfully, and also curiously, there were three of us in my friend group who similarly did not learn how to cycle at that age that people do, so the ridicule was divided among us. What I learnt better than I learnt to cycle, is that there are some things that you need to learn to do young, before you can imagine scenarios where you either die, become paralysed for life, or laughed at relentlessly by a whole coffee house that just witnessed the bike slide backwards, living you hanging mid-air and eventually dropping to the ground, somehow still holding your bike position, like a cartoon. Once that knowledge is bestowed upon you, it is a lot harder to accept the risk of bike riding. As a result, in this quest for dignity, I acquired a lot of bruises but did not fall a single time (other than the aforementioned example that defies physics); instead I safely dropped the bike onto the ground and it vengefully bruised me all over. Then, for a few years, I accepted that I would never ride a bike, only to be retaught in England as an adult for about a month. But England is cold, so that didn’t flourish much either. But this warm June, at the sweet age of twenty-six, I have decided I will not go another year under these circumstances.

This has admittedly been made easier by the designated cycling lane in my area, which means I am not risking as much as I would have, trying to learn among the cars. Rumour has it that Greek drivers in particular are not very fond of cyclists. As a Greek driver myself, I can attest to that; bastards slow us down. Our cycling lane is not without its difficulties though. While there are clear bicycle signs drawn onto the lane at various points, pedestrians have somehow claimed the space as their own. They take long, wide strolls and when I say ‘wide’, I mean taking advantage of the whole width of the lane. The bike that I have borrowed from my mom’s friend’s grandson (I am really short) doesn’t have a bell, so I resort to yell, politely, for people to move out of the way. But politeness has not been very effective for many reasons. First of all, I am not known for my loud voice. Or so said pedestrians complain. Secondly, most carefree strollers wear headphones just to make sure that I crash onto them. As I do. Pedestrians are at least quite safe to crash into. My real trouble is at the points where I need to cross the street. I usually wait until there is a sufficient gap between cars to get off my safety lane and cross. However, drivers frequently assume I can manage this cross with ease and gesture me to go ahead while they wait, presumably, for a couple of moments. I am not saying their assumption is groundless; I am over twelve years old, as far as they are concerned I should be able to do so. However, my limited experience in keeping my balance on top a thin metal pole balancing on two wheels and my emergent performance anxiety quickly have drivers regretting those decisions. I swear, I could be doing just fine while on the bike lane and the moment I feel pressured into cycling I turn into Niles and Frasier in that episode they too learnt to cycle as adults. Pedals don’t work, the bike is moving from side to side like a pendulum and I am internally cursing that I happened amongst kind drivers rather than bastards who wouldn't waste a moment to let me pass.

I doubt I will ever travel around Scotland with a bike or do a triathlon, but it would be nice to go pick up something nearby with my bike instead of walking. Not because it would be much faster, or less strenuous. Definitely not less strenuous. But just because if I ever run into anyone from that Gymboree, I will erase any doubt in their mind that I faked that cramp. What if I am not the only person obsessing over this tiny detail sixteen years later?

Stumbled onto body hair

 

This could be a very literal post, where I just stumbled onto a big pile of body hair. Not even mine, fur balls are body hair and if you have seen our Newfoundland at another post, you would know that these are real safety hazards. 

Nonetheless, I do mean body hair in human women, something oddly controversial. This is what dominated the Greek press for the previous week; Kamala Harris’ step-daughter, Ella Emhoff, posted a photo with her armpit hair visibly showing. Triggered by this a, now infamous, young woman went after this whole ‘trend’ of ‘not falling into an endless shame spiral if, God forbid, you have not shaved your body to the point that it looks like baby skin’. Thankfully, the majority of Greek media and the internet condemned this view; unfortunately I don’t think she was trying to convince any one of those that disagreed. Instead, we have taken a page out of the US politics book and it seems that some people make a career by opposing a majority just to gain very vocal minority to support them. And it works.

The video she posted on her private Instagram account characterised pictures of body hair and cellulite and stretch marks as ‘disgusting’ ad ‘disturbing’ and wondered why she had to be subjected to such images just because someone else wanted to share them. On Instagram. Let me say this again. Someone on Instagram objected to seeing what other people deemed postable. On Instagram. I saw someone’s penis on an Instagram story not two weeks ago. I saw someone’s sunkissed toes. I still haven’t decided which one I hated more, but these are the sort of risks you take when you want to be on the platform. Actually, I think one of these images is legally banned, you know, because of all the perverts with foot fetishes.

She then decided that demonising the very natural appearance of a woman’s body would maybe not get enough traction and decided to extend her argument to include gender fluidity. More specifically, she expressed her worry that men wearing makeup and women wearing baggy clothes were a threat to our culture and life as we know it.  I was debating what to comment on here; would it be worth mentioning that if our ‘culture’ and ‘life as we know it’ is restricting anyone’s freedom of expression, maybe it is worth threatening it right out of existence? Or would it be preferable to mention that in the list of threats to life as we know it, makeup and baggy clothes should probably be further down the line? I, for one, am much more worried about our simultaneous overreliance and abuse on robots; should they become sentient, I think that is when life as we know will definitely be threatened (I have started rewatching Westworld).

This obviously got people all stirred up because of the blunt discrimination and absurdity of the video. This excitement got television involved and said lady appeared on a morning show to clarify her statement. She said that she did not object to the existence of these imperfections, nor suggested that should you have them, photographs are off limits to you. And for that I thank her, cause I got worried there for a while; what with my enlarged pores and sun damage? I mean a have a few moles too, what headshot would I put up on LinkedIn if nowhere else? She refined her statement to say that she objects to the glorification of said imperfections as it takes away from the feminist battle of proving our worth. Those imperfections that were characterised as disgusting and disturbing, it’s not that she dislikes them, as demonstrated by these adjectives; it’s just that she is a feminist. And what is more feminist than thinking a less-than-perfect appearance diminishes one’s worth. Basically, she tried to shift the argument towards ‘people are focusing on external appearance, a commonly female issue, rather than actions’ as if one excludes the other and if one makes a statement with their appearance instead of changing a tire, they are a traitor to the sex. It’s like my mother’s spinach pie; it might be the tastiest thing I have ever encountered but she did COOK it wearing a bra and everything. I wouldn’t eat that thing even if the patriarchy paid me to. The same patriarchy, by the way, that does not prefer baggy clothes on women but does on makeup-less men. But it is true that our ‘culture’ and ‘way of life’ currently includes endless filters, retouches and unrealistic beauty standards and these are threatened by such images. She was right about that. What can we next expect; teenagers growing up with more confidence and self-love? The horror.

This refinement bothered me so much more than the original statement, because as one of the presenters said it seemed ‘more understandable’, therefore defendable. But it really isn’t. It was simply phrased in more careful wording so people could back her up saying she was originally misinterpreted. There is nothing misinterpreted about misogyny though, nothing misinterpreted about trying to enforce traditional beauty standards to those that do not feel represented by them. The refinement bothered me so much that it knocked my predesigned pleasant, corny attempts at jokes right out of this post and it just ended up being me rage typing. You can tell when I am rage typing because I use the quote sign ‘’ a million times per sentence. And yes, let me be the first to recognise that as this is not pop-culture related, but more to do with Greek current events, I could have written it up in Greek like a sensible person. But let me also be the first to recognise that such a post would have lost all credibility, if only for the grammar mistakes. And if you are thinking ‘what credibility?’, well, that of a coherent text, at the very least.

Stumbled onto the Friends reunion

 

It feels like we hear about a Friends reunion every couple of years and every time it turns out to be a rumour or a half-assed publicity stunt, with maybe five out of the six friends present. This last one got an HBO announcement, a lot of buzz and the entire main cast signing on. I was almost as excited as Matt LeBlanc looked during the special. I think we were all hoping for a reunion movie, or even an episode, where we would get the actual characters rather than their celebrity counterparts. Because as much as I love Lisa Kudrow since learning she is Conan O’Brien’s ex (which makes too much sense), I wanted to see Regina Phalange. But that is the thing; we would all tune in even if they spent 110 minutes staring at a wall.

I think it has been already commented on plenty, but oh my god, the Botox shared among these six people could kill a baby jaguar. I think it is interesting that Lisa Kudrow, who I think was frequently overlooked in comparison to the other two beauty icons, has aged the best. Or had the best surgery, anyway. Courteney Cox has frequently spoken out about how her plastic surgeries had went overboard and she is actually trying to damage control the situation, but Aniston is in similar turmoil as far as I am concerned. She is sporting the ‘I’m allergic to shellfish, but love me some good shrimp’ look. David Schwimmer and Matthew Perry too. It might just be me but I even think that their speech is a bit off from all the deceased nerves in their faces. What worries me is that these are rich, famous, powerful people and that is the best surgery money could buy; what am I to expect from my own inevitable plastic surgery? One might expect that their very result would put me off, but I am aware of how much I frown and me and said frown have another ten years, at best, before we call it quits. The best looking one is Matt LeBlanc and I think it is those couple of extra kilos Aniston teased him about. We have a saying in my family, that growing up means making a choice between your butt and your face; only one of the two can look youthful. LeBlanc has gone for face and I think that is the best course, really. Plus you get to eat more. Also, while we got guest appearances from Gunther to the barbershop quartet that Ross sent to Rachel’s office once, Paul Rudd was curiously missing. I’m taking bets for which cast member vetoed the unaging actor. My money is on Aniston. These are all cheap shots; of course they grew old and they didn't owe any of us to look great forever. 

One thing that was a bit disappointing is how much the stars did not remember. And I don’t mean the crazy stuff me and my grammar-Nazi friend reference to one another, I mean Mr Heckles. Jennifer Aniston did not remember his name. He had a cameo in Breaking Bad and I am pretty sure his name was still Mr Heckles in sunny Albuquerque. And let’s say that you are as successful as Aniston and have every right to not remember everything Friends-related at any given moment; have a read through a cheat sheet before the special. I am sure they were paid good money for it. I would say that another possibility is just that they were pretending not to remember, but if those table reads showed us anything is that the casts’ best acting days were behind them. Why am I so bitter, anyway?

Was it particularly worth watching then? I mean there were some slightly unnecessary guest appearances in the form of a fashion show and one very unnecessary appearance in the form of James Corden throughout the thing. Why James Corden? Literally anyone else would be better suited, at the very least in terms of nationality. There was one revelation that was worth the time though; apparently Aniston and Schwimmer were actually in love during those first seasons, which probably helped their on-screen chemistry as the famous ‘will they, won’t they’ couple. Now, we were told it never formulated into anything else and no one else indulged, but to be fair, it is not as if we can fact check any of them. Unless one of them loses all their money and writes a tell-all autobiography. This time, my money is on Matthew Perry. I would read it too; I love the Matthew Perry.

I sound very negative towards the whole thing, but truth be told, I cried about five times, laughed a lot more and will now surely start rewatching Friends (I’ve actually already done this by the time this was posted). This sitcom is a moment in pop culture history, it unites and comforts us and is still pretty darn funny. I know some jokes feel outdated and offensive, but I think anyone not looking for trouble can see that it was all well intended. Friends feel exactly like friends and that is what gets us fans to tune in endless reruns as well as 110 minutes of James Corden trying to be funny.

Stumbled onto tonsillitis

 

I have a rhetorical question for you; is tonsillitis ever fun? No, nothing that ends in –itis is. Let’s just say any word that is still visibly Latin is probably a bad thing. However, something being timelessly bad does not mean it cannot be worse under certain circumstances. Like to a hypochondriac during the Covid pandemic. Like during the weekend after a strict six-month lockdown. And finally, like during summer.

Thankfully, I do not get sick much, because if I did, I think I would most likely end up like Chuck McGill from Better Call Saul. Hopefully still using electricity though, because I cannot imagine social seclusion with no Netflix. Also, for a hypochondriac I did mostly keep calm up until, well, the apocalypse. I would medicate, eat soup and greens, avoid others and allow myself to indulge in whatever TV show has a dreamy, male antihero. In other words, pretty much have a good time, all things considered. But I have gotten sick three times during Covid and none have been dealt with in a calm and dignified manner. First of all, none of those times was I seriously sick. I got some light fever and other cold-like symptoms and, this very last time, swollen tonsils the size of plums. All three of these times I swore it was Covid. All three of these times I called the relevant health lines, begged them to diagnose me as Corona positive just to rid myself of the doubts, where they very kindly explained to me that paranoia is not a Covid symptom and I should stop calling. So apart from the obvious ridicule I have been wilfully subjecting myself to, it has also gotten a lot more expensive for me to get sick. For example, I went straight for a private PCR test, which are of no negligible cost, but results are available the following day. In the meantime, I was getting suspicious that the swollen tonsils might be tonsillitis (I do solve crimes in my free time, if you were wondering) and wanted to visit a GP. Therefore, in anticipation of my PCR results I thought it best to waste additional money on a self-test, because I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I felt I could have possibly endangered the good doctor that would confirm my detective work.

Sickness also sucks just a little bit extra after a lockdown. Even the least social of us want to go out, let out some steam, put on lipstick for someone other than the inside of a face mask to see, have a drink, have a bite even. Getting sick gets in the way of that. My tonsils were thoughtful enough though to make me feel as if I didn’t want to do any of the aforementioned things anyway, in order for my psyche to remain intact, I guess. Internal organs are considerate like that. Other than the obviously cancelled plans for those first strugglesome days, I was also put on antibiotics for as long as ten days! That is ten alcohol-free days that I was looking forward to spending, at the very least, as tipsy! At least, my swollen tonsils are just that; mine, so I can carry my pain around without sharing.

Again, I am sure tonsillitis is horrible the whole year round. It is just that the warm tea, which is the first line of defence for any self-respecting Greek, is not as enjoyable in the summer. Sweat is not very pleasant, so drinking something that somehow resembles it is, let’s say, counterintuitive. I know that ice-cream during winter somehow works, but that is a one way street, trust me. Funny thing about that is, an English friend of mine informed me that their remedy for tonsillitis actually involves ice-cream or anything freezing for that matter. You’d think we’d get the ice-cream remedy and leave the lukewarm liquid for them Englishmen up north but apparently not. We want to hoard all the warmth for ourselves, even if it is incredibly unpleasant.

This post is what I would call a filler. Seeing that I am halfway through a lot of pop culture things, I couldn’t think of a post that would make sense now rather than later. On the other hand, I do have a bet with myself to put these posts up weekly for 2021, so I decided to write up my most recent endeavour. Why should you suffer through an irrelevant post, you might wonder. Well, think of it this way; boredom is better than tonsillitis. Although, frequently adjacent.

Stumbled onto Harry Potter and the Gay Fanfiction Novels

You might be wondering if this is the ultimate clickbait title, but I swear it is accurate. And you are coming in to this a lot more informed than I did. Because yes, I am reading gay fan fiction as we speak, but no, I was not aware I was. Let’s start at the beginning.

This year, I made the resolution to read at least 12 books, roughly one per month. I had also made an additional resolution for these books to be Greek, for the sake of my friends and family, who have to put up with my insultingly poor language. And I mean insultingly. It makes people doubt if I ever went to school. I began with a classic, ‘Zorba the Greek’, because Kazantzakis is a renowned Greek writer, this is arguably his most famous novel and I want to see the movie (which, as everyone knows, I cannot do until I have read the book). It is a very nice, funny, thought-provoking book, but seriously low in the plot department. This has caused me to be very, very slow in finishing it; meaning I still haven’t. I have gone through one additional book in the meantime, and that was about ‘Hamilton: The Musical’, which goes against my other resolution of Hamilton detox. As you might have realised with basic math abilities, I am behind on my 12-books-a-year schedule. So when a friend mentioned that she stumbled onto some adequately written fan fiction Harry Potter novels, well, I didn’t pay much attention because I thought myself too good for fan fiction. But when she also mentioned that said fan fiction concerned the four Marauders during their school years and all from Lupin’s viewpoint, I couldn’t contain myself.

One of my first posts on this blog was literally a plea for Rowling to write this very plot. Lupin is my favourite character in the Potterverse and all chapters regarding him and his friends (and enemies) at school were my favourite throughout the book series. I say ‘book series’ in particular, because they were all butchered in the movies. The fact that someone took the time to write this not only gave me a newfound excitement for reading that only Harry Potter could have awakened, but also reassured me that I was not the only one that loved this secondary character like no other. There was no way I was not reading this fan fiction for the sake of my Greek vocabulary, damn my friends and future vocational prospects! All I knew going in has been presented to you in this paragraph. Only you have seen the title of this blog post; I had not.

The book is nicely written; no one can match Rowling’s wit and nuanced character building as far as I am concerned, but the fuzzy Harry Potter feeling was certainly there. And characters are quite consistent and well-defined, so I was very pleasantly surprised that something written by a fan, with no editor notes, was legible. Lupin is very badass, which of course is music to my ears and the rest of the marauders  are also nice, even Pettigrew. At first I noticed some hints, some comments that might lead one to think that Lupin might have a crush on Sirius. But very subtle. So I messaged my friend, the one who introduced me to this literary tale, to see if she had noticed anything similar. She said she had as well. She also said those hints were more and more pronounced as the boys were getting older. I didn’t pay much attention to it; it is not the way I would have gone with the character, but mainly because in any fan fiction I would write, Lupin would end up married with me. But I just assumed it was a bit of a detail to add some depth to a pretty much tame Harry Potter prequel.

I was reading this on Kindle, but the document was a PDF with tiny letters, which would most definitely cause me blindness. I had a look around the web for a Kindle-friendly version of the book in my usual –very legal- MOBI platforms and rest assured, I found it. I also found the author’s forenote which said this this story was part of the ‘Wolfstar’ genre and a ‘slow burn’. I had no idea what that meant, so I googled ‘Wolfstar’. And then I stumbled on it; the subsection of Harry Potter fan fiction preoccupied with the romantic love between Remus and Sirius. I didn’t stay long in this digital wormhole, mainly because a lot of it was porn. Now, I want to make it absolutely clear; I do not have issues with people fantasizing about a werewolf and animagi boning, but admittedly it was a bit of a shock. I was there for the fuzzy, fuzzy, fuzzy Hogwarts fuzziness and the original novels didn’t have much more than a kiss written in. A fuzzy kiss. Not everything I saw in ‘Wolfstar’ was fuzzy. I realised that the aforementioned ‘hints’ were not just a detail, an artistic liberty, if you like, but the driving force of this whole novel! And the reason there are hints instead of ‘Sirius began licking Remus’ fingers’ is that ‘slow-burn’ comment in the forenote. Oh, and I think it is time to say that the books are called ‘All the Young Dudes’. And I know I might seem like a total idiot for not picking up on this, but it is a double entendre for a Bowie song that the boys like. Only I didn’t know it was a double entendre; I only caught the bit about Bowie.

Have I stopped reading since? No, because for the time being, it reminds me of the Harry Potter books and I need to read something Rowling-related that doesn’t make me want to shoot her. I am not sure I want to read about werewolf sex, so depending on how that goes, I might quit for the sake of my childhood’s innocence. It is a risk, I will admit, but if worse comes to worse, you will read about it on this blog. I do have one issue with this character development other than its contradiction to my fictional wedding plans. That is, Lupin marries Nymphadora Tonks in the Potterverse. And Tonks has shape-shifting abilities and is Sirius’ cousin. Does that make it disturbing for anyone else or is it just me? I would hate for him to be asking his wife to turn into her cousin for sexy time. It would certainly be hurtful to Nymphadora and doesn’t fit in with the noble, sensitive Lupin image some of us fell in love with in ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’. But then again, I am only through Year 2 at Hogwarts and surely there are plenty of developments ahead; maybe that is all taken care of in a porn-less, Tonks-considerate manner. Here’s hoping.

Well, once again, it is the Harry Potter novels that have got me reading for pleasure. No! Not pleasure! Leisure! See? This is weird. This whole post is weird. I am going to stop before I make this any more awkward. Well, before I do, let me also mention that Rowling has formally stated that Lupin is particularly well endowed. Now I will stop. Mainly because I don’t think I could make this any more awkward, even if I tried.

Stumbled onto the meatfest called Greek Easter

 After eight years in the UK and one intermediate year, this is the first time in a long while that I have spent a bunch of food related holidays in all their glory and Greekedness. In case it has not been made clear, food is my main motivator for many celebrations. Considering my religious preoccupation is as much as my interest in Formula 1, the only way I would even acknowledge Easter is by indulging in traditional delicacies associated with it.

There are some commonalities we Greeks have with mainstream Easter; mainstream being the lame, Western version the rest of the world participates in. These commonalities consist mostly of chocolate eggs and bunnies, and actual eggs, dyed in abnormal egg colours as Christ himself would have wanted. I have heard that some other countries also favour lamb for Easter, but I am willing to bet most of them do not place a whole, skinned, innocent-looking baby lamb on a skewer over fire and attest children as grillers. We didn’t do that this year as Covid meant we couldn’t have enough people over for a whole lamb to be justified. That certainly didn’t stop us from actively stinking all our clothes with smoke, coal residue and fatty meat odours. But here is where Easter gets different for us Greeks. Supposedly, we have spent forty days abstaining from meat, dairy, eggs, and oil for about a week. Just before vegans declare this the best diet ever, we are still meant to eat seafood. Because, apparently, oil is higher up the food chain than seafood.  We also have numerous fish breaks during this forty days period, where fish is not just optional, but deep fried and mandatory. But I mean, if it is deep fried, need it be mandatory? And to further disappoint our vegan friends, this abstinence period is framed by an insane amount of meat, before and after. And the meat I refer to is far from grilled chicken.

Here is the items that make the Greek meat experience worth discussing. Mageiritsa, kokoretsi and gardouba. I will not stall any longer in revealing the main ingredient for all of these; intestines. And I mean, proper intestines. The organs poo goes through. I only eat two of the three and my main excuse for snobbing the third is that I adamantly believe that these foods can only be consumed under one condition; that you realise how tasty they are prior to finding out what they actually are. The reverse is not feasible. Mageiritsa is lettuce soup with anything internal you can think of; small intestine and liver is a must, our household adds lung to the mix and I have frequently heard of heart and stomach being welcome additions. Based on the previous rule I have mentioned, I have only tried our iteration and will keep it that way. And that, which I have described, is the soup. Imagine what is to come. Next up is kokoretsi, which again is a bunch of internal organs wrapped in small intestine and grilled. And as disgusting as that sounds, it is fucking delicious. And, I will argue, sustainable. If you are going to eat meat, you might as well make maximum use of a single animal. I don’t know if vegans will get behind me on this, but I think they should think it through. Last one is gardoumpa, which is the oven baked version of kokoretsi. And this is basically why my rule is pretentious; I have no credible reason not to eat this, but I won’t touch it for anything less that whatever Jeff Bezos’ wife got from the settlement.

The other element making this meatfest Greek to its core is probably the excess amount of side dishes. More meat, including sausages, kebabs, skewers, meatballs are a must. And because meat as a side of meat sounds a bit extreme, we make sure to have a few classic vegetarian sides as well. Bread, fries, tzatziki (come on, obviously), cheese, pies, salads and stuffed wine leaves. Because as I recall from my biology lessons at school, that is how nutrition works; every piece of fried lamb fat is cancelled by a cheese-filled pepper. Just when all this might begin to sound just a tad extreme, that is when desserts make their appearance. Sweet brioche, milk chocolate based pasties (which we have been supposedly fasting for all this time), baklavas and crème patisserie. And because we don’t want to leave anything to chance, including embolisms, we need to be drinking alcohol throughout this suicide mission. And Easter is ageless; there is no such thing as underage drinking during Easter.

I might sound dismissive but in all honesty, I am so happy to have been here for all these traditional holidays with all their adjacent foods. And all I have to do is eat broccoli for a couple of weeks to counteract these effects on my cholesterol. And you now what? It is worth it. One thing is for sure; I don’t think I’ll be a vegan anytime soon if I am that comfortable with the word ‘intestine’ being written so many times in a non-medical text.